Psychological

The Night at the School Library
I usually do not get called to substitute for this school library too often for they have a list that they rotate substitutes. Usually, I worked two or three nights a month at this location. The duties are about the same as for the public and college libraries for I still reshelve some books back on the shelves, but for the most part I am basically just running the vacuum over the carpet and dusting the furniture and shelves. As I was in the far back corner, I heard that all familiar phrase just like my other nights.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bookstore That Only Opens at Midnight
he Bookstore That Only Opens at Midnight I stumbled upon it by accident or maybe, as I now believe, it found me. It was just past midnight on a rainy Thursday when I saw a faint light flicker in the corner of an old alley I had walked past a hundred times before. Between two abandoned buildings stood a narrow, ivy-covered doorway with a crooked wooden sign swinging in the wind. It simply read: “Open”.
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
“She Rented a New Life for £1 — But Someone Else Wanted It Back” Part 2
The woman stepped inside like she owned the place. Same face. Same posture. Same chipped tooth on the left. Cleo backed up. “What is this? Some prank?”
By Buzzleabout a year ago in Fiction
The Winterlight Watcher
The town of Winterlight wasn’t marked on any proper map. Tucked between whispering fir forests and glassy hillsides, it was the kind of place that looked like it belonged in a snow globe—frozen in time, perfect from a distance. But no one ever shook the globe. It was always winter, and it was always quiet.
By Muhammad Rahim about a year ago in Fiction
Terms & Conditions for Falling in Love
Article: Article I — Introduction to the Agreement This contract ("the Relationship") is entered into voluntarily by two parties ("You" and "Me"). By proceeding to the next section, You acknowledge that butterflies, daydreaming, and the inability to form coherent sentences around Me are possible and legally non-refundable side effects.
By Zulfiqar Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
“The Letters in the Wall”
M Mehran When I bought the old farmhouse on Millers Ridge, I wasn’t looking for magic. I wanted peace. Something simple. I was thirty-three, freshly divorced, and ready to forget that the city had ever swallowed me whole. The house had been empty for years. The floors creaked like they were sighing, and the wallpaper peeled like it was tired of pretending. But I loved it immediately—its quietness, its secrets. It was on the second week of fixing up the place that I found the letters. They were behind a loose wooden plank in the hallway wall. Just above eye level, where you’d never think to look. Tied in a pale blue ribbon, yellowed with time, and smelling faintly of lavender and dust. There were thirteen letters. All addressed to “My Starling.” The handwriting was neat. Careful. The kind of script people don’t write in anymore. I told myself I wouldn’t read them. I read the first one that night. --- June 17, 1961 My Starling, Today I saw you on the porch in that yellow dress. I nearly forgot to breathe. I’ve been trying to gather the courage to say what I must—but words feel foolish when I think of your laugh. I will leave this letter here, where only someone looking with love could find it. If you ever find it, know this: I loved you long before I had the right to say so. Ever Yours, E. --- I read all thirteen that night. They weren’t love letters in the usual sense—not poetic declarations or dramatic pleas. They were soft. Intimate. Full of tiny details. How “E” liked the way Starling hummed while sweeping the porch. How her absence made the walls feel empty. How he was building a small music box for her, in secret, just in case. The final letter, dated November 1962, was different. --- My Starling, You’re gone. They say time will pass, but no one tells you what to do with the hours that don’t. I sit by the fire and pretend you’ll come through the door again. I’ve sealed the others away, where only a soul who’s searching might find them. If you’re reading this, maybe in another life, leave me a sign. I’ll wait. E. --- It felt wrong, having read them. Like trespassing. But also… like something sacred had passed into my hands. I asked around town about the house. Most people didn’t remember much. Some whispered about a woman named Lydia Harrow, a schoolteacher who’d lived there in the early ’60s. No one knew what had happened to her. The next week, I found the music box. It was tucked inside a broken drawer in the basement. Carved with tiny stars. And inside—taped to the lid—was a photo. A man with dark eyes and a crooked smile. Holding a woman in a yellow dress. Her laugh was frozen in the frame. Written on the back: E & L. Ridgeview County Fair, August 1961. I took the photo and pressed it against the wall where I found the letters. It felt right. Like putting something back in place. That night, the music box played for the first time. I hadn’t wound it. The sound was faint. Like a lullaby from another room. --- I live in the house still. I never told anyone about the letters. Not really. Some things feel too alive to share. But every now and then, I light a candle in the hallway. I place the music box by the wall. And I whisper: "He waited."
