Psychological
Healthy
1st Edition: Originally Published on Vocal Media in 2021 2nd Edition: December, 9th 2025 - I am dreaming of data screens, metal shapes, floating numbers, bulging muscles, and the allure of fat-slimmed, rippling-bodied figures. A shock interrupts my heaven. My eyes open to a familiar ceiling, in familiar quarters, in a familiar, floating, apartment building. An alarm resounds throughout the bare, white walls- made blue by the hue of the nightlight. I am delighted to exchange Heaven for a treasure of equal weight.
By Scott A. Vancil11 months ago in Fiction
En Passant. Content Warning.
1st Edition: Originally Published on Vocal Media in 2021 2nd Edition: December 9th, 2025 - The refrigerator door hung open, expunging the cold air from the chillboxed realm of the keeper of the sustenance. Leftover rancidity wafted into flared, masculine nostrils—nostrils erupting with bushels of hair. It had been an Ocean Quahog’s age since the man had eaten anything. The light in the fridge had broken, and deluminated food had an unappetizing zeal. However, The Man knew if he had bothered to fix the problem, he would see that in the illuminated age, nothing was worth eating in the first place.
By Scott A. Vancil11 months ago in Fiction
Would You Swap Your Body? The Wildly Real Attempt at the First Human Head Transplant
Imagine this: you're in a devastating accident, or maybe you’re living with a condition that slowly traps you inside your own body. Suddenly, doctors tell you there’s one bold, almost unbelievable option left: they can remove your head and attach it to a completely new body.
By Areeba Umair11 months ago in Fiction
Inside America’s Psychic Spy Program: The Strange Reality Behind a Very Real Mystery
Growing up, one of the shows that completely shaped my love for mysteries was Unsolved Mysteries. And honestly, nobody could have hosted that show better than Robert Stack. His voice alone was enough to make you glance over your shoulder at least twice.
By Areeba Umair11 months ago in Fiction
[Disney Reddit] We’ve Been Told to Stop Acknowledging the Children in the Hallways
Posted by u/BehindTheCastleWalls — r/NoSleep I work night security at one of the resorts near Disney World. I won’t say which one, because I’d like to keep my job, but it’s one of the ones you’d recognize — themed, cheerful, always spotless, with music playing even at 2 a.m.
By V-Ink Stories11 months ago in Fiction
The Film That Never Ends
Posted by u/ProjectionGuy94 – 4 months ago I’ve been a projectionist for a decade. Old-school — real film, not digital. I’ve worked in the same small-town theater since I was 23. There’s something peaceful about it: the hum of the machines, the rhythmic clatter of reels spinning, the flicker of light through celluloid. It’s like the heartbeat of the building.
By V-Ink Stories11 months ago in Fiction
Thanksgiving For Lost Memories
Part 1 For the first time in a long time, Thanksgiving was quiet. There were no arguments, accusations, bickering or fighting. The day started calmly, and it looked like things were going to stay that way. With the parents not there, the Thompson siblings knew this was their moment to bring order to a long-neglected place they once called home.
By Dean Traylor11 months ago in Fiction
Don’t Feed The Birds
The breeze rustled through the trees and up the hairs on Laura’s neck as she pulled in her pockets to her waist. Sunshine beaming through made it just tolerable for a stroll in the park. Her father offered his hand to cross the street. “Too cold.” She stared into his warm face.
By Ginny Newland11 months ago in Fiction
Glorious Dead. Content Warning.
“For I parted then with valiant men…” - The Foggy Dew, An Irish Revolutionary Song -0- Far out into the hills, pipes began to call their lingering, mournful dirge. It bounced and echoed, harmonizing with itself as the piper played. In perfect time, the call and response of the pipes and the hills melded and blended together until the pipes themselves were lost in their own echoes. Until the very hills and valleys seemed to sing a lament of their own.
By Alexander McEvoy11 months ago in Fiction
Every Night, the Same Man Stands at My Window. AI-Generated.
