Psychological
The Mourning Crow
There was a knock at the door. Three neat raps, more polite than urgent, but wrong for the hour. Joseph glanced at the clock on the muted television screen: 11:03 p.m. He stared at the muted TV as if the blue-white flicker could explain it. On the screen, a sitcom mouth opened and closed in pantomime while the laugh track, a thing he could almost hear from memory, never came. He hadn't been expecting anyone. He never expected anyone. The apartment around him seemed to hold its breath.
By Joseph Cosgriffabout a year ago in Fiction
The gardener and the forgotten garden. Content Warning.
The garden had been forgotten for years. What was once a vibrant, organized display of life had become an untamed sprawl of weeds and forgotten foliage. The soil, once rich and dark, was hard and cracked, and a thin layer of dust covered everything.
By Info Worldabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror of Creation
They told us the river was only a river, but my mother called it a mouth—the place where the first breath rose from the dark and learned the shape of a body. When I was a child, I laughed at her stories and threw stones into the current to prove it was water and nothing more. The stones never came back. That was all the proof I wanted then.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Fiction
When Lightning Stops Striking
Marcus Holloway was born on Friday the 13th during a solar eclipse, and somehow the universe never let him forget it. At three months old, he'd been the only baby in the maternity ward to catch chicken pox. At five, he was the kid who found the one rotten egg during the Easter hunt. By twelve, he'd set three Guinness World Records for "most consecutive lottery tickets without winning," "most job rejections in a single day," and "most times struck by bird droppings in one afternoon."
By Christopher Hodgsonabout a year ago in Fiction
Governments Best Friends. Top Story - September 2025.
We've all seen them, perched on high wires or rooftops, staring at the world below. Crows congregate in small groups, and when one departs the murder, another quickly takes its place. Have you ever asked yourself what they are looking for and who they are reporting their observations to?
By Mark Gagnonabout a year ago in Fiction
A Deadly Door Knock
The knock was polite—three quick, practiced raps—so ordinary it almost made me think it was a neighbor borrowing sugar. I opened the door to see a man in his thirties with a face marked by worry lines and trembling palms, as if the cold had seeped into his bones. He glanced past me, his voice already rushing, breath hitching like someone who’d just run a race he hadn’t prepared for.
By Anthony Chanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Whisper Behind the Wall . AI-Generated.
I hadn’t slept properly in over a week. Every night, a soft, almost imperceptible whisper seeped through the walls of my apartment, so subtle that at first, I thought it was the wind or the creaks of the old building. But it wasn’t. I soon realized that the sound had a rhythm, a pattern, and most disturbingly, it seemed to speak directly to me. At first, I tried to ignore it. I told myself it was stress from work, the anxiety of being alone, or maybe the lingering fatigue from too many late nights. I went through my daily routine as normal, hoping that one night, I would simply drift off to sleep without interruption. But the whisper persisted. It started small, almost friendly: “Look… listen… behind…” I chalked it up to my imagination. Yet, there it was again, each night, a soft echo through the plastered walls. I tried sleeping with earplugs, a white noise machine, anything that could drown out the voice. Nothing worked. On the third night, the whisper became clearer: “Not safe… the door… danger…” I sat up in bed, heart pounding, staring at the shadows in my dimly lit apartment. The voice was articulate now, deliberate. Not the ramblings of a tired mind. I pressed my ear to the wall, listening carefully. I could hear something beneath the whisper—an undercurrent, like someone breathing on the other side. Terrified yet compelled, I grabbed a flashlight and started inspecting the walls. I ran my fingers along the wallpaper, tapping and listening. There was nothing—until I reached the section behind my bed. The whisper intensified: “The truth… lies beneath…” My hand trembled as I pressed against the wall. To my surprise, a small section of the wallpaper peeled away, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside lay a dusty, worn journal. I hesitated before opening it, but the pull was irresistible. The journal belonged to the previous tenant, a recluse who had disappeared months ago. The entries were erratic, detailing months of paranoia, strange noises, and an overwhelming sense of being watched. The last entry was chilling: “The wall knows your thoughts. It waits for the right moment. I am leaving, but it remains. Do not ignore it. Listen.” I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. The whispers were louder now, almost urgent, guiding me, urging me to continue reading. Night after night, I delved deeper into the journal. The tenant had been investigating strange phenomena in the building, unexplained disappearances, and odd architectural anomalies. Rooms that seemed normal would subtly change shape. Hallways would stretch unnaturally, doors would lead to spaces that shouldn’t exist. He spoke of shadows moving independently, of sounds that mimicked human voices, and of whispers that carried memories of the past. The more I