Psychological

The Echo in My Veins
Aris Thorne’s favorite sales tactic was fear. “Feel that anxiety in your chest, Mr. Reynolds?” she whispered, her neural implant syncing with the client’s emotions. “That’s your competitors’ ambition… But our security AI can make it stop.”
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Cabin on the Lake. Top Story - July 2025.
I sighed and pulled my hat brim down to protect my face from the summer sun. Just a few more chapters, I promised myself, turning my attention back to my book. After several efforts to read, I discovered I couldn’t focus on the words, so I leaned back and looked at the lake.
By Julie Lacksonenabout a year ago in Fiction
Episode 5: Rescue Girl
They told us to go back in. They always say that. They say it like the walls haven’t grown teeth. Like rescue is still a thing that happens instead of a thing that kills you slower.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
Don’t Read My Story
Don’t Read My Story by Tariq Shah Don’t read this story. Seriously. Don’t. I know that’s a strange way to start a piece of writing, but I need to be honest with you from the beginning. This isn’t a story. It’s a warning. A plea. A desperate attempt to stop something I may have accidentally set loose. It all started as a joke — a writing prompt, actually. My creative writing professor had given us the assignment: “Write a story with a title that makes people curious.” Naturally, I went for reverse psychology. “Don’t Read My Story.” Catchy, right? I jotted it down in my old, spiral-bound notebook at my favorite café, left it on the table when I went to refill my coffee, and when I came back — it was gone. I didn’t think much of it. Maybe someone thought it was theirs. Or maybe the barista threw it out. But the next morning, the notebook was on my bed. Not on my nightstand. Not by the door. On my bed. The exact same one, down to the coffee ring on the cover and the little tear on the bottom corner. Only now, my single line — “Don’t Read My Story” — had more words underneath it. Words I hadn’t written. In messy, jagged handwriting were the following lines: “I read it. I wish I hadn’t. She’s awake now.” My first instinct? A friend was playing a prank. I even texted my roommate, thinking he’d snuck in while I was asleep. “No idea what you're talking about,” he replied. “I’m out of town until Thursday.” I flipped through the rest of the notebook. Page after page had been filled with frantic writing. Someone’s journal, maybe. All warning about a figure they called Mira. A woman, but not. A shadow with eyes. A whisper in reflections. According to these scribbles, she doesn’t exist in flesh — she lives in stories. In this story. And every time someone reads about her… she becomes stronger. I rolled my eyes. This had to be a joke. But that night, I dreamed of mirrors. Shattered ones. A voice humming behind the glass. A voice saying, “Keep writing.” I woke up with a start. I was sweating. My mirror — the tall one near my desk — was fogged, as if someone had breathed on it. Except I hadn’t even been near it. Things escalated after that. No matter what I did, the story kept spreading. I didn’t share it, but somehow it kept appearing — on forums, on blogs, even printed on a flyer I saw posted downtown. And every version had the same title: Don’t Read My Story. Worse, the notebook kept coming back. Burn it? It reappears. Trash it? It shows up under my pillow. Rip the pages out? They rewrite themselves. I started keeping track of who read it. My cousin, Sam, laughed when I told him the story was cursed. “Ooooh, spooky mirror lady,” he mocked. That night, he texted me at 3:12 a.m. “She’s outside the mirror. She knows my name.” He hasn’t been seen since. I told the police. They thought I was unstable. Probably not wrong. But I’m not making this up. I swear to you. I’ve watched my reflection blink when I didn’t. I’ve seen something standing just beyond the bathroom mirror — a woman-shaped smudge that doesn’t wipe off. I can’t even stop writing. The words pour out, like someone else is moving my hands. Mira wants this story told. She feeds on it. So here I am. Finishing this cursed thing because I don’t know what else to do. Because maybe if I write it, she’ll stop. Maybe if I warn others, she’ll leave me alone. Maybe. But probably not. She’s with you now. Watching you read these words. Feeding on your interest. She likes attention. Likes being known. She lives in every glance you throw at a mirror. In every story you read and dismiss as fiction. So whatever you do — don’t look behind you. And definitely, definitely… Don’t read this story again. --- Author’s Note: Yes, I know the title told you not to read it. And I know you did anyway. But if your mirror starts acting strange, or your reflection seems a second out of sync — I suggest you forget this ever happened. Close your screen. Breathe. And for your own sake… don’t write about her.
By Tariq Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
Messaging Death: A Letter to my Killer. Content Warning.
Being somewhere, anywhere alive was fine, but I didn’t feel fine. I had only met one man I would ever truly consider evil, and that person was you. According to the local paper, across town only fifteen people had died today, same as every other day. That year alone, over a thousand and unfortunately for me, not one of them was you. Then again, not one of them were me, either. I pondered the way that would feel, or what would happen the day time ultimately stopped for me. Who would know, who would care? These are perfectly acceptable thoughts when your life is being held but I guess I won’t have to worry about those answers just yet.
