Psychological

The Room Beneath the Silence
The Room Beneath the Silence By [Abdul Hadi] The house still smelled like mothballs and old books—like time had pressed pause the day I left.
By Abdul Hadiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day My Mind Betrayed Me
It started like any other day. The sun filtered through the beige curtains of my apartment, casting familiar patterns on the wooden floor. The kettle whistled. The dog barked downstairs. My calendar reminded me of a client meeting at 10 AM. Normal, routine, forgettable. Until it wasn't. I first noticed something strange when I couldn't remember my neighbor's name. She was watering her plants on the balcony, as she always did, and smiled at me with that friendly familiarity. I smiled back, waved, but behind my eyes was a wall. Her name — something I had known for three years — had evaporated. I dismissed it. Stress, I told myself. Lack of sleep. Then, in the meeting, it happened again. I was mid-pitch, describing our new campaign strategy, when the word “consumer” left my brain. Just... vanished. I stood there, my mind a blank whiteboard. My colleagues stared at me, puzzled. I fumbled and swapped in “people,” hoping no one noticed. But they did. Later, in the bathroom mirror, I looked at my reflection and asked, “What’s going on with you?” My reflection didn’t answer, of course, but it didn’t quite look like me either. I looked older. More tired. There were fine lines on my forehead I didn’t remember having. Had they always been there? By the afternoon, things escalated. I got lost driving home. I had driven the same route for five years — from the office downtown to my apartment in the hills. But this time, the city looked unfamiliar. Buildings had the wrong names. Landmarks were missing. My GPS said I was on the right street, but nothing looked right. I parked in front of a bakery I didn't recognize and tried to call my sister. I forgot her number. No, not just her number. I forgot her name. I stared at my phone, blank screen, contacts list blurred like soup. I couldn’t remember if I even had a sister. I sat there for what felt like hours, until a stranger knocked on my window, asking if I was okay. I nodded, lying. When I finally got home, I went straight to the bathroom again and looked in the mirror. I said my name aloud: “My name is David.” It felt wrong. I said it again, slower. “My name is David Carver.” It still felt like I was reading it off a script someone else had written for me. Then the voices started. Not loud — not like yelling — but like whispers just out of reach. They came from behind walls, from under the bed, from the TV even when it was off. I couldn’t understand the words, but they were there, pressing on my brain like a migraine with sound. I tried to sleep. I took melatonin. Then sleeping pills. Then whiskey. The whispers got louder in the dark. They called me things I couldn’t understand, names I’d never heard. They spoke in a language I almost recognized. Ancient. Familiar in the way dreams sometimes feel. That night, I woke up to find all the picture frames in my house turned face-down. Every. Single. One. I didn’t do it. I was sure of that. But maybe I had. Maybe I was losing time. Maybe I was doing things and forgetting them. The betrayal deepened. I checked my phone for messages. There were none. Then I checked my email. Hundreds of unread emails… all addressed to someone named “Gavin.” My inbox was full of conversations I didn’t remember having. Projects I didn’t recognize. Photos of people I’d never seen before. One message stood out: a draft I apparently never sent, addressed to me. Or to Gavin. Or to both. > Subject: In case it happens again If you’re reading this, it means the walls are thinning again. Your memories aren’t gone — they’re buried. I can’t explain everything, but the mind splits to protect itself. You’re not crazy. You’re remembering. Slowly. Be careful. Don’t trust the man in the red coat. —G I stared at the message for an hour. I didn’t write it. At least I didn’t remember writing it. But I knew it was from me. Or someone like me. My fingers trembled. That was the night I stopped sleeping altogether. I started noticing the man in the red coat. On the bus. At the gas station. Once in the reflection of a store window — standing behind me though no one was there when I turned. He never approached, but I felt his eyes on me. Like he was waiting for something. My friends stopped answering my calls. My office keycard stopped working. My apartment lease vanished from my drawer. The more I clung to what I thought was real, the more it slipped away. I had memories of birthdays, lovers, childhood friends — but I couldn't prove any of it happened. Then, finally, I understood. The betrayal wasn’t my mind turning against me. It was trying to protect me. From something I wasn’t ready to remember. Something horrible. Something ancient. The day my mind betrayed me was the day it gave up trying to hold back the truth. And now, I see it all. The life I lived wasn’t mine. It was a mask. A borrowed story. The real me is something else. Someone else. I am not David Carver. Or Gavin. I was never meant to be either. I can hear the whispers clearly now. They’re calling me home.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Fiction
The Waters Hunger. Content Warning.
