Short Story

A 18- Miles Walk. AI-Generated.
I grew up in the south of Spain in a little community called Estepona , a place where the sea whispered old secrets and time moved slowly, except for teenagers eager to grow up. I was 16 when one morning ,my father told me I could drive him into a remote village called Mijas, about eighteen miles away, on the condition that I take the car to be serviced at a nearby garage.I had just learned to drive the car and hardly ever having opportunity to use the car and nothing made me feel more grown up than sitting behind the wheel. Eager to take the car out alone, I quickly agreed. I promised to return at 4 p.m. to pick him up. After dropping him off, I drove to the garage and left the car. The mechanic said it would take a while, so I decided to kill some time at a nearby movie theater. One film turned into two, and I got lost in those stories, completely unaware of time slipping through my fingers. When I finally glanced at my watch, it was six o'clock. I was two hours late. Panic set in as I rushed to the garage, picked up the car, and sped to our meeting spot. There he was – my father – standing quietly on the corner, hands behind his back, face unreadable. I could barely look him in the eye. Shame and fear tangled in my chest. "I'm sorry I'm late," I said quickly, trying to sound casual. "The car needed some unexpected repairs. It took longer than I thought." He looked at me – not with anger, but with disappointment so deep it made my heart ache. "I'm disappointed that you feel you have to lie to me, Jason." I froze. "What do you mean? I'm telling the truth." He let out a quiet sigh, then spoke with calm certainty. "When you didn't show up, I called the garage to check if there were any problems. They said you hadn't even picked up the car yet." A rush of guilt tore through me. I had been caught. He continued, not with rage, but something worse – grief. "I'm not angry with you. I'm angry with myself. I've clearly failed as a father if, after all these years, you can't even tell me the truth. I've brought up a son who feels he has to lie. I need to walk home and think about where I went wrong." My heart dropped. "Dad, please. It's 18 miles. It's getting dark. You can't walk that far!" But he turned and began walking anyway – each step slow, heavy, and full of pain. I jumped into the car and began driving behind him, pleading through the open window. "I'm sorry, Dad. Please get in. It was stupid. I messed up. I'll never lie again. Please." He didn't respond. He didn't even look at me. He just kept walking, mile after mile, in silence. I followed him the whole way, my car creeping at five miles per hour, headlights cutting through the dusk. I watched the back of a man who had given me everything, now walking away in silent heartbreak. That 18-mile journey was the longest drive of my life. By the time we reached home, his legs were trembling, his face pale with exhaustion, and still – he said nothing. He went inside and closed the door softly behind him. And I? I sat in the car and wept. That night, I didn't just learn about honesty. I learned about the weight of disappointment, the quiet power of a father's love, and how lies, no matter how small, can break something sacred. Since that day, I have never lied to my father again.
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Voicemails from the Past
The Story So Far… Hira's new life in Ridge Town has unraveled into something twisted. Strange voices. Photos of her taken in secret. A man — or a presence — living in apartment 7B. And now, her own image staring into the camera while she sleeps. She no longer knows who to trust. Not even herself. The Missed Call It started at 3:00 AM. Her phone buzzed — a call from an unknown number. At first, she didn’t think much of it. She turned it over and went back to sleep. But it rang again. And again. When she finally answered, all she heard was static. Then a voice. Low. Raspy. Familiar. “Hira?” She bolted upright. “Who is this?” she whispered. The voice hesitated. “It’s me. You.” Then the call dropped. She stared at the screen. The number was strange — a format she hadn’t seen before. Curious, she dialed her old number. The one she had when she lived in Karachi. The one she canceled years ago. It rang. Someone answered. But no one spoke. The First Voicemail Later that morning, she noticed a new voicemail. She pressed play. It was a recording of her own voice. But the words she heard… she didn’t remember saying. > "They think I’m dead. But I’m not. I’m still here. He’s keeping me… inside the mirror." She dropped the phone. The Mirror That night, unable to sleep, she stood in front of the long mirror in her bedroom. She stared into it, half-expecting it to shatter. Or to see another version of herself looking back. Nothing happened. But when she turned to walk away, her reflection didn’t move. She froze. Slowly, the reflection lifted its hand… and pressed it against the glass. Hira turned back sharply. It was gone. Just her own reflection again. Her breath fogged up the glass. In the condensation, a sentence began to appear — letter by letter. “HELP ME.” The Man in the Recording The next morning, she called the phone company and asked about the number that had called her. The operator hesitated. “There’s no record of that number being active. It’s not in any database.” “But it’s my old number,” Hira said. “I used it for years.” The operator paused. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but that number was never issued to you — or to anyone else in the last decade. It doesn’t exist.” The Hospital File Determined to find answers, Hira visited the town records office. She requested files on the previous tenants of her building — especially apartment 7B. At first, they refused. But a sympathetic clerk finally handed her a dusty folder, marked “Unresolved — Ridge Complex.” Inside were faded photos, handwritten reports, and a patient record. Name: Hira Saeed Status: Declared mentally unstable. Admitted to: Ridge Town Psychiatric Facility Diagnosis: Delusional dissociation. Claims of multiple realities. Alleged sightings of “herself” inside mirrors and windows. Hira’s hands shook. “I’ve never been to a psychiatric facility,” she muttered. Or had she? The Second Voicemail Back home, another voicemail. This time, a child’s voice. A little girl. > "He told me you forgot. You promised you’d come back. But you’re not her anymore, are you?" Hira screamed and threw the phone across the room. The Note on the Window She tried to calm herself, made tea, sat by the window to think. Outside, across the street, in the fog — something caught her eye. A figure. Standing perfectly still, staring up at her window. Even from this distance, she recognized it. It was her. Again. She ran downstairs. But when she reached the street, the figure was gone. In its place, taped to the outside of her building, was a single piece of paper. Written in the same handwriting from the photo frame in Part 1: “You left her behind. Go back before she forgets you completely.” The Box Beneath the Floor Hira remembered the basement — the old storage area beneath her building. Something was calling her back there. She grabbed a flashlight and descended the narrow, creaking stairs. At the far end of the basement, hidden behind loose bricks, she found a small wooden box. Inside: An old SIM card. A photograph of her holding a child. A cassette tape labeled "Session 3 – Hira’s Therapy." She inserted the SIM into her phone. Immediately, a message popped up. New Voicemail – July 18, 2015 She played it. This time, there was no voice. Just breathing. Then, a scream. Then, silence. The Tape Back in her apartment, she played the cassette. The voice of a doctor came through, clear but cautious. > “Hira suffers from severe delusional breaks. She believes she has lived multiple lives — sometimes simultaneously. She believes one of her realities is trapped inside a phone. The other... in a mirror.” Then her own voice. > “But you don’t get it. I am both of them. And one of us… is going to die.” To Be Continued... Next in Part 4: "Beneath the Basement Floor" The truth was buried deep — literally.
By Abid Ali Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
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
Paint Me When You're Lonely
A Love in Colors Lena’s world was a gray haze, heavy with worry and grief. After losing her mom, her tiny attic apartment felt like a cage, the silence screaming louder than her fears. Her only escape was her art—bright, bold strokes that let her dream of a life she was too scared to live.
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