Fantasy

13 steps into the attic . Content Warning.
They say never count the steps to the attic. But I did. Thirteen. Thirteen creaking wooden steps, each one groaning under a weight that didn’t always feel like mine. The first twelve were ordinary, dusty, old. But the thirteenth? It never made a sound. Never creaked. Never shifted. As if it weren’t a step at all. Just... a threshold. When my sister Liz vanished, it wasn’t from a parking lot, or a school, or a gas station. She vanished from our grandmother’s attic. The police said she must’ve run away. No signs of a break-in. No struggle. Just a single sandal left on the top step. And the attic door locked from the inside. --- I came back to the house a year later, just after Granny passed. She’d left it to me—maybe guilt, maybe pity. But I knew it wasn’t just a house. Not anymore. Something in there had taken Liz. And I was going to find it. I moved in on a rain-heavy Thursday. By Sunday, the whispers started. Late at night, from above my room, I’d hear footsteps. Not rats, not raccoons— footsteps. Slow. Dragging. And the soft thump of something moving across the attic floor. When I tried to record it, the audio came back silent. so, was it all just in my head? Every single time. --- The attic door was at the end of the upstairs hall, locked with a rusted bolt and a smaller, strange lock I didn’t recognize— old but sturdy . I pried it open on the fourth night. The air changed instantly. It wasn’t musty or warm. It was... still. Like a grave. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and began counting as I stepped up. One. Two. Three. The steps groaned, as they should, coated in dust and something sticky beneath it. Something like syrup or old blood. Seven. Eight. Nine. I felt watched. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Then silence. Step thirteen made no sound under my foot. My breath caught. My light flickered. I turned it back toward the attic. And the attic wasn’t empty. --- There was furniture that didn’t belong—an antique chair, a broken crib, a mirror that hadn’t been there before. None of it was Granny’s. I knew this house. This room had changed. The mirror caught me. Not my reflection. Just me, staring back—no phone in hand, no light. And in the reflection behind me stood a girl with one eye sewn shut. I turned around. Nothing there. --- I came down shaking, locked the door, and told myself it was grief. Insomnia. Trauma. Until I looked at the photos on the hallway wall. All the family portraits had changed. In every one, Liz was missing. Not blurred. Erased. And in her place, further in the background than before, was the one-eyed girl. Closer. Clearer. Watching. --- I started sleeping downstairs. I nailed the attic door shut. I drank. I left lights on. But each morning, the door was unsealed. The nails untouched. And the thirteenth step always clean—free of dust, blood, anything. It wanted me back. --- On the seventh night, I found my phone sitting on the kitchen table, playing a video I never recorded. It showed me, climbing the attic steps. But in the video, I never turned back. I reached the thirteenth step... and vanished. I don’t remember doing it. I don’t remember leaving my phone. But the video was dated tomorrow. --- I should’ve left. I didn’t. At 11:47 p.m., I climbed the stairs again. One. Two. Three. I was shaking. Six. Seven. Eight. The walls felt tighter. The shadows deeper. The air still, pressing against my chest. Twelve. Thirteen. Silence. --- The attic was darker now. The crib was gone. The mirror cracked. And in the corner sat Liz. She hadn’t aged. Not a day. Same striped hoodie, same scuffed knees, same bitten nails. Time hadn’t passed for her—it had paused, like a broken clock caught between ticks. While I’d grown older, grayer, heavier with guilt, Liz remained exactly seven. Trapped not just in space, but in the second she disappeared. She looked up. One eye sewn. The other crying. She stared at me like I was a stranger. Her one good eye wide, unsure. “Are you... the new babysitter?” she whispered, voice trembling like it hadn't been used in years. My heart broke in places I didn’t know were still intact. “Liz,” I said, kneeling down, “it’s me. Your sister.” She shook her head slowly. “No... my sister’s thirteen. You’re... you’re old.” The words didn’t hurt. Not like the way she flinched when I reached for her—like I was something dead pretending to be alive. “Don’t look in the mirror,” she whispered. But I already had. It didn’t show me this time. It showed stairs—thirteen steps, descending. And from the top, the one-eyed girl was crawling down. Toward me. --- I grabbed Liz. She screamed. The room buckled, twisting like a stage set on wires. Wood split. The mirror shattered into dust. The attic door slammed behind us. And I ran. I didn’t look back. --- We tumbled down the stairs together. My hands bled. Liz was sobbing, shaking, half-real, half-gone. I held her until morning. When the sun rose, the attic door was gone. The hallway wall was smooth, painted over. No hinges. No knob. As if it had never existed. But Liz remained. --- A month later, we live in a different house. We don’t talk about the thirteenth step. We told the world she was my daughter.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Velvet Graves. Content Warning.
The first body was discovered behind the old Marrow Theater—propped up like a forgotten prop, red velvet ribbon stuffed down her throat, eyes wide and glassy with terror. Her lips had been sewn shut, delicate threadwork pulled tight with surgical precision. Detective Lorne Vale crouched beside the corpse, gloved fingers grazing the ribbon. He'd seen overdoses, gang killings, domestic horrors—but this? This was something else. The velvet was clean. No blood soaked it until the throat turned it dark. And in the woman’s palm was a note written in fountain pen: >“To die beautifully is an art. –S.” The press dubbed the killer “The Seamstress.” Vale hated it. Not because it was inaccurate—but because it fit too well. --- Three days later, another body. Male, mid-thirties, left slumped in a theater seat in the Marrow’s derelict balcony. Same velvet down the throat. Same stitched lips. Same note. The theater had been closed for decades—ever since the Hollis fire in '82. The blaze claimed nearly the entire family, including Eliza Hollis, the town’s last true aristocrat. Only her daughter survived. Clara Hollis. Seven years old. Disappeared for thirty years. Then last month, she came back. Clara bought the theater. Quietly. Paid in cash. “I want to restore it,” she told the city council, gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. “The town has forgotten its elegance. Its drama.” Vale remembered her vividly. A porcelain girl in funeral black, even at the age of seven. Now grown, she looked untouched by time—pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and those same lifeless eyes. --- Vale pushed past caution tape and stepped into the Marrow Theater for the third time that week. The air inside was heavy with mildew and something sweeter—cloying, like decaying roses. The lights didn’t work, but the old stage lights flickered to life as he moved down the center aisle. Someone was watching. Backstage, he found her. Clara Hollis stood in front of the old mirror wall, gazing at her reflection. She didn’t flinch when Vale entered. “You returned quickly, detective,” she said. Her voice was smooth as smoke. Vale motioned to the velvet curtain. “Odd hobby, restoring a place where half your family died.” “I find ruins comforting,” she replied, turning. “And ghosts rarely bother me. They’re quieter than the living.” He stared at her hands—black lace gloves, tight. Always the gloves. “You knew them,” he said. “The victims.” “I auditioned them,” she answered without hesitation. “They weren’t very good.” Vale blinked. “Excuse me?” “I posted ads for actors. I offered roles. They came, they auditioned... and they died.” Her smile was paper-thin. “You’re confessing?” “No,” she said, “I’m curating.” --- He left, heart pounding. No warrant. No proof. But his gut howled. That night, Clara hosted an invite-only “dress rehearsal” for what she called Velvet Graves: A Tragedy in Three Acts. Vale went in with a wire and backup waiting outside. The theater was candlelit. Half a dozen guests, dressed in black, sat silently in the first row. On stage, a velvet coffin. Clara emerged from the wings in a blood-red gown, her gloves gone. Her hands were hideously scarred—burns running from fingertips to wrists. A legacy from the fire. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they were earned later. She began to speak. “Welcome to the closing of the curtain. Tonight’s performance is for the final role.” Vale stood. “You’re under arrest—” But before he could finish, the stage trapdoor opened beneath the coffin. A body tumbled out—fresh, mutilated, stitched with loving detail. And the crowd applauded. They weren’t guests. They were disciples. Clara turned to Vale, smile widening. “Detective,” she said sweetly, “I saved the last act for you.” --- They lunged. He shot two. Ran. Blood sprayed across velvet seats. Screams rang out, rehearsed and real. Vale reached the exit— —but the door was sealed. Trapped. Backstage. Hallways like veins. The walls pulsed with heat. He staggered into the prop room and found them: Photos. Names. Measurements. All the victims. All labeled as cast. On a pinned board was his photo. > Role: The Interrogator. Final Scene. --- Vale kicked down the side exit just as backup arrived. SWAT stormed the theater. They found bodies. Costumes. Blood. But Clara was gone. No trace. Only a note pinned to the coffin lid: > “Every tragedy must end in silence. Curtain falls. –S.” ---They searched for Clara Hollis for weeks. The theater gave no more answers—only echoes. Forensics found nothing of value. The disciples refused to speak. Every surviving member had stitched their lips shut literally, just like the victims. Some died from infection. The rest were committed. The Marrow Theater was condemned, locked behind iron bars and legal red tape. But even from the outside, some claimed they could hear muffled sobs behind its velvet curtains. And Detective Vale? A month later, Vale quit the force. He doesn’t sleep much. He doesn’t talk much. But sometimes, in dreams, he hears the velvet rustling. Sometimes, in the mirror, he sees thread pulling at his lips. Sometimes, when the curtains flutter, he swears he hears applause. --- END.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Death or Love. Content Warning.
Under the burning twilight of a kingdom falling into chaos, a lone warrior named Ean strode through a scarred battlefield. His eyes, filled with fierce resolve, mirrored the raw intensity of his spirit—a spirit that had chosen the honorable death of fighting for a dream over the lingering pain of love.
