Short Story
En Passant. Content Warning.
1st Edition: Originally Published on Vocal Media in 2021 2nd Edition: December 9th, 2025 - The refrigerator door hung open, expunging the cold air from the chillboxed realm of the keeper of the sustenance. Leftover rancidity wafted into flared, masculine nostrils—nostrils erupting with bushels of hair. It had been an Ocean Quahog’s age since the man had eaten anything. The light in the fridge had broken, and deluminated food had an unappetizing zeal. However, The Man knew if he had bothered to fix the problem, he would see that in the illuminated age, nothing was worth eating in the first place.
By Scott A. Vancil10 months ago in Fiction
Christmas Tales ~ Three Wise Men
Christmas Eve in North America On Christmas Eve, three wise friends, Karl, William, and James, gather on a Microsoft Teams video call, speaking about their best friend, Jack, a sociologist of religion. Tragedy has struck: Jack was hit by a speeding car while grabbing lunch, losing critical amounts of blood. His family has donated, but he still needs more. Without it, he won’t survive.
By Mia Z. Edwards10 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 44
Chapter 44 Sara stood outside her Residence, the Greatworm Egg cradled against her side, spores drifting in a faint shimmer around it. Tas’s advice echoed in her mind: find a place of strong ambient energy for the bond to take root.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)10 months ago in Fiction
I Opened a Door in My House That Should Not Exist
I’ve lived in my house for more than a decade. In all those years, I believed I knew this place better than anyone—every creaking floorboard, every shifting shadow, every cold draft that slipped through the old wooden frames. But yesterday, I discovered something that should not exist in any home. It started like a normal Sunday. I was cleaning the attic—a cramped, dusty room I rarely entered. The air smelled of old books, mothballs, and forgotten years. My flashlight flickered as I swept it across the cluttered space. That’s when I saw it. A door. Not the crooked little cupboard door I already knew about. This one was different. New. Sleek. Pitch‑black. It swallowed the dim attic light like a void. There was no knob, no keyhole—nothing that suggested it belonged to the house. Yet it fit seamlessly into the wall, as if it had always been waiting for me to notice it. Curiosity tugged at me. I touched the door. It was cold—so cold it felt unnatural. A shiver ran through me, urging me to walk away. But then a whisper, faint but insistent, echoed inside my mind: Open it. I found a hidden latch along the edge and pulled. The door swung inward without resistance. Beyond it was complete darkness—thick, endless, almost alive. My flashlight beam disappeared into it as though the dark was swallowing the light itself. I should have stopped. But my feet moved on their own. The moment I stepped through, everything changed. The attic vanished. I found myself standing on a cobblestone street wrapped in dense fog. Golden lampposts flickered in the distance. The air smelled of damp earth and burning wood—like a forgotten century. People walked past me wearing long coats, bonnets, and top hats. Victorian clothing. But none of them saw me. I wasn’t part of their world. I felt like a phantom drifting through someone else’s memory. As I walked deeper, the fog thickened. Buildings tilted inward as if watching me with their dark windows. The ground rippled beneath my feet like shifting water. I tried to speak, but my voice was gone—replaced by a humming sound that felt ancient, intelligent, and aware of me. Then I noticed the clock tower. Its cracked face spun backward, time twisting in reverse. And at its base stood a woman. Tall, draped in black silk, her face hidden by a veil. She lifted a gloved hand and beckoned. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said. Her voice echoed everywhere at once. “This place chooses its visitors. Not every door is meant to open.” My heart thudded. “Where am I?” “This is the Between,” she whispered. “A liminal space stitched between moments. A place where time folds and forgotten memories drift. Your world touches ours only briefly. Leave now—before it notices you.” I realized then: the fog wasn’t fog. It was the residue of old memories—lost, fractured, waiting for someone to step inside. I felt eyes on me, countless unseen eyes, studying me like I was an intruder in a sacred place. Panic surged. “How do I leave?” “Through the door you came,” she said. “But hurry. The door closes once. Hesitate, and it disappears. Hesitate, and you become part of this place.” I ran. The cobblestones liquefied under my feet. The fog grew so thick I could barely see my hands. But then— I was back. Back in my attic. Back in the dust and dim light. The black door was gone. Completely vanished. Except for a faint outline pressed into the plaster, like the ghost of a doorway that refused to be forgotten. I told myself it was stress, lack of sleep, imagination. But every night since then, I hear something. A soft, patient scratching. Like a knock. From the other side. One thing is certain: My house is hiding a secret. And if that door appears again… I don’t know if I’d have the strength to open it—or the wisdom to walk away.
By Muhammad Reyaz10 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 43
(Chapter 43 is, almost exclusively, just a rundown of Sara Bloom's Full Character Sheet. Highlighting not only her Personal Growth, but just how much she has done for Haven Valley as well. Again, if you didn't come here eager for some quality Statistic Analysis... Chapter 44 awaits!)
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)10 months ago in Fiction
The Ballroom
Yasmine knew that the old brass key that was hidden in the flowerpot was not meant for her, but being a young, curious mind can lead you into places that your sound mind wouldn't dare let you walk into. Yasmine put the key into the door, and as she turned it, it made a soft clicking sound as she let herself in. When Yasmine walked into the ballroom, the dust curled through the air like a ghost of past music.
By L Mystic Saga10 months ago in Fiction
Lily
Gum drops rained from cotton candy clouds. She rode her unicorn through the fields of Dream land. She came across a bandit and charged at him, but he held firm, no flinching. He sat upon his mighty steed. His nose was high in the air. “I’m the Time Bandit,” he said. “What do you want?” Lily asked. “I am here to steal your youth,” he declared. “You visit me once a month and tell me this all the time,” Lily said. “You’re right child,” he said. “But you’re a mother now, correct?”“You know this,” Lily muttered. “This dream representation of yourself is just you as a child,” the Time Bandit said. “You no longer believe in unicorns and such childish things, correct?” She turned her back on him and he let out a divisive laugh. “You cannot escape me girl,” he mocked. Clocks filled the skies and they ticked away. “The flow of time only flows one way child,” he said. “It only flows forward, not backward.” “So let me play now. Then I’ll go back to worrying about my mortgage and getting my daughter to school on time, when I wake up. But for now, will you let me ride a damn unicorn through dream land during a gumball thunderstorm?” she said with her eyes burning with fire. He smiled and shook his head. “That is no way to talk for a young lady,” he teased. She rolled her eyes and the unicorn trotted past the smug time bandit. She passed events of her life. There was graduating college, getting married, and her daughter being born. She could even hear her own mother calling her home for supper. She listened to the ticking of the clock. She wanted her mother to have brown hair and be young again, but when she reached her,
By DJ Robbins10 months ago in Fiction
[Disney Reddit] We’ve Been Told to Stop Acknowledging the Children in the Hallways
Posted by u/BehindTheCastleWalls — r/NoSleep I work night security at one of the resorts near Disney World. I won’t say which one, because I’d like to keep my job, but it’s one of the ones you’d recognize — themed, cheerful, always spotless, with music playing even at 2 a.m.
By V-Ink Stories10 months ago in Fiction
The Concession Stand Calls
Concession worker here… someone keeps calling our counter phone, and he hasn’t been alive for a long time. Hey everyone. I work at a pretty small, old theater — the kind with squeaky seats, weird carpet patterns from the 90s, and a concession stand that gets renovated about once every thirty years. I usually open on weekday mornings when it’s dead slow and feels like a tomb with a popcorn machine in it.
By V-Ink Stories10 months ago in Fiction
[Theater Reddit] The Never-Ending Reel
Posted by u/ProjectionGuy94 – 4 months ago I’ve been a projectionist for a decade. Old-school — real film, not digital. I’ve worked in the same small-town theater since I was 23. There’s something peaceful about it: the hum of the machines, the rhythmic clatter of reels spinning, the flicker of light through celluloid. It’s like the heartbeat of the building.
By V-Ink Stories10 months ago in Fiction
[Theater Reddit] The Locked Auditorium
Posted by u/UsherInTheDark – 2 months ago So I work night shift at a small-town movie theater. We close around 1 a.m. after the last show, and it’s my job to do the final sweep: check all theaters, shut down the projectors, make sure no one’s left behind. I’ve been doing this for three years now — mostly alone, because no one else wants to stay that late.
By V-Ink Stories10 months ago in Fiction
