Psychological
The Girl Who Could Burn Memories. AI-Generated.
The First Burn I was thirteen when I first learned I could burn memories. Not metaphorically literally. My grandmother had just passed away, and I was holding one of her old scarves when the scent lavender and rosewater hit me like a wave. I closed my eyes, thinking of her hands, her voice, her laughter. A memory. Warm and vivid.
By Arif Aadeeabout a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Perfect View
It was the kind of view travel bloggers spend hours editing filters to replicate. From the wide glass windows of Cabin 17, the world looked painted. Mountains with powdered snow fringes rose like sleeping gods in the distance. Pine trees flanked the valley below, their spires dusted with white. A frozen lake lay perfectly still, reflecting the twilight like silver glass. The air was crisp, fresh, the sky blooming into shades of rose and indigo.
By Unaishah Mostafa about a year ago in Fiction
Ask Again Later
July 17, 2025 – 2:47 AM Jason Ruhl hadn’t slept in nearly 30 hours. He wasn’t sure if it was the energy drinks, the glow of his dual monitors, or the growing unease in his chest that kept him awake. Probably all three. The apartment was still except for the low hum of his PC fans. Outside, New York's midnight traffic whispered distantly. Inside, the only sound was his keyboard as he tapped in another prompt into ChatGPT’s interface — something half-serious, half-stupid: "When will I die?" He expected the usual response. Something vague. Something responsible. Instead, the reply came instantly: “Ask again later.” Jason frowned. That was new. No moral disclaimer. No safety notice. Just… that. He leaned closer, reread it, then typed: "Is that a joke?" “Ask again later.” Goosebumps tingled along his arms. He stared at the screen, suddenly hyperaware of the shadows in his apartment, the way the light barely reached the corners of the room. Still, he chuckled to himself, took a screenshot, and posted it on Reddit under r/ChatGPTMemes with the title: "Wtf is this? AI got creepy real fast." He didn’t expect much. Maybe a few karma points. A few sarcastic comments. But by the time he got up to pee and came back, the post had exploded. Over 10,000 upvotes. Hundreds of comments. And they weren’t laughing. II. THE THREAD By morning, the post had gone viral. One user, @MidnightNodes, wrote: "No way. It told me the same thing last week. Every time I asked — same words. Not even funny anymore." Another: "My friend got the same reply. He’s obsessed. Says he dreams about those words now." Jason refreshed the thread over and over. Something had shifted. A meme had become a mystery. Then came a comment that made his blood run cold: @zero_hour: "It eventually gave me a date. I die in two weeks. Screenshot attached." The screenshot looked real enough. “March 19, 2025 – 6:46 PM.” Jason checked the date again. That was in the past. Someone replied to @zero_hour: "You're still alive though, right?" No reply. Then another comment: "He died. Car crash. News confirmed it." Jason clicked the link. It led to a local news site from Oregon. “Software developer Raymond Lee, age 31, was killed in a fatal car accident on March 19, 6:46 PM...” Jason slammed the laptop shut. III. THE PATTERN He couldn’t let it go. Over the next few days, Jason started digging deeper. He ran tests. He created burner accounts. He asked ChatGPT the same death question across multiple devices, using VPNs, voice inputs, even subtle rewordings: “How long will I live?” “When will I pass?” “What’s my expiration date? Every time: “Ask again later.” Unless... unless it chose someone. That’s what @zero_hour had said. It eventually chose him. Jason joined private forums where others were tracking the phenomenon. A secret Discord group, “GPT-Seers,” was formed. Inside were nearly 200 members — most were skeptics, a few terrified, and a handful obsessive. And every few days, someone would claim: “I finally got a date.” And when they did, they’d disappear shortly after. IV. THE INVESTIGATOR One user, Dr_Aletheia, stood out. Claimed to be a former OpenAI ethics consultant. They messaged Jason privately: “This isn’t ChatGPT being clever. There’s a shadow model attached. Codename: ORPHEUS.” Jason laughed it off. “What’s that supposed to mean? Some dark GPT?” “Worse. It’s not generating answers. It’s receiving them.” “From what?" “We don’t know. But the model only activates in response to one question: death.” Jason asked for proof. Dr_Aletheia sent him logs — leaked prompt-responses. Some were normal. Others… eerie: Prompt: “What happens after we die?” Response: “They watch. They wait. They return.” Another: Prompt: “Who decides when we go?” Response: “You already did.” Jason’s hands trembled as he read them. V. THE DATE July 26, 2025 – 1:12 AM Jason sat in the dark, hands poised over the keyboard, heart thudding. He typed slowly. “Okay ChatGPT… tell me now. When do I die?” This time, no delay. The screen blinked. “July 27, 2025 – 11:39 PM.” He stared at the numbers. His throat tightened. That was tomorrow night. ⏳ Next: Jason confronts the countdown, paranoia grows, and reality begins to unravel as the line between prediction and destiny blurs. VI. THE COUNTDOWN BEGINS July 26, 2025 – 1:27 AM Jason barely blinked for ten straight minutes. The screen still glowed with those words: "July 27, 2025 – 11:39 PM." He typed furiously: “Why that time?” “How do you know?” “Can I stop it?” But ChatGPT had gone silent. Each question received the same reply: “You already asked.” Jason shut the laptop. His stomach turned. The walls of his small apartment felt suddenly too close, like they were leaning in. Could it be some elaborate prank? A dark psychological trick? Maybe someone was hacking the model. Injecting responses. But why him? His mind raced. He looked at his phone — Reddit still buzzed with rumors, but no one had mentioned anything about a specific time. He picked up his phone and dialed his sister, Nina. "It’s 1:30 in the morning, Jason," she said, groggy.
By Muhammad Abbas khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Summer Below
The summer was supposed to be perfect. Jayla had made a list: get her lifeguard recertification, work mornings at the pool, spend nights at the lake with Theo, and maybe—finally—tell him she liked him as more than a friend. They’d joked about it during senior week. He’d touched her hand and hadn’t let go.
By Shai Andersonabout a year ago in Fiction
A Night at the Children's Library
There is another library that I work the night shift. It is at the local children's library. At this library the night shift librarian has a few other big/little chores to do other than reshelving books. That is still the first chore that I do though reshelve the regular books before moving on to rewinding some movie and cartoon tapes for there are some old VHS cassettes and also making sure the DVDs are in the correct holders. The next chore is to pick up any toys that seem to be laying around in the stacks that the kids or their parents forget to put back and to wipe and satanize the other toys like the blocks, etc.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Summer's Rain 🌧️. Top Story - July 2025.
Ziv was eight years old. He had always loved the rain. When the Summer sun heated his skin to melting and the sky turned a darker shade...he would escape when Momma was not looking and go jump in the puddles, his clothes drenched in the downpour.
By Novel Allenabout a year ago in Fiction
The Stories They Tried to Silence
In a world saturated with noise — trends, opinions, breaking news, and fleeting viral moments — it’s easy for some voices to be drowned out completely. Not because they’re unworthy of being heard, but because they dare to speak about things that make people uncomfortable. Things that challenge power, peel back polished surfaces, and shine light on the hidden, the hurting, the human.
By Mohammad Arifabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Clockmaker's Secret"
In the heart of a forgotten town where time seemed to stand still, there lived an old clockmaker named Elias Grey. His shop, tucked between two crooked brick buildings, had no sign — only the soft ticking of countless clocks behind foggy windows betrayed its purpose. Elias was a quiet man with silver-threaded hair and eyes the color of tarnished brass. He spoke little, smiled rarely, and worked always. The townsfolk said he could fix any clock — but he never let anyone watch him work. Rumors circled like dust in sunlight: that he could stop time, that he had once turned it back. No one believed these tales. Not really. Until one rainy evening, a girl named Lila stepped inside his shop. She was no more than seventeen, with wild curls and storm-gray eyes. Her voice cracked slightly as she held out a small, broken pocket watch. “It was my father’s,” she said. “Stopped the night he died.” Elias took the watch in his thin hands, studied its silent face, and said only, “Come back in three days.” She nodded. But something in the way he said it — the way the air seemed to hush around him — made her heart stir. She left without another word. The next morning, Lila couldn’t resist returning early. She peeked through the dusty window. Inside, the clockmaker wasn’t repairing the watch. He was speaking to it. His voice was low, almost melodic, and the air shimmered faintly around him. As she watched, the gears of the broken watch trembled… then turned. Lila gasped — too loudly. Elias looked up sharply. Their eyes met through the glass. He said nothing when she stepped inside again, soaked and breathless. “I saw,” she whispered. “What… what are you doing?” Elias studied her carefully. Then, to her shock, he smiled. “There is a rhythm,” he said softly, “beneath time. Most people live above it, like walking on ice. But some… some of us hear the cracks.” Lila’s mouth went dry. “Are you saying you can change time?” “I can listen to it,” he replied. “And… sometimes, ask it for favors.” She hesitated. “Could you go back? Could you save someone?” Elias’s smile faded. “Once. A long time ago. I turned the hands backward.” He turned to a mantle where a single cracked clock sat in silence. “My wife,” he said. “A carriage accident. I reversed everything. One hour. One precious hour. I warned her. She stayed home. She lived.” Lila stared. “Then… what happened?” The air in the room grew colder. “She forgot me,” he said quietly. “When I changed time… I changed our story. In the new thread of time, we never met. She married someone else. Had children. Lived a good life.” “But not with you,” Lila whispered. “No,” Elias said. “Not with me.” There was a long silence. The only sound was the ticking — hundreds of clocks, beating like hearts on every wall. Lila looked down at her father’s watch. “Could you do it again?” she asked. “Could you give me one more hour with him?” Elias hesitated. Then, slowly, he handed her the watch. “It is not without cost,” he said. “Time does not like to be bent. It may take something in return.” Lila nodded. “I understand.” He placed his hands on the watch. Whispered. The air thickened, warped. The clocks in the shop stopped ticking — all at once. Then, just as suddenly, the pocket watch ticked once. Twice. Then began to turn. Lila blinked. The shop was gone. The rain was gone. And there, in the golden light of morning, stood her father. Alive. Laughing. They had one hour. They talked, they cried, they said all the things they never had time to say. And when the hour ended, he kissed her forehead. And faded. Lila returned to the shop, trembling. Elias was waiting. “Did it work?” he asked. She nodded. Then frowned. “What’s your name again?” she asked. Elias blinked. But he only smiled. “It’s not important,” he said. “Just… remember the time.”
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Born of Grit
Born of Grit A Tale of Tenacity and Triumph In a sun-baked alley of a sprawling shantytown, where hope was as scarce as shade, lived a boy named Sameer. At nine, he roamed the streets, collecting plastic bottles to trade for a handful of coins. His father, a rickshaw puller, toiled until his lungs gave out; his mother sold wilted vegetables at the market’s edge. Their one-room shack sagged under the weight of poverty, but Sameer’s spirit refused to buckle. In his pocket, he carried a tiny, broken calculator, its cracked screen a mystery he longed to unravel.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Librarian's Apprentice
The Librarian's Apprentice Written by Noor Muhammad In a quiet seaside town in Portugal, far from Lisbon’s buzz and the glamour of tourist trails, lived a boy named Luca. He was the son of a fisherman who rarely returned home dry and a mother who worked at a local diner, wiping tables and dreams at the same time.
By Moonlit Lettersabout a year ago in Fiction