read, the more I realized that I was experiencing the same phenomena. The whispers weren’t random—they were a message, a puzzle that demanded to be solved. I documented every phrase, every pattern, trying to decode them. Then came the footsteps. One night, I awoke to slow, deliberate steps outside my bedroom door. My pulse skyrocketed. I froze, barely breathing, listening. The whispers were gone, replaced by the rhythmic sound of approaching danger. I wanted to run, but my legs felt rooted to the floor. The next day, I called the building manager. “No one has entered your apartment,” he said. “The locks are intact, and your neighbors haven’t complained.” His reassurances did nothing to calm me. I knew something was wrong. Something unseen was tracking me, guiding me. I began sleeping in shifts—short naps throughout the day and night—so I could keep my senses alert. The whispers returned, sometimes soft, sometimes insistent: “Under… the floor… truth waits…” I searched every inch of the apartment. Under the bed, behind cabinets, even inside the vent system. Then, one night, as I traced the whisper’s direction, I noticed a faint outline on the floorboards near the kitchen. A section seemed slightly raised. I pressed down, and it moved. Beneath it was a hidden trapdoor. I hesitated. My instincts screamed at me to leave, but curiosity overpowered fear. I opened the trapdoor and peered into the darkness. A narrow staircase led down into a subterranean chamber, its walls lined with shelves full of journals, photographs, and artifacts. Dust and decay filled the air, yet the room felt alive, charged with a strange energy. I descended cautiously, flashlight in hand. The whispers were louder here, almost conversational: “Welcome… seeker… the answers are near…” The journals told a story of obsession, of an old society that had once occupied this building. They documented rituals, secret passages, and experiments designed to amplify perception, to make the human mind aware of dimensions beyond the normal senses. The whispers were a residual echo, a communication left behind for those sensitive enough to hear. As I read, I felt a presence behind me. I spun around, flashlight shaking, but no one was there. Yet the whisper spoke again, now in my own voice: “You must finish what was started…” Days turned into nights. I barely ate. I barely slept. The apartment no longer felt like a home but a living entity, guiding me, shaping me. Every sound, every shadow, every whisper became part of a puzzle I could not ignore. I began experimenting with the rituals described in the journals—small meditations, sensory exercises, shadow observations. Slowly, I started to perceive things beyond normal sight: fleeting figures at the edge of vision, subtle changes in sound patterns, and whispers that carried emotions rather than words. Then came the final warning: “One wrong step… and you will join them…” I realized the previous tenant had vanished not by accident but because he had failed to navigate the labyrinth of perception. I had a choice: walk away and forget everything, or continue and risk the same fate. Compelled by an obsession I could not explain, I chose to proceed. The whispers guided me to a corner of the chamber where the walls converged unnaturally. I pressed my hands against the plaster, feeling vibrations, almost like a heartbeat. A hidden mechanism clicked. A secret door slid open, revealing a staircase ascending into darkness above. I climbed, each step echoing, until I reached an upper chamber. Sunlight filtered through cracks in the ceiling, illuminating a library of forbidden knowledge: manuscripts, maps, and instruments designed to measure and manipulate perception. Here, the whispers spoke clearly, almost kindly: “You are the chosen observer… see what others cannot…” I spent days exploring this hidden archive, piecing together the intentions of the secret society. Their goal was not malevolent—they sought to expand human consciousness, to reveal truths hidden from ordinary perception. But their methods were dangerous. Many had lost their minds. Many had vanished. By the end, I understood the apartment was a test, a living puzzle designed to reveal the potential and resilience of the mind. The whispers had been both guide and guardian, leading me through fear, doubt, and obsession. When I finally emerged, I was changed. Sleep came easier now, but I could still hear the faintest whisper in quiet moments—a reminder, a reassurance, a challenge: “You know the truth… but are you ready for what comes next?”
By ANC TRADERabout a year ago in Fiction
A Guardian Angel and the Dog
Description This is a guardian angel short story about a clumsy protector and the dog that will not leave him alone. It is an angel and dog story of loyalty, comedy, and the strange bond that builds between the two while the human remains unaware.
By Joey Rainesabout a year ago in Fiction
A Guardian Angel’s Fight
Description This is a guardian angel short story about an unseen fight with a low-level demon. It is an angel versus demon story where a clumsy guardian struggles to hold on to the fob that links him to his charge, stumbling through battle but refusing to give up.
By Joey Rainesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Forest of the Forgotten
Amnity was elbow-deep in organizing her festival booth when she heard footsteps on the path to her cottage. She looked up from the wooden crates she'd been arranging, her heart doing a small skip when she saw Ellie approaching through the dappled afternoon light.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