By M Mehran about a year ago in Fiction
“The Mirror Room”
M Mehran In the dusty attic of my grandmother’s house, tucked behind a tattered curtain, stood a door I’d never noticed before. The house was quiet that summer—too quiet, with Grandma gone and the air thick with the scent of old books and lemon polish. I had come to sort her things, but I ended up discovering something else entirely. The door creaked open with the weight of years. Inside was a small room, lit by a single stained-glass window. But it wasn’t the window that caught my attention—it was the mirror. It was massive, mounted to the far wall, framed in dark oak carved with twisting vines and strange runes. I stepped closer. The mirror shimmered—not like glass, but like water holding its breath. I saw my reflection. But something was... wrong. It wasn’t me. Not quite. My hair in the reflection was longer. My eyes carried a weight of pain I didn’t recognize. The reflection blinked a second too late. And then it smiled—a little too knowingly. I backed away. --- That night I couldn’t sleep. The mirror haunted me. I told myself it was just a trick of the light. A grieving mind, playing games. But I returned the next morning, unable to resist. Again, the mirror showed a slightly altered version of me. This time, she looked stronger. Confident. Wearing the red leather jacket I’d buried in the back of my closet years ago. The one I stopped wearing after he said it made me look like I was trying too hard. Was that me? The “me” I used to be? --- Day after day, I returned. Each time, the mirror revealed another version of myself. Some looked broken—crying, makeup smeared, gripping the edges of the frame as if begging to be let out. Others looked powerful—standing tall, dressed in clothes I never dared wear, smiling without apology. I began to wonder if the mirror wasn’t broken—but maybe I was. --- On the tenth day, I brought an old photo of myself—age 19, bright-eyed and loud and fearless. I pressed it to the mirror. My reflection mimicked me... then stepped back and waved. That night, I dreamed of mirrors. Thousands of them. In each, a different me. Some better. Some worse. All possible. When I woke up, something shifted. --- I went into town wearing the red leather jacket. I ordered my coffee the way I actually like it. I smiled at strangers. I said no when someone asked for a favor I didn’t want to do. And it felt... good. Like I was finally letting out all the versions of myself that had been locked away. --- I visited the mirror one last time before leaving. This time, my reflection matched me perfectly. No delay. No trick. But she winked before turning away and disappearing entirely, leaving behind just glass—and my own reflection. --- Years later, I still think about that mirror. About how grief cracks us open and lets in strange light. About how maybe, sometimes, the parts of us we lose are waiting—quietly, in rooms we’ve forgotten—to be found again. The mirror never followed me. But the lesson did: You are not only who you are. You are who you could be. And sometimes, all it takes is one moment of reflection to change everything.
By M Mehran about a year ago in Fiction
When He Disappeared
Whit was the kind of boy you’d pass by without really noticing. He wasn’t shy in the usual sense—he just sort of melted into the scenery. Like one of those fading snow patches near the end of winter. Quiet, a little distant. Always watching. Always somewhere just on the edge of everything.
By Umar Aminabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror Room🕯️. AI-Generated.
After her grandmother's death, Clara inherited an old Victorian house. It stood silent and dust-laden, the air thick with forgotten memories. But one room was unlike the rest—small, square, and lined wall-to-wall with mirrors. Her grandmother called it the Reflection Room.
By ElaheMindStoriesabout a year ago in Fiction
not flashy — but walking, jogging, cycling? They work.
not flashy — but walking, jogging, cycling? They work. I use these on active recovery days or early mornings when I need to clear my head and torch a few hundred calories. Bonus: It’s great for your heart, joints, and peace of mind.
By youssef mohammedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Quiet House on Forrest Way
Renee tucked one knee under herself on the couch, the phone warm against her cheek. The living room was still half-lit with dusk, all soft corners and long shadows, the kind of light that made everything feel gentle.
By Oula M.J. Michaelsabout a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Silence.
The park was nearly empty when Mira arrived, as it always was this time of year. Late autumn peeled the world of color, leaving behind only faded golds and brittle browns. The air smelled of cold earth and drying leaves. She liked that. No one noticed her here, and she didn’t have to pretend.
By Muhammad Ilyasabout a year ago in Fiction