Love

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 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
She Was Everything I Thought the Lady in Red Could Be
I consider myself a pretty logical person most of the time, I trust reason, facts, and the kind of clarity that can only come from stepping back and assessing a situation from every angle. But recently, I found myself in a position where logic could ruin something… something beautiful. And that’s a terrifying thought. Because logic, for all its comfort and certainty, can’t always see the bigger picture.
By Ruth Girma about a year ago in Fiction
The Unseen Bond
It was the last hour of the evening. The rain poured relentlessly, turning the narrow streets into flowing streams. Cold gusts of wind rattled the window panes of a small room where Zaid, a handsome young man, sat lost in a storm of his own thoughts. His hands trembled slightly as he held a torn letter the last message from Ariana, the girl he loved.
By AK Popalabout a year ago in Fiction
"We grew up, but the treehouse waited."
We grew up, but the treehouse waited. It stood at the edge of Grandpa’s orchard—an old wooden shelter nestled in the gnarled arms of a sycamore tree. The steps had once been planks nailed unevenly along the trunk, and its roof was patched with mismatched shingles that Dad and Uncle Ray had salvaged from the barn. To anyone else, it looked like a crooked shed stuck in a tree. But to us, it was everything. We built that treehouse when I was eight and Lily was six. Every summer, we’d climb into it with peanut butter sandwiches, comic books, and wild imaginations. Some days it was a pirate ship; others, a castle under siege. The treehouse was never just wood and nails—it was our world. It held secrets, laughter, and sometimes even tears we didn’t want adults to see. But childhood doesn’t stay forever. Time doesn’t knock—it just takes. After Dad passed away when I was fifteen, we stopped going to the orchard. The treehouse began to blur into the background like an old dream. I moved away for college, then for work. Lily stayed in town for a while, took care of Mom, then eventually left too. Life moved on—new homes, new relationships, new responsibilities. The orchard was sold after Grandpa passed. I didn’t think I’d ever see the treehouse again. Until last month. Mom’s health had started to fade, and I flew back to say goodbye. Lily and I found ourselves driving through the old roads after the funeral, barely speaking. Everything felt heavy—like grief had woven itself into our silence. Then she turned down a familiar path. I didn’t question it. We knew where we were going. The orchard gate was rusted shut, but we climbed over it like we used to when we were little and trying to sneak cookies from the kitchen. The grass was taller, the trees wilder, but the sycamore stood there just as we’d left it—bending slightly under age and time. And there, impossibly, the treehouse. The paint had peeled, the door hung crooked, and ivy had begun to crawl up its legs. But it was still there. Waiting. We stared at it for a long time. Finally, Lily whispered, “Do you think it remembers us?” I smiled sadly. “Maybe. We left enough of ourselves in it.” We climbed up—carefully, like old friends greeting each other after years apart. Inside, the floor creaked beneath our weight, and dust danced in the sunlight coming through the gaps. But on one of the walls, still faintly visible, was the drawing of our initials inside a lopsided heart. Beneath it: “Forever Pirates.” I felt something crack inside me—a memory, maybe, or a piece of my heart I hadn’t known was missing. “I thought we lost all this,” Lily said, her voice trembling. “We didn’t,” I said. “We just stopped looking.” We sat there for hours. Talking. Laughing. Crying. Not just about Mom or Dad, but about everything. About how fast life pulls you away from the people and places that made you. Before we left, I looked back one more time. The treehouse stood quiet, its wood weathered but strong. And I realized—it hadn’t been waiting to be remembered. It had been remembering us all along.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
What If Your Memories Were Sold to the Highest Bidder?
The bidding began at midnight. In a sleek, chrome-paneled room somewhere deep beneath the ruins of what used to be Chicago, men and women in expensive suits clicked their virtual paddles as images flickered across a wall-sized screen. The auctioneer’s voice echoed through the air like a machine-generated chant: “Lot 244. Childhood. Age range: 6 to 10. Vivid. Intact. Unfiltered. Starting bid: 250,000 credits.”
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
The Web of Power
Spencer had always known the city was a game of shadows, but he never expected the pieces to move so quickly, or so ruthlessly. He leaned against the rain-slick glass of his penthouse, staring out at the storm-churned skyline. Power, he thought. It was a hunger that devoured men whole.
