Mystery

The Perfect Man. Content Warning.
Look at him. He is every woman's dream, according to the media and red tops. Men admire him, and that is what they aspire to. If he spoke to you, you would trust every word that he said.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The World Forgets Devonne. Content Warning.
Devonne woke to silence. Not the ordinary silence of dawn, but a silence so heavy it pressed against his ribs. He rose from bed and stepped into the hallway of his apartment—only to stop short. The corridor wasn’t his. Instead of the narrow passage with peeling wallpaper and a single dangling bulb, the hallway stretched endlessly in both directions. And the doors—there were far too many. Identical brown doors lined each side, every one stamped with his apartment number: 24. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, but the numbers didn’t change. “Yvonne?” he called, his voice too loud in the stillness. His sister had been staying with him for weeks, hiding from something she never named. But the silence only gave his voice back to him in a warped echo: Yvonne? Yvonne? Yvo—nne—nne. The sound crawled along his skin. He tried the nearest door. Inside was his bedroom—perfectly replicated. Even the socks he had dropped last night lay on the floor. But when he opened the next door, the socks had shifted. Another door, and they had moved again. A fraction to the left. A fraction to the right. As if his life were being replayed, frame by frame, slightly altered each time. The hallway bent back on itself, looping into impossible curves. Scuff marks from an old accident appeared again and again, repeating like a scratched record. His phone was useless. The screen glitched, the numbers of the clock sliding downwards like melting wax. Then the humming began. At first faint, like a refrigerator buried in the walls. Then louder. Deeper. It vibrated in his chest, in his bones. It wasn’t mechanical. It was alive. Devonne swallowed. “What do you want?” The humming deepened—content, almost amused. He pressed forward, clinging to the thought of Yvonne: her sharp laugh, the way she drummed her fingers when impatient. He would not—could not—leave her here. But the hallway wasn’t empty anymore. People appeared. A woman in a yellow raincoat passed without looking at him. A man carried grocery bags filled not with food but with screws, feathers, teeth. They muttered to themselves in doubled voices, every word repeated a heartbeat later. Then came familiar faces. His old schoolteacher. A neighbor from childhood. Even his father, who had been dead for years. Devonne’s chest tightened. “Excuse me—have you seen Yvonne?” The neighbor smiled politely, but her words cracked and stuttered: “Yv—onne? No one by that—by that—by that…” The syllables fractured and dissolved. They didn’t see him. Their eyes slid over him, as if he were nothing but a smudge on glass. By the time he reached a town square—its fountain spilling black ink instead of water—he understood why. In the ink’s reflection, his face was fading. Not invisible—blurred. His features were dissolving, outlines smudged into suggestion. He raised a hand to his cheek and felt skin, but in the reflection, there was only a blank patch of air. The world itself was losing him. “Yvonne…” His voice was almost a prayer. The ink rippled. And there she was. Across the square, Yvonne stood with her hair plastered to her face, her dress dripping black liquid that stained the stones beneath her feet. Her eyes locked on him with recognition—and horror. “Devonne?” Her voice fractured into echoes. “You shouldn’t have followed. You’ll unravel.” He stumbled toward her, desperate. But the square stretched as he moved, the distance between them elongating like rubber. “Stay with me!” he shouted. “I’ll bring you back!” Yvonne shook her head slowly. “I’m not me anymore. I’m… scattered. Every time I remember you, I lose another piece of myself.” Her image flickered, twisting—child, woman, stranger, all superimposed at once. The humming swelled into laughter, vast and delighted. Devonne clutched his head. “Why us? Why here?” The presence didn’t answer in words. The buildings buckled. The sky cracked like porcelain. Something immense and unseen erased another piece of him. His memories stuttered. His name slipped from his own mind like water through a sieve. Yvonne stretched out her hand, trembling. But her fingers never reached him. “Go back. Forget me. If you stay, it’ll take all of you.” “No,” Devonne gasped. “I won’t leave you here.” Her broken smile cut him to the bone. “You already are leaving me.” He looked down. His hands were gone. Not invisible, not fading
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Secrets my Mother Kept
1:47 p.m. The Birthday lunch sat untouched on the dining room table. Mom's favorite plates - the blue and white ones with the waves around the edges - had been set out with careful precision. A weak attempt at normalcy.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
Silent Shadows.
The first time Clara noticed the shadows moving on their own, it was dusk. She had been sitting in her grandmother’s old house, a place that smelled of cedar and memories, tucked into the folds of a small New England town. Her grandmother had passed away two weeks prior, leaving Clara as the sole heir to the house. It wasn’t much by modern standards—creaking floors, a roof that leaked in autumn storms, and drafty windows that whined at night—but it had history, a kind of pulse that felt alive.
By Muhammad Ilyasabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers in the Static
The Midnight Habit Eleanor had always been a night owl. While others drifted off to sleep, she came alive. The stillness of night wrapped around her like a blanket, but silence often felt too heavy. That’s why she loved her old radio.
By Hassan Janabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers in the Static
The Midnight Habit Eleanor had always been a night owl. When the world outside was quiet, she found peace in the hum of her old radio. She liked to spin through the static, stumbling across faint voices, forgotten songs, or strange foreign stations that only seemed to appear after midnight.
By Hassan Janabout a year ago in Fiction
The River: Part 3
Peeling my eyes open seemed like the hardest thing to do in life right now. I knew I had to wake up. I remembered strong, warm hands holding me, the inhuman blue sparkling eyes, and now I felt the warmth of someone that I did not know, but also did. I could feel the soft touch of a hand on my head, slowly moving my soaking wet hair from my face.
By Alicia Leneaabout a year ago in Fiction
A Perfect Summer . Content Warning.
Summers like these only come by once in a blue moon nowadays. The feeling of the warming sun on my cheeks. Not too hot, not too uncomfortable, just right.
By Elizabeth Butlerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Legend of the London iBus
They say that one day Apple decided to conquer not only phones and laptops, but also… London buses. And thus appeared the iBus — the world’s first “smart transport” that decides on its own whom to take and whom to leave behind at the stop.
By Professor Victoria about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Call
Hasan never thought his job mattered much. He worked the late shift at a call center, answering questions that didn’t really need him. Most of his nights were spent listening to customers complain about internet connections, payment errors, or devices that refused to restart.
By arsalan ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Door That Wasn’t There Yesterday
The Door That Wasn’t There Yesterday When reality itself starts opening and closing on you, how do you know which life is yours?
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Golden Diary
The attic had always been a forbidden place in the house. Dusty, dim, and filled with relics that no one cared about anymore, it seemed like a graveyard of forgotten objects. Yet, one late afternoon, curiosity pulled Zara toward it. The wooden stairs creaked beneath her feet, as though warning her to turn back. But she didn’t. Something in her heart told her that there was a story hidden there, waiting for her.
By Vocal Member about a year ago in Fiction