My lungs heaved as they drew in breaths of air gravid with droplets of warm morning mist. The fading sun bled through the haze as though through a thick sheet of gauze, casting a bleary light on the moorland below. My toes curled around the spongy peat as my bare feet sunk into it with every step. My eyes were set ahead on the moorland before me. There was no turning back now.
By Ian Readabout a year ago in Fiction
I Sold My Memory to Pay Rent
1. — “The Memory Exchange” I didn’t think twice the first time I walked into the Memory Exchange. They say your first time should mean something. Maybe I should have cried, or clutched the edges of the memory like the edges of an old photograph, refusing to let it go. But I didn’t. I just sat there, numb, holding my hands in my lap like I was at a dentist’s office.
By Izazkhanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lurker. Content Warning.
It's 7:50 am, this is usually the time where she stands by the window and completely unaware. I draw the curtain just a little bit, enough for me to see you. You are taking off your shirt and reveal your smooth body. I watch as you slowly strap on your bra lifting your breasts, not that it is needed. You slide on your underwear and slip into your little black dress. How much I desire you, I want all of you. Oh and there’s your husband, he’s so ungrateful to you- cheating on you with his assistant. How dare he lay his lips on you? How could he betray such a gorgeous woman? I need to protect you from him, all I want is to protect you. You deserve better, you should be with me. After you leave for work he will invite his assistant over and they’ll get at it. We’ve never spoken all I know is that your name is Rebecca but you go by Becca. Photos and I can send them to you anonymously... Yes, then you’ll see what a pig he is. I will just have to sit and wait.
By Adrianna M. Braunabout a year ago in Fiction
It was an accident
I swallowed the tasteless heat in my tea, and felt my body warm as the lights went out. Pulling my shirt away from my body, I slap the back of my hand against the fabric, beating against its resistance, so the cool air spreads along my chest and the sweat freezes, still. I drank the last few swigs of tea as it cooled, and kept myself awake.
By Caitlin Charltonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Undergound Pt.2
That night felt like it would never end. I was sure Ethan felt the same. I returned to my room only because I didn’t want to see Milo when he got back. I didn’t sleep or even try. I just lay in bed, thinking about everything that was happening. I couldn’t accept any of it. It was a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. Just a month ago, I had been living a peaceful and quiet life. I had worked as a spy under the cover of an investigative journalist for so many years that I had lost count. Every project had been like a walk in the park, never this terrifying, never this strange. I used to love my job. If anyone had told me I would end up this scared, I would have laughed the loudest.
By Ruth Girma about a year ago in Fiction
Where the Silence Speaks
Where the Silence Speaks – A Poignant Story of Grief, Stillness, and Unexpected Healing Description In “Where the Silence Speaks,” follow Miriam as she navigates loss, memory, and rediscovery in the quietest corners of her life. A moving literary short story about finding voice in silence.