By LaMarion Zieglerabout a year ago in Fiction
Why We Romanticize Pain — and How to Stop
There’s something strangely beautiful about heartbreak in poetry. About the rain-streaked window, the sad songs on repeat, the aching diary entries written at 3 a.m.
By Irfan Aliabout a year ago in Fiction
My Husband Divorced Me...
Sarah’s world plunged into darkness. Her husband, Asad, the man who had once promised her eternal love, suddenly divorced her one morning without warning. His words were cold, final:
By Usamaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Baker Who Discovers Her Cakes Can Control People’s Dreams
In the heart of the sleepy town of Windmere stood a little bakery called Sugar & Spell, nestled between a forgotten antique shop and a florist who only sold white roses. Owned by an unassuming woman named Elira Bell, the shop had become a local favorite. Not just because her cakes were delicious, but because they made you feel… different.
By Emma Adeabout a year ago in Fiction
The black door to my living room
When I first moved into the old house on Ferelith Lane, I didn’t notice anything strange. It was a quiet, crooked little home, settled among yellowed trees that whispered more than rustled. The realtor had spoken too quickly and never looked me in the eyes. I assumed the price was low because of the location or the cracked foundation or the way the walls occasionally wept cold from unseen pores.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Where the Fireflies Go”
Lena had always said that love was like a firefly—you never knew when it would show up, but when it did, it glowed just long enough to change everything. The summer she met Caleb, the fireflies returned early. It was June in Fairhope, Alabama, the kind of town where the air hung heavy with magnolia and secrets. Lena worked part-time at her mom’s bookstore downtown, a fading brick building that smelled like paperbacks and peppermint tea. Caleb walked in one Friday afternoon, damp from the sudden summer rain, holding a leather journal and asking if they sold fountain pens. He was quiet, with storm-colored eyes and a smile that felt like it belonged in black and white movies. He wasn't from Fairhope—she could tell from his accent. Chicago, he said, when she asked. He was staying with his aunt down by the bay, trying to “figure some things out.” Lena didn’t ask what he was trying to figure out. She just kept handing him pens until he smiled and said, “This one feels right.” Over the next few weeks, Caleb became a regular. He’d sit in the corner near the poetry shelf, scribbling into his journal with that same pen. Sometimes they’d talk. Sometimes they’d sit in silence, listening to the ceiling fan creak and the far-off bark of a dog. One evening, he asked if she wanted to walk with him to the pier. “It’s where I go when I’m stuck,” he said. She almost said no. But something in his voice—a kind of quiet ache—made her nod. The pier was empty except for the two of them. The water was dark, and the fireflies danced like stars around their ankles. Caleb looked out over the bay and said, “My brother passed away last year. I used to write with him. We had a blog. Dumb little stories, you know? Sci-fi, love poems, weird stuff.” Lena didn’t speak. She reached out and held his hand. That night, he kissed her under a sky full of static stars and humming insects. It wasn’t perfect—his lips trembled, and hers missed the mark—but it was real. The summer passed like a dream you don't want to wake up from. They ate peach pie on her porch, slow-danced to old Fleetwood Mac records, and shared secrets like stolen treasure. But summer has a way of ending. By late August, Caleb had to return to Chicago. He told her over milkshakes at Ruby’s Diner. “I don’t know how to stay,” he said, eyes down. “Not yet.” She smiled, even though it hurt. “Then go figure it out.” They kissed one last time, softer than the first, sadder too. He pressed the journal into her hands. “Keep writing,” he said. “So I’ll have something to come back to.” He left the next morning. Lena stood on the pier alone that evening, the journal against her chest, fireflies lighting the water like tiny lighthouses. She didn’t cry. Not then. But she wrote. Every day. She wrote about fireflies and books and the boy who made summer feel like forever. Years later, her first book sat on a shelf in that same bookstore. She still worked there on weekends, still listened to the fan and the far-off dog. And then one afternoon, the doorbell chimed. He walked in, damp from the rain, holding a new pen. “I think this one feels right,” he said. And she smiled, as the fireflies began to rise again.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction