Psychological
The Man in Apartment 7B
The Story Continues... The hallway leading to apartment 7B always smelled of old carpet and damp paint. It was as if time stood still in that corner of the building. Hira had passed by it dozens of times, but she never dared to stop. There was something about that door — the rusted brass numbers, the uneven doormat, the faint sound of movement behind it — that made her uneasy. She didn’t know his name. She didn’t know what he looked like. But she knew he was watching her. The Incident with the Sticky Note After finding the warning note that read, “Don’t look into 7B’s window again,” Hira felt trapped. Someone had been close enough to her door to slip it underneath — silently, stealthily. No camera had captured it. She checked the hall cams using her landlord’s shared app, but the footage from between 2:00 AM and 2:30 AM had been mysteriously erased. “Glitch in the system,” the landlord said dismissively. “It happens.” But Hira knew better. She decided to test something. That night, at 2:15 AM, she turned off every light in her apartment, stood at the edge of her window, and peeked through the blinds into 7B. Nothing. Just darkness. Then — a flicker. The curtain moved. For a second, just a second, she saw it: a pale hand slowly pulling the curtain aside. And behind it — a face. But not just any face. It was hers. The Doubts Begin The next day, Hira visited the property manager. She asked who lived in apartment 7B. He hesitated. “That unit’s been empty for months,” he finally said. “Hasn’t been rented since last summer. Previous tenant vanished.” She felt cold. “Vanished?” He nodded, lowering his voice. “Police called it ‘inconclusive disappearance.’ No signs of forced entry. No family to report her. Just gone.” Hira's legs felt weak. She asked for a name. The manager scanned his files. “Odd,” he murmured. “There’s no name listed here. Just a single word.” He turned the screen toward her. Written under “Previous Tenant” was: Hira. The Locked Door That night, she couldn’t sleep. Something about 7B called to her. It was madness, she knew, but she needed to see it — needed to confirm with her own eyes that it was empty. At 3:09 AM, barefoot and shaking, she walked down the hall. The corridor was dead silent. She stood in front of 7B. The doorknob was old, rusted, but not locked. She turned it slowly. Click. The door creaked open. The apartment inside was dark, musty, and freezing cold. Hira stepped in. The air felt thick. Heavy. Like she had walked into a sealed vault. She turned on her phone flashlight and scanned the room. Furniture draped in white sheets. Dust. Spiderwebs. But then she noticed something odd. Photos. Dozens of them, covering an entire wall. Every single photo was of her. At the grocery store. Taking the trash out. Sleeping. Some were taken from angles inside her own apartment. She dropped her phone. The Sound from the Closet As she bent to pick up her phone, a soft creeeeak echoed through the apartment. Her light turned toward a tall closet door in the corner. It was opening. Slowly. No wind. No movement. No draft. Just the creak of wood. Inside — darkness. Then, she heard it. A low, rasping whisper. Hira… She turned and ran. The Stranger at the Grocery Store The next morning, Hira tried to pretend it was a hallucination. Stress. Maybe sleepwalking. Maybe she imagined it all. She walked to the nearby grocery store to clear her head. At the counter, the cashier looked up, startled. “Back so soon?” Hira blinked. “What?” “You were just here. Ten minutes ago. You bought the same things. Same lipstick. Same notebook.” Hira’s mouth went dry. “I’ve been at home all day.” The cashier frowned. “No, I’m sure it was you. You even said your name — Hira.” The Recording Panicking, Hira went back to her apartment. She set up her phone to record herself sleeping — just to be sure. That night, she tossed and turned, but managed to sleep. The next morning, she watched the footage. At exactly 2:34 AM, the screen shimmered — almost as if the air inside the room shifted. The bedroom door opened. She didn’t move. A figure stepped in. The screen flickered. The figure walked up to the bed. And then… bent over to whisper something into her ear. Suddenly — Hira sat up in bed. But her eyes were closed. She got up. Walked to the camera. Looked directly into the lens. And smiled. Then everything went black. To Be Continued... Next in Part 3: "Voicemails from the Past" Hira’s old number is calling her… but she no longer owns it.
By Abid Ali Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
A New Home, A Hidden Past
The moment Hira stepped out of the taxi and onto the damp, cobbled street, she felt a chill crawl down her spine. Ridge Town was supposed to be a new beginning — a sleepy hilltop community far from the chaos of her past life in Karachi. She had rented an old Victorian-style apartment at the edge of the town, nestled between pine trees and fog-draped hills. It was peaceful. Too peaceful. Her apartment — 3A Maple Lane — stood tall and slightly crooked, as if time had leaned on it too hard. The windows were high and narrow, and the door creaked with an eerie reluctance when she pushed it open. She could hear the echoes of her own footsteps on the wooden floor. “This is home now,” she whispered, forcing a smile. Hira was 27, and this was the first time in years that she was completely alone. No family. No friends. Just the remnants of a life she was desperate to forget. What she left behind was buried — or so she thought. She spent her first few days unpacking, redecorating, and exploring the town. Ridge Town was small — population just under 10,000. People were polite but distant, especially with outsiders. Her neighbors nodded politely, but no one made an effort to talk, not even Mrs. Allen from 3B who always peeked through her blinds. But Hira liked the quiet. Silence, after all, couldn’t hurt you. Until it did. The First Sign It was on the fifth night that she heard it — a soft knocking sound from her living room window. She checked her phone. 2:13 AM. She lived on the third floor. Hira cautiously crept toward the window. The wind outside howled, trees swayed violently, and shadows danced on the walls. But when she pulled back the curtain, there was no one there. “Just the wind,” she told herself. But it wasn’t just the wind. The knocking happened again the next night. Same time. Same window. Again — nothing outside. By the seventh night, it wasn’t knocking anymore. It was humming. A soft, almost childlike melody. A tune that felt familiar… too familiar. She froze. That lullaby — her mother used to hum it to her when she was seven. But her mother died when she was ten. --- The Eyes from Across There was a man in the apartment across from hers. 7B. She noticed him the day she moved in — tall, dark jacket, rarely left his window. His curtains were usually drawn, but sometimes she’d catch a sliver of his face. Pale. Emotionless. Watching. One evening, she waved. He didn’t respond. Later that night, she found a sticky note under her door. “Don’t look into 7B’s window again.” She ran into the hallway, but there was no one. Just dim lights and a flickering bulb near the staircase. --- The Photo Frame While dusting an old shelf in her bedroom, Hira discovered a small crack in the wall. Inside it, tightly wedged, was a photo frame — old and dusty. She pulled it out and stared in disbelief. It was a picture of her. But it wasn’t recent. She was wearing her school uniform — the same one from 9th grade. The photo had no date, but the background was unmistakable: her childhood home in Karachi. “How did this get here?” she whispered. There was something scribbled on the back of the frame in black ink. "She never left." --- A Phone Call from Nowhere That same night, her phone rang. No caller ID. No number. She hesitated before answering. A woman’s voice spoke. “You left the door open, Hira.” Chills ran down her spine. She checked — her apartment door was closed. “I’m watching you,” the voice said again. Calm. Gentle. Like a lullaby in itself. She hung up, heart racing, and turned off her phone. The Dreams Begin Over the next few nights, the nightmares returned — vivid, terrifying, and strangely real. In one, she saw herself standing in a dark corridor with dozens of doors, each one opening to reveal a version of herself: crying, screaming, bleeding, laughing. In one dream, she opened a door and saw her own body, floating above her bed, eyes open, staring straight at her. She woke up screaming. And there — standing at her bedroom door — was a figure. Tall. Still. Just standing there. When she turned on the light, it was gone. The Journal In the kitchen cabinet, behind an old cereal box, she found a leather-bound journal. The name on the first page stopped her breath. "Property of Hira Saeed" But she had never owned such a journal. She flipped through the pages. Entries detailed her thoughts, fears, secrets… things she had never written down. The final entry read: “He’s in the walls now. I can hear him breathing. If I disappear, know that it wasn’t by choice.” Signed: Hira. Her hands trembled. What was happening? Who had been living here before her? Or worse… Was she the one who had always been here?
By Abid Ali Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The House That Waits at the Edge of the Fog
1. The Arrival Elena had seen the house in her dreams long before she ever found it. It sat quietly at the edge of a fading forest, shrouded in fog that moved like breath across the hills. Windows like closed eyes. A door like a secret no one wanted to tell. When she finally stood before it—real wood, real chill, real sky darkening—her bones knew it before her mind did. This was where the nightmares began. And now, maybe, where they would end. 2. The Whisper The key was already in the lock. Inside, the air smelled like time left alone. Not rotten—just forgotten. Dust floated like slow snow. The walls pulsed with stillness. The house didn’t groan or creak. It listened. That night, the whisper came. Not outside the room—but inside her head. Not words at first. Just… feeling. Like something was watching. Something waiting. Not cruel. Just patient. “Who’s there?” Elena whispered to the dark. The dark answered with a breath beneath her bed. 3. The History In town, no one would speak of the house. One woman, old and knotted like driftwood, told her: “That place doesn’t haunt you. It holds you.” “Why?” “Because it remembers.” Remembers what? Elena didn’t ask. She was starting to remember too. Flashes: A girl in the mirror who wasn’t her. A voice in the hallway calling a name she’d forgotten. A nursery with no toys. A crib that rocked by itself. 4. The Becoming The house didn’t hurt her. It fed her. Each night, the dreams grew stronger. She saw other versions of herself—crying, clawing, screaming. Not all were human anymore. And the voice—clearer now—said, “You’ve come back.” Elena didn’t run. She stayed. Because the truth was: she had been there before. Not in this life. But in another. And she had died in this house. More than once. 5. The Truth The house was alive. Not with wood and wires. With memory. It remembered every soul it held. Every scream. Every shadow pressed into its floorboards. It didn’t kill. It collected. Elena was its favorite kind of visitor—the ones who belonged to it before they were born. And now it wanted her back. 6. The Ending That Isn’t They found her car weeks later, engine cold, windshield dusted with fog. No footprints. No sign of struggle. Just a journal on the seat. Inside, only one sentence was written over and over again: “The house remembers me. And I remember it now.” The End? The House Doesn't Stay in One Place The house at the edge of the fog isn’t fixed to one location. It moves. Not quickly, and never when you look straight at it—but over time, it shifts. From one forgotten road to the next. From one dreaming mind to another. People don’t find the house. The house finds them—especially those who have a connection from another life, or a memory too buried to explain. Sometimes it appears in a photo you don’t remember taking. Sometimes in a sketch your child draws without knowing why. Sometimes in the background of a dream you swear you’ve had before. If you ever feel like a house is watching you… It probably is. And if you hear a whisper when no one else does, don’t answer. Because it might just be calling you home.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Fiction
Last Night . AI-Generated.
It was just a regular Tuesday. Or at least, that’s how it looked. I had made dinner around 8:30 p.m. — just some roasted vegetables, a bit of garlic, oregano, and olive oil. Nothing fancy, just the kind of meal that feels like a quiet hug after a long day. I always find vegetables oddly comforting. Maybe it’s because growing up, my mom used to make this same dish when things felt heavy in the house. Simple food can feel like a memory you didn’t know you needed. I had no plans beyond a late cup of chai and an old film. The kind of night that usually slips away without much thought. But there was something in the air last night. A strange stillness. No traffic noises outside, no messages buzzing on my phone, not even a barking dog in the street. The silence was so thick that I could hear the ticking of the wall clock like it was a drumbeat. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a moment where you feel like something’s coming, but you don’t know what. That’s how I felt.
By Sherooz khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Letter
*The Last Letter* The attic smelled of dust and forgotten memories. Emma wiped her hands on her jeans as she pulled open the old cedar chest, its hinges groaning in protest. Inside lay a patchwork of her grandmother’s life—yellowed photographs, a lace wedding veil, a stack of letters tied with a frayed blue ribbon.
By Ziafat Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Second Bedroom
The dilapidated wooden house, with its secrets that lurk inside, waited silently as it continued to deteriorate. The thick kudzu vines and broken limbs from decaying trees shielded the house from being noticed where it sets on the deserted property. The path that led to the front door was overgrown with weeds and thorny rose bushes.
By Frankie Berry Wiseabout a year ago in Fiction
Episode 8: Paper Dog Tags
So everyone was already gone when Unit Twelve reached the supermarket. The roof had caved in. The shelves were burned. The cold cases hummed with nothing. The only sound was the clink of broken jars rolling gently under Marla’s boots. Once upon a time this place sold ice cream and aspirin and checkout-line horoscopes. Now it sold death in six aisles and a parking lot full of empty shoes.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
When Water Swallowed The Light
The house had been in the family for five generations. Built by hand on the banks of the Rappahannock, it stood tall and white, with weather-worn shutters and a wraparound porch that had seen more rocking chairs than most old Southern homes. The boards creaked like they remembered everything, and maybe they did.
By Ellie Hoovsabout a year ago in Fiction
Elaine. Honorable Mention in Leave the Light On Challenge. Top Story - July 2025.
The kettle hissed long before she remembered to pour it. The sound had always comforted her. It was unconventional people used to say. Technology had moved on. But she had liked the ordinariness of the steam pouring upward into the air. It slowed down the process. Made tea a ritual. It had become part of their routine. But tonight, she barely registered the familiar noise. It just didn’t belong in the silence of the night. Felt out of place somehow. She set down the cups, placing them lightly on mismatched saucers. The clink of porcelain refocused her for a moment. Breathe.
By River and Celia in Underlandabout a year ago in Fiction
The Never-Ending Midnight
The morning sun cast long shadows across Anchor's End's cobblestone streets as Finn Mercer leaned against the weathered brick wall of Gulliver's General Store, his dark eyes scanning the small crowd gathered around Mrs. Henderson's produce stand. At seventeen, he possessed the kind of easy charm that made people forget to count their change and the quick wit that turned every conversation into an opportunity. His unruly brown hair caught the coastal breeze, and his crooked smile suggested he knew something you didn't—which, more often than not, he did.
By Shane D. Spearabout a year ago in Fiction