By K.H. Obergfollabout a year ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Room at the End of the Hall
I moved into my grandmother’s house after her death, mostly because I had nowhere else to go. A breakup, a dead-end job, and a city that forgot I existed—it all pushed me to that quiet countryside house I hadn’t visited since childhood. The place was old and creaky, filled with the scent of lavender, mothballs, and old secrets. I told myself I’d sell it after a while. Fix it up, let the memories settle.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Art of Creating Fiction That Feels Real
Have you ever read a novel so vivid it felt as if you could step right into its world? Or met a character in a short story who seemed more alive than some people you know in real life? That’s the power of fiction that feels real. Many aspiring writers think great fiction is only about having a wild imagination. But the secret isn’t about dreaming up the most far-fetched plots. It’s about grounding those ideas in details that make your reader believe every word—even if your story is set on another planet or in a time that never existed. Here’s how to craft fiction that captivates from the first sentence and leaves a lasting impact long after the last page is turned. --- 1. Start With a Strong “What If?” All unforgettable fiction begins with a question that sparks curiosity. Think about the novels you love. They probably have a premise that makes you lean in. Examples: What if a young wizard didn’t know he was magical until he turned eleven? What if memories could be bought and sold like commodities? What if a tiny town harbored an ancient secret that could destroy the world? A great “what if” doesn’t have to be complicated. It just needs to create a sense of wonder or tension. Before you start writing, jot down several possibilities. Ask yourself which idea you can’t stop thinking about. That’s usually the one worth exploring. --- 2. Build a World With Rules Even if you’re writing about an imaginary place, your world needs rules. Readers are willing to suspend disbelief—but only if the story follows a logic they can grasp. Ask yourself: What is daily life like here? What do people eat, wear, and fear? What customs or taboos shape their choices? Consistency is everything. If magic exists, decide who can wield it, how it works, and what it costs. If your story is set in the future, consider how technology has changed relationships, politics, or the environment. Remember: Details make the impossible feel probable. --- 3. Create Characters With Conflicting Desires One of the biggest mistakes new fiction writers make is creating characters who feel flat. They might have a goal—but no internal conflicts. But in real life, people are full of contradictions: You can love someone and resent them at the same time. You can crave adventure but fear failure. You can dream of success yet sabotage yourself out of insecurity. Give your characters at least two conflicting desires. This tension drives the story forward and makes readers root for them. Ask: What does this character want more than anything? What are they afraid will happen if they fail? What secret are they hiding? --- 4. Show, Don’t Tell This classic advice never gets old because it works. Instead of telling your reader “John was angry,” show it: John’s jaw tightened. He slammed the car door so hard the window rattled. The more sensory details you use—sights, sounds, textures—the more immersive your story becomes. When readers can picture every scene, they stop feeling like spectators and start experiencing the world through your characters’ eyes. --- 5. Let Your Characters Fail Perfect characters are boring. Readers connect with vulnerability and imperfection. Don’t protect your characters from mistakes. Let them fail, embarrass themselves, and make bad decisions. Failure not only builds empathy but also sets up moments of growth and redemption. This is where your story’s emotional power comes from. --- 6. End With Resonance A good ending doesn’t have to be a happy one—but it should feel earned. Ask yourself: Has the character changed in a meaningful way? Have their choices led to a believable outcome? What question or feeling do I want to leave in the reader’s mind? An unresolved thread can be powerful if it invites reflection rather than frustration. --- Final Thoughts Fiction is a bridge between imagination and truth. When you write stories that feel real, you give readers the gift of seeing themselves—and the world—differently. Remember: You don’t need to be a literary genius to create something beautiful. You just need to be curious, observant, and willing to put your heart on the page. So the next time an idea tugs at your imagination, don’t dismiss it as silly or impossible. Write it down. Give it shape. Let it breathe. Because somewhere out there, a reader is waiting for a story that only you can tell. And when you write fiction that feels alive, you’ll discover that you, too, become more alive in the process.
By Kim Jonabout a year ago in Fiction
The House That Ate Sound
It began with the floorboards. They didn’t creak. Not under my boots when I first stepped inside. Not when I rolled the heavy suitcase behind me. Not even when I jumped, just to test. The silence was absolute. Thick. The kind that coats your skin and fills your ears like cotton.