I used to think the human mind could explain anything—shadows, sounds, the strange ways the night shifts when everyone is asleep. But that was before the man at my window began to return. Before his presence became a routine. Before fear and curiosity tangled so tightly inside me that I couldn’t separate them anymore. It started on a Tuesday. I had fallen asleep on the couch with the TV still glowing faint blue across the room. When I woke up around 2 a.m., the house felt unusually quiet—like the silence had weight. Heavy. Watching me. I stood up, rubbed my eyes, and walked toward the kitchen window to get a glass of water. That’s when I saw him. A man, standing completely still in the yard. Not moving. Not shifting. Not even breathing, as far as I could tell. Just staring at the window… staring at me. My first reaction should’ve been to turn the lights on, call the police, lock myself in a room—but I froze. My brain couldn’t accept it. He didn’t look like a criminal or a thief. He looked… normal. A dark coat. Hands by his sides. Head tilted slightly, like he was studying me, trying to remember something. I blinked. He was gone. No footsteps. No rustling leaves. Just gone, as if he had dissolved back into the darkness he came from. I convinced myself it was a trick of the light, the kind that happens when you’re tired and half dreaming. A shadow. A branch. My own reflection. But the next night, he returned. 2:13 a.m. Same position. Same posture. Same stare. This time, I shut the curtains quickly and paced the living room for nearly an hour, my heartbeat loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I checked every door twice, every lock three times. Eventually, exhaustion won over fear, and I fell asleep. On the third night, I set an alarm for 2:00 a.m. Some part of me—stupid, reckless, curious—wanted to see if he’d come again. He did. This time, he was closer. Just a few feet from the window, close enough for me to see the outline of his face. Not clearly, but enough to know he was older, with strong cheekbones and eyes that reflected the faint streetlight behind him. He didn’t blink. He didn’t smile. But he didn’t look angry or threatening either. He looked… familiar. That was the part that scared me the most. Every night, he came at the same time. Every night, he stood silently, never touching the glass, never speaking, never moving. I stopped pretending this was something normal. I stopped telling myself it was a stranger. Because deep in my bones, in that instinctive place where fear and intuition mix, I felt a pull—like I had seen him somewhere long ago. The fifth night, I tried something different. I whispered through the glass. “Who are you?” He didn’t respond. “Why are you watching me?” Still nothing. But his head tilted a little more, like he was listening. I thought about calling the police, but what would I say? A man shows up every night but disappears whenever I blink? He doesn’t try to break in, doesn’t speak, doesn’t move? They would ask for proof. I had none. So instead, I waited. On the sixth night, I gathered every memory I had—faces from my childhood, strangers on the street, relatives I barely remembered. Something about him tugged at memory, but it always slipped away the moment I tried to grasp it. He came again. This time, I stepped closer to the glass, so close that I could feel the cold radiating from his presence. “Please,” I whispered, “just tell me what you want.” For the first time, he moved. Not much. Just a slow lift of his hand—hesitant, trembling—as if he wanted to touch the window but couldn’t. His fingers hovered inches from the glass, and the moment felt fragile, like something that could shatter with the slightest wrong word. His expression softened. Grief. It looked like grief. And suddenly, like a flash of lightning splitting open a dark sky, I remembered. The man wasn’t a stranger. He was my father. Not the father I knew now—the one alive, working, calling me every Sunday. This was the version of him from old photographs. Younger. Sharper features. The face he had before I was born. The face he had before his twin brother died. A twin I never met. A twin no one talked about. A twin whose absence hung over our family like a quiet, cold shadow. The seventh night, he didn’t come. Nor the eighth. Nor the ninth. But I felt his presence in the silence. In the stillness. In the way the nights seemed lighter now, less heavy. Maybe he got what he came for—a moment of recognition. A reminder that he existed. A single living person who remembered him, even if only through a reflection in a window. Some nights, I still wake at 2:13 a.m. out of habit. Some nights, I find myself staring into the yard, half expecting to see him again. But he doesn’t return. And the strange thing is… I kind of miss him. The way he watched me—not with malice, not with threat, but with a quiet longing. A longing to be seen. A longing to not be forgotten. Maybe that’s what all ghosts are. Not lost souls. Just memories, waiting for someone to look back.
By Muhammad Reyaz11 months ago in Fiction
“The Cunning Fox and the Tree of Truth”
In a quiet corner of an ancient forest—where sunlight filtered softly through towering trees and the smell of damp leaves filled the air—stood a mysterious old tree. The animals called it The Tree of Truth. No one knew how old it really was, but legend said the tree had an extraordinary gift:
By hamad khan11 months ago in Fiction