By Edge Alexanderabout a year ago in Fiction
A Dwarf's Life -- In Brief (Episode 1)
"Halt! Who goes there?" a voice rang out from the darkness. "Just yer average dwarf," came the gruff reply. Which was exactly what Gromdahl Stonefist was. Nothing more, nothing less. And he'd take a pickaxe to any dwarf who said otherwise. The guard at the gate snorted, covering a laugh, then continued. "I need a name, or you're not gettin' in."
By Laura Pruettabout a year ago in Fiction
Forthcoming, Book 2: Truth Reclaimed
“Truth Reclaimed” Forthcoming Book Two (1) Fled Future’s mind was muddled. She processed the fact that an unknown voice called out to her out of the blue. She accepted that the voice in her head spoke to her, and only her, from a time long past. Even the fact that a device, hidden in a cave on the top of a mountain transported her to a distant time seemed to make sense to her.
By S.T.I.L.about a year ago in Fiction
Forthcoming
"Forthcoming” by S.T.I.L. (1) Tuesday Lebanon, Kansas was once a tiny, sleepy town boasting a population of one hundred and eighty-two people. At that time a search for attractions within its borders would yield a whole three results, one of which was the Visitor’s Center. The other two were a tiny chapel and a stone structure marking the geographical center of the lower forty-eight United States.
By S.T.I.L.about a year ago in Fiction
Dodge Tanner: The Boy Who Cried 'Fish'!: (The Battle of Lake Hearth)
Dodge Tanner had fished near every inch of the placid waters of Lake Hearth since he was old enough to hold a rod, but nothing, nothing, had prepared him for his unexpected confrontation with Grandfather Trout.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)about a year ago in Fiction
"Signed, Jason Riley – From the End of Time"
Short Description: When physicist Jason Riley receives a mysterious box with no sender, he unknowingly unlocks a chain of events that bends time, reality, and identity. But some knowledge demands a price — and Jason’s about to pay it.
By Ahmed Abdeenabout a year ago in Fiction
Surveying the Field
This is the next chapter in The ShambElla Saga. Tables of contents: Previous Chapter: Surveying the Field The goons, Siris, and Sam cleared the landscape of imps. Their remains lay all about, resting in peace and pieces.
By C. Rommial Butlerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Designed and the Designer
Dr. Cole worked at the bleeding edge of human genetic engineering, her mind a scalpel dissecting the intricate code of life. Six months ago, immersed in the vast ocean of genomic big data, a profound unease took root. The elegance of the human genome sequence was… unsettling. It wasn't merely complex; it was perfect. Too perfect. Patterns emerged, suggesting not random mutation, but deliberate architecture. Historical genomic markers pointed to something even more disturbing: periodic, synchronized edits across the entire species. Millennia of near-stasis, punctuated by epochs of precise, orchestrated change.
By Heydoabout a year ago in Fiction
Tomura Shigaraki Character breakdown.
This is about the boy who was never meant to become a man — and the man who was never meant to be free. Tomura Shigaraki. Once, he was Tenko Shimura— the grandson of a hero, the child of a shattered legacy. But names are fragile things. They crack beneath the weight of grief, and his did too.
By Aira Shinazugawaabout a year ago in Fiction
Expatrianas Histories - In the Image of the Gods
“If it isn’t the Goddess of peace and love, Elyria.” Elyria immediately recognized the voice that had spoken as coming from the God Loki. The arrogant tone dripping with condensation always made her skin crawl and she scowled as she replied. “Hello Loki, God of fools and circus clowns. I am surprised to see you alone. If you have left your whorefriend Aphrodite to her own devices in your absence, you will want to pick up some new bed sheets for you will surely find your own fouled with a preponderance of manseed upon your return home. Just because Zeus commanded me to allow you to join us does not mean I must converse with you. Say what you will, then be gone from my presence.” “Now, now Elyria. You are certainly in a mood today. I was just talking with your favorite little mortal slave Baj Expatrianas, and he was telling me some very interesting stories about you. Well, not exactly telling me. I was pulling them from his puny human mind.” Elyria turned and stared directly in the eyes of Loki, her own eyes ablaze, a glow could be seen outlining her entire form. It flickered and crackled like blue fire. When she spoke, her words had an edge of steel and carried a real threat of violence. “If you hurt him Loki, you will meet one of my Elyrian spears up close and personal as the guest of honor at a recreation of one of Demon Drakula’s feasts.” Loki laughed at that, infuriating the Goddess even more. “You will not find life nearly as amusing with the tip of my spear inserted through your backside and protruding out of your mouth as you dangle over my breakfast.” she spat and the fire around her form grew even brighter. “Hold Goddess Elyria. I meant no offense and I laid not a finger on your manservant. He is uninjured. Besides I dare not have touched him with his two feline protectors lurking about. His familiars Mythos and Ethos are highly favored among their kind. I have no wish to find myself their enemy as to be an enemy of the cats is to not be long for this plane of existence.”
By Everyday Junglistabout a year ago in Fiction