By Pir Ashfaq Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Surface of Dreams
The world felt different when Elena woke up that morning. She couldn’t explain it, but something was wrong. Not in a way that was immediately terrifying—just… off. Like the edges of the world had softened overnight, as if the lines between reality and something else had blurred. But the strangest part? She couldn't remember the dream she'd had the night before. And that was rare. Elena had always been someone who could recall every vivid detail of her dreams, whether it was the people in them, the places, or even the emotions she’d felt. But last night? Blank. The dream was a void, a chasm in her mind that she couldn’t cross. Sitting at her kitchen table with a cup of tea, Elena gazed out the window. The sky was an unusual shade of blue, almost too bright, and there were no birds in the trees. The silence was unnerving. The only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator in the corner of the room. Shaking the uneasy feeling from her mind, she focused on the task ahead. She had a full day of work and meetings to attend to, but it was hard to concentrate. Her thoughts kept slipping back to the dream. Was it even a dream? She wondered. Could it have been something else? Something more? As the day wore on, Elena's sense of unease grew. She found herself distracted, staring at her computer screen but not really seeing the words. The quiet hum of office chatter around her seemed distant, muffled—as if she was underwater, looking out at the world but unable to reach it. A sense of isolation gripped her, and for the first time in years, she felt a longing for something she couldn’t name. By the time the sun set, Elena was drained, both physically and mentally. She wanted to shake off the feeling, but it clung to her like fog. She couldn’t sleep—it was as if the darkness outside was calling her to go deeper, to dive beneath the surface of something that, at that moment, she couldn’t fully grasp. That night, she fell into a fitful sleep. --- The Dream Elena found herself standing on a beach, the air thick with the scent of salt and something else, something… unfamiliar. The sand beneath her feet felt cool, soft, almost like it was shifting beneath her with every step. The sky above was dim, a mix of orange and purple, as if the sun was setting—or perhaps rising. She couldn’t tell. Time felt suspended, like the world was holding its breath. Then she saw them. Figures. Dark and shadowed, moving just out of the corner of her vision. They were almost human, yet not quite. Their shapes were fluid, ethereal, constantly shifting like smoke in the wind. Elena tried to focus, but they eluded her every time she turned her head. She wanted to call out, but the words caught in her throat. Her body felt heavy, like the very air was pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. One of the figures finally stopped. It was taller than the others, its face obscured by a veil of shadow. It reached out a hand, and Elena found herself moving toward it, though she didn’t know why. She felt drawn to it, as if it held the answers to all the questions she’d been asking, all the things she couldn’t explain. As her fingers brushed against the figure’s, she was plunged into darkness. --- The Awakening When Elena woke up, it wasn’t the same as the other mornings. This time, the silence in her apartment was suffocating. She sat up in bed, gasping for air as if she had been submerged in deep water and had just resurfaced. Her heart pounded in her chest. The dream had been more than just a dream. It was… a call. A message. There was something beneath the surface of it all—something hidden in the space between sleep and wakefulness, between reality and something else. Elena knew she needed to go back, to find whatever had been just out of reach. But how? The next few nights, she searched for the place from her dream. She walked the beach, trying to find the shifting shadows, but the more she tried, the more elusive they became. It was as if the dream was pulling her in deeper, into a place where the boundaries of time and space didn’t exist. One night, Elena woke to find something different in her room—a small, silver key lying on her pillow. It glinted in the dim light, impossibly smooth and beautiful. She reached for it instinctively, feeling a strange sense of recognition. Without thinking, Elena stood and walked to the door of her apartment. The key fit perfectly into the lock. As the door creaked open, she stepped into darkness, and for the first time, she wasn’t afraid. She knew where she was going. She descended into the unknown. --- Beneath the Surface The key unlocked more than just her apartment door—it unlocked a portal, a doorway to a place beneath the surface of her dreams. Elena found herself in a world unlike any she had ever seen, one that existed between worlds. There were no rules here, no time, no sense of direction. Everything around her was fluid, shifting in ways that defied logic. The shadows moved closer, and this time, they didn’t elude her. They gathered, their forms slowly becoming more defined. The tall figure from her dream approached, its face now visible—a face like hers, yet not. It smiled, a knowing, cryptic smile, and said, “You’ve finally come.” Elena didn’t understand, but she felt as though she had always known this moment would come. The answer to everything was here, beneath the surface of her dreams, and she had crossed the threshold. There was no going back. --- The dream had become her reality. And now, Elena was part of something far older, far deeper than she had ever imagined. Beneath the surface of her dreams lay a truth that no one could ever wake from. And once you find it, there’s no waking up.
By Ubaid Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The View Was Beautiful. But I Was Not in It
The view was perfect. From the top of Hill Nine, you could see the entire valley below — green fields stretching like a velvet cloth, a small lake shining like a silver mirror, and tiny houses scattered like children's toys. The sky was a soft blue, almost unreal, and the clouds looked like they had been painted with careful strokes.
By Muhammad Adilabout a year ago in Fiction
The Stranger Who Knew My Name Before I Spoke It
The train was nearly empty. It always was on these late-night rides — just shadows stitched to tired seats and the soft, rhythmic clatter of steel slicing through the dark. I boarded from Platform 7B, as I always did after visiting my father’s grave. I didn't talk to people on these journeys. No one ever sat beside me. It was understood: this line wasn’t for conversations. It was for forgetting.
By Abuzar khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Guardians and Angels | Chapter Five | Part 18
Brendan Bragg wasn’t alone the night he was murdered on Gravity Hill, and he wasn’t only with Laura DeAngelo either. No, there was another creature there with them on the hillside roadway that snaked upward like a gravel river running silently overtop Sonoma Mountain that October night—a deadly beast—and it wasn’t his murderer.
By Christopher Dubbsabout a year ago in Fiction