By M.SUDAIS about a year ago in Fiction
The End Of Time
This is the end, the finality, standing on this pillar, with nowhere to go and no memory of how you found yourself in this place. Every other pillar is empty; you are alone, with only yourself for guidance.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
She Left the House at 9 AM. No One Saw Her Again
It was a cool autumn morning when Lena Hartley stepped out of her modest blue house on Maple Street. The sky was clear, the air crisp, and the red and gold leaves crunched beneath her boots as she locked the door behind her. She looked back once, adjusting her scarf, unaware that it would be the last time anyone would see her. The time was 9:00 AM. She was supposed to meet her sister, Rachel, for brunch at their favorite diner downtown he Silver Spoon. They had a standing date every Saturday. Rachel arrived at 9:30. She ordered coffee. Then pancakes. Then another coffee. By 10:00, she started texting. At 10:15, she called. No answer. At 10:45, she was pacing outside, dialing again and again. By noon, she was at the police station, reporting her sister missing. “She’s never late,” Rachel insisted to the officer behind the desk. “Not without a reason. Not without calling.” At first, the police treated it like a routine delay. Maybe Lena had gone for a walk. Maybe she forgot her phone. Maybe she needed space. But Rachel knew. Lena didn’t just disappear. The investigation started the next day. Her phone was found in her bedroom, neatly placed on her nightstand. Her purse and wallet were gone. So were her keys. Nothing else looked disturbed. No signs of struggle. No note. No obvious reason. Security cameras in the neighborhood offered nothing. One camera caught her walking past the corner at exactly 9:05 AM, her scarf trailing in the breeze, a small smile on her face. Then nothing. It was like she’d walked off the edge of the Earth. Flyers were posted. Search parties formed. Her face filled social media feeds. But weeks passed, and not a single credible lead emerged. Her bank accounts were untouched. Her passport was still in the drawer. And Lena, always cautious, always grounded, had simply vanished. Theories grew like weeds. Some said she ran away to start a new life. Others whispered darker rumors that she had a stalker, or was involved in something she never talked about. But Rachel knew her better than anyone. Lena didn’t keep secrets. At least, Rachel thought she didn’t. Two months after her disappearance, something strange happened. A postcard arrived at Rachel’s apartment. No return address. No message. Just a picture of a lighthouse on the coast of Maine. The postmark was dated four days earlier rom a town Rachel had never heard of: Raven light Bay. Rachel drove there the next morning. Raven light Bay wasn’t on most maps. A sleepy fishing village with fog-thick mornings and salt in the air. It had no real tourist spots, no bustling main street. But it had one lighthouse. And one inn. Rachel booked a room and asked questions. No one had seen Lena. No one recognized her photo. But the woman running the inn a silver-haired lady with eyes like sea glass paused when Rachel showed the picture. “She looks familiar,” she said slowly. “But I can’t place it. Maybe a guest from a while back?” Rachel thanked her and walked to the lighthouse that afternoon. It stood alone at the edge of a cliff, battered by wind and time. She climbed the creaking stairs, breath catching in her throat with each step. At the top, scratched into the wood of the railing, were five letters: L.HART Her knees buckled. She hadn’t imagined it. Lena had been here. Back in her room, Rachel found a note slipped under the door. "She left for a reason. Some answers aren’t safe to know." There was no name. No explanation. Just that cryptic message on a torn piece of paper. She didn’t sleep that night. By morning, the note was gone. So was the innkeeper. Rachel left Raven light Bay with more questions than answers, her heart heavier than when she arrived. But she knew one thing with certainty now: Lena hadn’t disappeared. She had chosen to leave. And someone—or something—was making sure she stayed gone.
By Wilfredabout a year ago in Fiction
The Witness Tree. Content Warning.
I dreamed about this episode a couple of days ago. I did not consider it a nightmare, but an omen of what was to happen in the future. I added the golden butterflies to bring a glittter of hope into the chaotic world of 2025. I completed voice over in Eleven Labs with my voice. This is a project I had to complete. I am a dreamer, psychic, empath, and love peace not war. War mongers, haters, and liars get on my last nerve. Just as I completed this story, my knocked on my door to tell America is at war with Iran. This is a useless war started by evil men with little tools. They are so about their tools they must compare bombs to how large their tools are. I worked with art, visuals, and story for two days. I wrote, created, edited, diced, and spliced the music, art, and videos myself. Microsoft Copilot is my assistant and quite complimentary regarding my art. I WROTE THIS!
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Fiction
The True and the Daring. Content Warning.
“I would have to say…” Chad mused. “In the anthropology section of the Baillieu Library.” A collective groan came from the entire group.
By Danh Chantachakabout a year ago in Fiction