Fantasy

The Library Under the Stairs
The rain hadn’t stopped in three days. Thick grey clouds hung over the village like an old woolen blanket, heavy and unmoving. Noor sat on the window sill of her grandmother's house, staring out into the garden that now looked like a swamp. The move had been sudden—her father said it was for a fresh start after her grandmother passed. But the house smelled like old wood, mothballs, and silence.
By Mian Nazir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
A Life of Courage and Compassion by Esha Moshih
Esha's rise to prominence as an activist and writer from her modest upbringing in a small Bangladeshi village is nothing short of inspiring. Her life story is a reflection of the struggles and victories of many other women who dare to defy the norms of society and fight for a better world. Challenges and Early Life Esha Moshih was born into a conservative family that strictly adhered to gender roles. She witnessed the disparities between men and women in her community from a young age, including early marriage, limited access to education for girls, and the suppression of women's voices. Esha was determined to educate herself in spite of these obstacles. Defying the expectations placed on her, she secretly read books borrowed from neighbors and taught herself to write. Like many others in her village, her family believed that a girl's ultimate goal was marriage. Esha was coerced into an arranged marriage when she was 16 years old. She endured years of emotional and physical abuse as a result of this union's oppressive nature. These difficulties strengthened her resolve to fight for women's rights rather than breaking her.
By MD SIZAN ALIabout a year ago in Fiction
Veins of Memory . AI-Generated.
In a city where time repeats and memories fade like fog, one man’s numb routine begins to fracture. Whispers from a hidden world seep into his quiet life—where memories are currency, and something ancient is watching. This is the beginning of his awakening.
By Still Writingabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Heard the Moon
No one noticed when the moon began to dim. At first, it was just a whisper of shadow, a slight dulling of the silver glow that hung in the night sky. Scientists called it atmospheric interference. News anchors shrugged and moved on. People still slept, still dreamed.
By Emma Adeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Witch’s Unintended Guests
In the quiet village of Elderwood, nestled between misty hills and whispering forests, a reclusive witch named Mirabel lived in a crooked cottage at the edge of the woods. She was known for healing herbs, weather charms, and the occasional love potion-nothing too dramatic. That is, until one fateful Tuesday night.
By Emma Adeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mouth of Hell
This is the next installment of The ShambElla Saga. I will be publishing one a day henceforth to complete the series. Table of Contents:
By C. Rommial Butlerabout a year ago in Fiction
I brought you back -Now I regret it.. Content Warning.
I used to think the dead stayed dead. Until I brought her back. I was twenty-six when Evelyn died. One moment she was smiling over dinner — red wine staining her lips, laughter in her throat — and the next, her car was wrapped around a telephone pole, her face blank in the coroner's photos. Everyone called it a tragedy. I called it unfinished. Grief hollows you out. It doesn’t just take love — it takes logic. In the weeks that followed, I began to read things I shouldn't have. Old texts. Forums in corners of the internet with black backgrounds and flickering sigils. I met a man in a subway bathroom who spoke Latin backwards and sold me a book bound in something that felt like skin. He told me: If you bring her back, she will come. But she won’t come alone. I thought it was metaphor. The ritual was simple. Dirt from her grave, a piece of her hair from the brush she’d left in my apartment, a circle of salt, candles — black, always black. The book had instructions etched in something rust-colored and flaking. It worked. I know how that sounds. But I swear to you — she opened her eyes on the cold floor of my apartment, breath shuddering back into her lungs like someone drowning in reverse. Her skin was cold at first. Her lips trembled when she spoke. “mark?” God help me, I smiled. Cried. Held her until her skin turned warm again. I whispered, “I brought you back.” For a time, she was Evelyn. She laughed again, made coffee in the mornings, danced barefoot across the kitchen tiles. She didn’t remember the crash — just waking in my arms, alive. But then, the shadows began to move. It started small. The cat — Evelyn’s favorite — refused to come near her. Lights flickered when she entered a room. I thought it was just bad wiring. Then she stopped sleeping. Not out of insomnia — she simply didn’t need to. I’d find her standing in the hallway at 3 a.m., eyes fixed on the wall, whispering to something I couldn’t see. One night, I caught her watching me as I slept. Her head tilted too far, her smile stretched too wide. I asked what she was doing. “Listening,” she said. “They don’t like the silence.” I asked who. She didn’t answer. From then on, the smell started. Like damp soil, like rotting flowers. She began bringing things home — dead birds, teeth she swore she found on the sidewalk, small bones she strung on a necklace. She said they were offerings. When I asked to whom, she laughed. “To what came back with me.” The air in the apartment changed. Cold, always. Mirrors warped. My reflection would linger a second too long. I heard scratching inside the walls. I thought I was losing my mind — until I checked the baby monitor app I'd once used as a security cam. It picked up voices. Whispers, dozens layered over each other, speaking in a language I couldn't place. Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they screamed. Then came the knocking. Always at 3:33 a.m., from inside the walls. Three knocks. Then silence. I tore open the drywall once. Found nothing but darkness — and a smell like burnt copper. I confronted Evelyn. I demanded to know what she was. She cried. She said she didn’t know anymore. “I remember dying,” she said. “It was like falling. Forever. But then something caught me. They pulled me out when you called. I didn’t come back alone.” I asked what they were. She said, “They call themselves the Hollow Choir.” She said they wanted to live. That they used her as a door. I packed a bag that night. But as I reached for the doorknob, it turned hot — blistering — and my shadow twisted on the floor behind me, reaching out like it wanted to pull me back. Evelyn stood at the end of the hallway, her eyes dark hollows. “You can’t leave,” she whispered. “They won’t let you.” That night, I dreamed of a place beneath the earth, made of bone and ash, where voices screamed in song. I saw Evelyn in the center, her body dissolving into smoke, her mouth open wide as they poured through her. When I woke, I couldn’t move for hours. Sleep paralysis, they’d call it. But I know what I saw. I tried to reverse the ritual. I burned the book. I drew circles of salt. I prayed — to God. But they were already inside. I brought her back — and I opened a door. Now, Evelyn sits in the living room for hours. She doesn’t speak anymore. Her eyes bleed sometimes. The TV turns on by itself, showing static that whispers my name. And every night, at 3:33 a.m., I hear the choir singing in the walls. The last time I tried to run, I blacked out. Woke up with soil in my mouth. My fingernails torn like I’d been trying to claw out of a coffin. The worst part? I still love her. Whatever wears her face, whatever watches me sleep and leaves claw marks on my skin — some part of her is still inside. Trapped. Screaming. Begging me to end it. I see her in moments. The real Evelyn. When the light hits just right. When the voices stop. When she cries blood and begs me to kill her. I keep the knife under my pillow now. But I haven’t used it. Not yet. I don't think I can.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Initiation
Chapter 1 I didn't know it at the time, but this is the last entry that I would write before we were taken. ***** December 7th 2022 11:22 pm/ Full Moon/ Sign of Gemini
By Jennidoll of (jennidoll.inc)about a year ago in Fiction
The Cry in the Water Part 4
The island half of the village Ilmara was older than the part that had grown on the opposite shore. Many of the buildings were still constructed from timber, but there were a few that had been replaced with stone over the years. These were principally nearest to Sol Adementa that loomed large on a rise overlooking all, as if the last lords of the fortress had been slowly remaking every structure to match as they had time and resources. A petrification creeping out across the land. In the quiet and abandoned streets, it was easy to imagine it so.
By Jamye Sharpabout a year ago in Fiction
Daddy's Little Deceptive Magical Little Girl
Realizing, leaving firm soft turf, relocating to the main track where mudslinging was a potential reality, a maiden who was a notorious claimer curiously watched a goose be removed from an eventful situation, waiting patiently for the ringing starting bell.
By Marc OBrienabout a year ago in Fiction
The Eternal Seals. AI-Generated.
Prologue: Seimei’s Last Heir A long time ago, back in the Heian period, there was a famous Onmyoji named Abe no Seimei. He was the greatest of all, a savior who protected humanity from countless threats, yokai, demons, and restless spirits alike. He was the savior of mankind, and his legend still passes down to everyone at the present.
By Rosalie Nguyenabout a year ago in Fiction
🩸 The Day My Name Disappeared. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
It started when I heard my name — but it wasn’t mine.The voice came from the hallway.Cold. Flat. Slow.Like someone trying the syllables on for the first time.I opened the door. No one was there.But the air smelled… wrong. Like something had been breathing on the other side.That night, my name was missing from the school attendance list.The next day, it was gone from my backpack tag.Then from my desk.Then from my birth certificate.Even my mother paused before saying it, as if struggling to remember something obvious.“Who are you again?” she whispered once.That was the last time anyone called me anything at all.Now I walk in silence.No greetings. No recognition.I exist without being known.
By Tenayabout a year ago in Fiction