Love
The Hushed Ones of Greystone Hollow
They arrived at Greystone Hollow beneath a storm-heavy sky. The village, nestled in the misted folds of the northern moors, seemed a place where time had stalled. Alistair stepped out first, scanning the ancient stone cottages clustered around a sagging chapel and a dried-up well. Elara followed, her fingers brushing the air as if sensing invisible threads tugging at her awareness. Locals had described hushed voices in the night, footsteps pacing rooftops, and most troubling of all, children sleepwalking to the edge of the moor as if being called. One had not returned. “This place feels... tightly wound,” Elara murmured as they crossed the mossy threshold of the inn. “Like something’s holding its breath.” Alistair glanced at her, noting how her posture shifted. She’d become more attuned since Blackwood. Sharper, yes, but quieter too—more deliberate in her sensing. He adjusted the case slung over his shoulder, filled with instruments that now felt secondary to the woman beside him. They were led to the chapel first, the last known location of the missing child. Inside, the air was rank with mildew and something stranger—an acrid scent, faint but present. Elara paused at the altar, eyes closing. Alistair remained a respectful distance, watching, documenting. She bent slowly, touching a crack in the old stone. “There’s pain here,” she whispered. “And silence. Not like sleep, but like... smothering.” Alistair frowned, checking the electromagnetic field monitor. The device flickered erratically. “Elara,” he said, voice low. “This place isn't just haunted. Something's actively trying to mask its presence.” Later, in the inn’s upper room, they reviewed the day’s findings. Elara sketched in her journal—symbols and fragments she claimed came to her in pulses, like half-remembered dreams. Alistair tapped through his readings, cross-referencing phenomena. Their closeness, even in silence, was natural now. She leaned against him as she wrote, and he adjusted his angle to avoid jostling her hand. “You think it’s residual?” she asked. “I thought so at first,” he said. “But I’m beginning to suspect we’re dealing with something parasitic. Maybe ancient. Something that feeds on what it silences.” “A hush that feeds,” she murmured. “It wants to be unremembered.” That night, they ventured to the moor. Fog curled around their ankles, and their lanterns glowed dimly through the bracken. Elara walked slowly, palms out. Alistair followed, his protective instinct a silent companion. Then she froze. “Elara?” he whispered. “There,” she pointed—a sunken pit, half-covered by stones and overgrown thorns. Kneeling beside it, she pressed her hand to the ground. Alistair crouched beside her, wary. “It’s calling,” she said. “But not to us. It wants children—because they still listen. They still believe.” Before Alistair could respond, a low hum rose from beneath the earth. The wind stilled. The lantern dimmed. Then, suddenly, silence. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that presses against your ears, thick and humming, like the world had swallowed its own voice. Elara gripped his arm. “They’re coming,” she said, barely audible. From the fog, figures emerged. Small. Slow-moving. Children. “Their eyes,” Alistair breathed. “They’re open—but they’re not seeing.” Elara stepped forward, kneeling before the first child—a boy of seven, barefoot, eyes glassy. She didn’t touch him. Instead, she began to sing. It was a lullaby. Soft. Familiar. The kind only mothers remember. It pierced the hush like a beam of sun through dark water. The figures faltered. Some blinked. Others whimpered. And then—the moor screamed. Not with sound, but with pain. Elara gasped, falling back, clutching her head. Alistair caught her. “Elara!” “It’s trying to bind me,” she gasped. “Through them. It’s afraid.” Alistair did the only thing he could. He reached for the tuning fork in his bag—a tool he rarely used, one he’d dismissed before. He struck it hard, letting the resonance ring through the mist. The frequency, calibrated to disrupt certain wavelengths, shattered the hush with a sharp, singing clarity. The children cried out—this time with their own voices. The fog recoiled. Then, silence again—but this time, peaceful. Elara sagged in his arms, shaking. He held her, his hand stroking her hair. “It’s gone,” she whispered. “Or sleeping again.” They led the children back to the village, where grateful parents wept with relief. The innkeeper handed them tea with shaking hands and refused payment. That night, Elara and Alistair sat by the fire in their room. Neither spoke for a long time. Then she turned to him, face illuminated by flickering amber light. “You keep me grounded,” she said. “Even when the world unravels.” He met her eyes, his own weary but full of something gentle. “And you help me see what can’t be measured.” They didn’t need to say more. Later, as they lay beside each other, not lovers yet but no longer simply partners, Elara whispered into the darkness: “Whatever’s waiting out there… we’ll face it. Together.” And Alistair, who had learned to trust more than just data, simply took her hand and held it until sleep found them both. ---
By fazilat bibiabout a year ago in Fiction
When Morning Touches the Sea
The mornings were different here. Back in the city, mornings meant chaos—car horns, clattering shoes, hurried coffee, and inboxes that never emptied. But here, in the tiny coastal town of Miramar, mornings whispered instead of shouted. They tiptoed in slowly, painting the sky in soft pastels, brushing light across the ocean’s restless surface. And every morning, Isla was there to greet them.
By Wasif islamabout a year ago in Fiction
Bunker Home
The day of his return yielded the same anxieties and discomforts in Penelope Farwell. Found hundreds of meters inside an asteroid, Penelope’s stomach tightened as she viewed the screen of her husband, Stayer Farwell. Her hands wrung in conspicuous fear. He, however, looked confident, relaxed and focused in his solo flight. No sweat beads gathered around his temples. He remained cool. Penelope, usually strong when thinking about the presence of her husband, had slight palpitations. The artificial lights blazed like drops of sunshine as they simulated solar rays. She could at least bask in the glow of the various light sources. She wore a pair of blue jeans and a red blouse and black tortoise rimmed glasses. Her long black hair had been put into a bun. Her skin looked like alabaster. He wore a black business suit. His skin was the color of charcoal.
By Skyler Saundersabout a year ago in Fiction
Love in the Time of Fire
The sun dipped low over the dusty village of Marwan, casting long shadows across the crumbled buildings. Smoke still curled from the remnants of yesterday’s shelling, and the scent of gunpowder lingered in the air like a ghost that refused to leave. Amid the ruins, two souls found something that defied the war—something fragile and forbidden: love.
By Intresting Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Window That Never Opened
The Window That Never Opened!! I lived in Apartment 4C for three years before I noticed the window across the alley. It was small, square, and set into the bricks like it had been forgotten during construction. It faced mine directly, barely eight feet away, just across the narrow breath of the alley that divided our buildings like a secret no one wanted to share.
By Muhammad Maazabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library That Only Appeared at Midnight
It was almost by accident that I found the library that only appeared at midnight. I had never heard anyone speak of it before—not in stories, not in rumors, not even in the strange local legends old towns like mine tend to cling to. It simply... existed. Or rather, it existed only after the clock struck twelve, and only if you weren’t really looking for it.
By Muhammad Asimabout a year ago in Fiction
The Storyteller Bride: How One Woman Defeated Death with Words
Start Long ago, in a kingdom soaked in silence and sorrow, a tyrant king named Malik ruled. After being betrayed once by love, he declared a dark law: Every night, he would marry a new woman—only to have her executed by dawn.
By Ubaid al habeebabout a year ago in Fiction
Vacuous Silence
I still see you. In your space on our bed. Sprawled out in a way that makes it difficult for me to join you. But now I can’t anymore. You’re gone. It feels like a piece of me went along with you the day you went. Even though I shouldn’t be lingering on you for longer than I have. My mind won’t let you go. Despite what everyone is telling me; I can’t let you go. All I do is see you in more places.
By Raphael Fontenelleabout a year ago in Fiction
