Psychological

The Secrets My Mother Kept
Brittney awoke to tears streaming down her face. In her lap, an old book with scratches on the back and front cover. Alexander lay still in the bed next to her, a monitor beeping every so often to the rythm of his heart.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror That Spoke
When the will was read, I expected nothing but fading trinkets. My grandmother had lived quietly, collecting antiques and silence in equal measure. Yet the solicitor’s voice carried one peculiar detail: I was to inherit her house and everything inside it. The house was old, leaning against time, and filled with the smell of dust and lavender. But what captured me most wasn’t the crooked stairwell or the drafty parlor. It was the mirror. It stood nearly seven feet tall, framed in carved mahogany darkened with age. The glass was slightly clouded, as though smoke lingered within it. As a child, I had always avoided it, choosing to walk around rather than past it, because I swore it looked back with more intent than glass should. Now, as the new owner, I could no longer avoid its presence. The mirror sat waiting in the hallway, where shadows lingered longest. The first night in the house, I passed it carrying a candle. My reflection appeared as expected—same tired eyes, same nervous mouth—but the flame I held in my hand did not move the same way in the glass. My reflection’s flame flickered twice while mine held steady. I blinked, convinced it was my imagination, or a trick of old glass. But when I turned away, I thought I saw my reflection hesitate, standing still a fraction longer than I did. I told myself it was nothing. A draft. A tired mind. But the second night, the house proved me wrong. As I walked down the creaking hallway, the mirror sighed. A faint, whispering exhale that didn’t belong to me. I froze, candle dripping wax onto the floor. Then, clear as breath against my ear, it spoke my name. Soft. Almost mournful. The sound rooted me. My heart hammered, yet my legs refused to move. The mirror whispered again, this time more urgent: “Not all is as it seems.” I stepped closer. The surface shimmered faintly, as if water rippled just beneath it. My reflection tilted its head, but I hadn’t moved. Panic clawed through me. I backed away, fled into the kitchen, and stayed there until morning. The light of day made everything smaller, more manageable. The mirror looked harmless again—just glass, old wood, nothing more. But unease burrowed into me, refusing to leave. By the third night, curiosity outweighed fear. I set a chair in front of the mirror and sat, candle burning low. I stared at myself, waiting. Minutes passed. Then my reflection blinked—once, twice—while my own eyes remained wide open. “Who are you?” I whispered. The reflection leaned closer to the glass. Its lips moved, but the sound came from the air around me, not from the figure within. “I am you, and I am not.” The words chilled me. It told me fragments of things—memories I had forgotten, or perhaps never lived. My grandmother standing before the mirror, speaking softly to it night after night. A warning left unsaid, hidden within the folds of silence she carried to her grave. Each evening, the mirror revealed more. My reflection became bolder, smiling when I frowned, speaking when I stayed silent. It told me that the glass was not a barrier but a doorway. That every choice I had ever abandoned lived on the other side, branching into countless versions of me. And it wanted out. The more I listened, the thinner the glass seemed. I began to see flickers of movement—rooms behind the reflection that were not mine, skies of unfamiliar color, a staircase leading down into nowhere. Sometimes I saw figures behind my reflection, waiting in the shadows. On the seventh night, the mirror asked for my hand. “If you touch the glass,” it whispered, “you will see the truth.” I raised my hand slowly, trembling. My reflection smiled wider, eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. The glass felt cold, then warm, then alive beneath my fingertips. A pulse, steady and slow, beat against my skin. I yanked my hand back. The reflection’s smile vanished, replaced with a look of hunger. For the first time, I realized—it wasn’t me I was seeing. Not truly. It was something older, something wearing my shape like a mask. I covered the mirror with a heavy sheet and locked the hallway door. But even through the fabric, I swear I hear it whispering still. My name. My choices. Promises of a world where everything I lost can be reclaimed. I don’t know how long I can resist. Because at night, when the house settles and shadows gather, I feel the pull. The sheet shifts as though someone beneath it is breathing. The whispers grow sweeter, more persuasive. And sometimes, when I dare glance at the covered frame, I see the faint glow of two eyes staring through the fabric, waiting for me to return.
By syedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Forest of the Forgotten
"We need somewhere quiet," Ellie said, clutching her bag closer as they walked down the busy sidewalk. The Starbucks coffee still left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth, but the stolen money felt reassuring in her pocket. "Somewhere private where no one will see us disappear."
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
A Tiffin Carrier's Secrets
The Peranakans are a unique community among the Chinese in Singapore--one I am a proud part of. Older generations of Peranakans grew up speaking a mix of Malay and English--the younger ones like myself add Chinese to the list.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Linabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day My Reflection Talked Back. AI-Generated.
The Day My Reflection Talked Back The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower, yet I lingered in front of it, tracing meaningless circles in the condensation. I wasn’t really looking at myself—just at the blurred outline of someone who looked like me, someone who had lately felt like a stranger.
By Rashid khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Secrets My Mother Kept
The Morning Light August 19, 2005 The beach stretched endlessly in both directions, a ribbon of silver sand unmarked by footprints or debris. It was that liminal hour just before dawn when the world held its breath, suspended between night and day. The lighthouse at the far end of the bay had already stopped its rotation, leaving only the faintest echo of its beam painting ghosts across the water.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
The Cog-Boy of Aethel. AI-Generated.
Three days later, Cogsworth made his decision. He left the Academy during the lunch period, slipping away while Sarah Chen was distracted by a complex alchemical equation. His brass-shod feet carried him through Aethel's winding streets with mechanical certainty, even as his decision circuits churned with uncertainty.
By Shane D. Spearabout a year ago in Fiction
Final Delivery
The glow of the dashboard clock read 11:47 PM as Jason steered his beat-up sedan down a lonely, tree-lined road. He hated late-night shifts, especially in this part of town, where the houses were spaced far apart and the streetlights flickered ominously. Still, it was a job, and tonight’s order was his last delivery before clocking out.
By V-Ink Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Toppings are Screaming
Jason hated his new job at Slice of Heaven Pizzeria. Something about the place didn’t sit right with him. Maybe it was the eerie silence in the kitchen despite how busy they always seemed. Maybe it was the overly cheerful owner, Mr. Carver, whose grin never quite reached his eyes. Or maybe it was the smell—a coppery tang that lingered in the air, stronger than any garlic or pepperoni.
By V-Ink Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
Pizza From The Void
The clock on Jason’s dashboard flickered, the LED digits shifting erratically between 11:59 PM and 12:00 AM. It was late, and this last delivery didn’t even make sense. The order had come in through a glitchy phone call, the voice on the other end crackling like static, reciting an address that didn’t appear on any map.
By V-Ink Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
One Slice Short
It was Jason’s third week on the job at Hot & Fresh Pizza, and he was already running on fumes. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it paid the bills. He was on his final delivery of the night—a house at the edge of town, nestled deep in a forest. The customer, listed as Ms. Eliza Morrell, had left an unusually specific note:
By V-Ink Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
Delivery After Midnight
Jason leaned against the counter of Midtown Pizza, scrolling through his phone. It was 11:55 PM, and the kitchen was winding down for the night. The “No Deliveries After Midnight” sign hung prominently above the register. Everyone knew the rule—unspoken but sacred. No one asked why, but no one dared to break it.
By V-Ink Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction