Psychological

Blaze. Top Story - September 2025.
“Mom, wake up. Mom! Quick, look! That’s Brandon, right?” “Where?!” Mrs. Lockwood sat upright and groggily looked around at all the passersby. Then she looked in the direction Scarlett was pointing. It indeed was him! It was her Brandon!
By Dharrsheena Raja Segarranabout a year ago in Fiction
Ditched For True Love
Brad loved his wife more than life itself. At least that’s what he believed. When he imagined what Emily would think of him if she found out about Serena, cold sweat broke out on his spine.
By Lana V Lynxabout a year ago in Fiction
The September 18th Numbers
Listen...to the quiet warnings. 📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅 📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅 Mei was preparing Chinese waffles in the family kitchen, getting the children ready for what was supposed to be a routine morning.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Linabout a year ago in Fiction
The Hollow Door
Prologue: The Knock The first knock was so soft Mara thought she had imagined it, a trick of the storm or the restless old bones of the house. She set her book aside, fingers pressed flat on the cover a moment longer than necessary, as though the weight of her hand could anchor her.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Fiction
Don't Do It. Top Story - September 2025. Content Warning.
Emery stood at the bottom of the escalator, fingers clutching the strap of her purse. The lobby was mostly dead, with the exception of the maintenance man. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to turn back—to return to the safety behind the desk.
By Baby Josieabout a year ago in Fiction
Bricks. Content Warning.
He heard the knock; he had been dreading this for weeks. He knew the end was near. This was not a knock for someone who wanted to come in; this was the start of something far more sinister.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The Knock at Hollow Lane. Top Story - September 2025.
The first knock was so soft Mara thought she had dreamed it. The cottage was always quiet in the evenings, but that night the silence was heavier, as if the walls themselves were listening. The fire guttered down to a bed of embers, pulsing faint orange. The mantle clock ticked with a thin, nervous rhythm. Wind shouldered the house, carrying rain across the moor, brushing the windowpanes with long, wet fingers.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Fiction
Where the Paint Peels
The town clung to the rocky shore like barnacles on a ship's hull, its buildings weathered into something between architecture and driftwood. What had once been pristine white clapboard siding now bore the scars of countless storms—paint peeling in long, papery strips that curled and fluttered in the salt-heavy breeze like dying moths.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
Season 5: Whispers of the Forgotten: A Descent into Eldoria Manor
Season 5: Chapter 1 As Silas lay on the floor, his body still, his breathing shallow, the others worked with a desperate, frantic energy. Chloe's laptop screen was a blur of code and schematics, as she tried to find a way to hack the music box. Lena's hands trembled as she lit candles and laid out ancient relics, trying to create a psychic link to the spirits.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Fiction
Ditched
An elderly couple was driving their Buick on a country road in Georgia to Florida after a great Labor Day weekend at their kids'. It was early in the morning and they enjoyed their ride with no cars on the road, just the calm and beautiful late summer scenery with occasional farms.
By Lana V Lynxabout a year ago in Fiction
Hunger of the Stars
The night sky had always been beautiful to Jonas. A vast quilt of scattered lights, steady and eternal. But beauty often hides truth, and Jonas was the first to sense the change. It began subtly—stars seemed closer, brighter, hungrier. He told himself it was his imagination. He was wrong. One evening, he noticed a star flicker strangely. Not the twinkle of distance, but a pulse, like something alive. He stared until his neck ached, certain he saw it swell, then shrink, as though it were breathing. He laughed nervously, blamed his tired eyes, and went to bed. By the following week, more stars pulsed. The sky looked restless, shimmering with unease. Then came the whispers. At first, faint, like a breeze brushing his ears. Soon they grew sharper, words that weren’t his but slid into his thoughts. We hunger. We wait. Jonas tried to ignore it. But silence no longer existed for him. Even in daylight, he felt the pull, a gnawing hunger pressing against his chest, a hunger that wasn’t his own. His dreams filled with vast mouths opening among the constellations, rows of teeth grinding planets like seeds. The first disappearance was a satellite. News stations scrambled to explain the sudden blackout. Then, one by one, stars began to vanish. The night sky had holes now, patches of empty black that spread like rot. Scientists gave press conferences, speaking of cosmic dust and collapsing systems, but Jonas knew. The stars weren’t dying. They were feeding. He couldn’t explain how he knew. The voices told him. He was chosen—not as a savior, not as a prophet, but as a witness. And witnesses were meant to watch until they couldn’t bear it anymore. At the edge of sleep one night, Jonas found himself floating above Earth. The stars surrounded him, close enough to burn, yet they didn’t. They swirled, forming eyes that blinked in unison. A voice deeper than galaxies spoke: Hunger is eternal. Worlds are only meals. Tell them, if you dare. When he woke, his skin bore faint burns in the shape of constellations. Jonas tried to warn people. He wrote articles, posted videos, stood in public squares shouting at strangers. Most dismissed him as mad. A few listened but looked away quickly, unwilling to trade comfort for terror. Hunger is an impolite subject. Cosmic hunger, even more so. Nights grew darker as stars disappeared at alarming speed. Farmers noticed their crops wilting earlier, nights colder than they should be. Birds lost their direction. Animals became restless, as if they, too, heard the whispers. Jonas no longer slept. He couldn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw teeth grinding the horizon. Then came the night no stars shone at all. The sky was empty, a vast black mouth swallowing everything. Cities panicked. People prayed, rioted, clung to each other under a sky that no longer cared to glitter. Only the moon remained, pale and fragile, trembling under the weight of silence. Jonas walked alone to the edge of a lake. The water reflected nothing. He knelt, whispering to himself, “This is it. This is the end.” But the voices returned, not cruel, not mocking. They were almost tender. Not the end. The beginning. Above him, a new star flared—massive, crimson, alive. It pulsed with hunger so fierce he felt it in his marrow. Then another appeared, then another, until the whole sky filled again. Not with the stars he had known, but with eyes. Eyes that watched, eyes that judged, eyes that waited. The world cheered at the return of light. Scientists offered theories of cosmic rebirth. Children clapped at the new sky. But Jonas trembled. He understood what the others refused to see. These weren’t stars. They were mouths waiting to open. He whispered to the lake, “They’ve come closer.” The water rippled though no wind blew. For days, he walked among people who celebrated under the crimson glow. Markets stayed open late, lovers picnicked under the “new constellations.” But Jonas felt the truth pressing against him, suffocating. He saw hunger in every red flare, a hunger that made Earth seem small, soft, breakable. One night, he returned to the lake. The sky pulsed above him, crimson waves rolling across the heavens. The voices whispered again: Witness. Choose. “Choose what?” Jonas demanded. His voice cracked in the emptiness. Join, or be consumed. The water reflected his face, pale and hollow, framed by burning stars. His hands trembled. He thought of the silence that would come if he refused. He thought of the endless hunger that might swallow not just Earth but everything. And he thought of the strange comfort in the voices, the way they had followed him alone, the way they had chosen him. When the stars opened their mouths again, Jonas did not run. The villagers found his shoes at the edge of the lake the next morning, damp with dew, empty. That night, one star pulsed brighter than all the rest, as though it had found its meal—or perhaps, its witness.
By syedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Cog-Boy of Aethel. AI-Generated.
The streets of Aethel's older districts were a maze of copper pipes and crystalline conduits, perfect for an automaton trying to avoid detection. Cogsworth had disabled his external lights and muffled his mechanical sounds as much as possible, moving through the shadows like a ghost of brass and gears.
By Shane D. Spearabout a year ago in Fiction