Short Story
Blood Drop Sun
Atop the Ebright Azimuth, the highest point in Delaware, the same place where the lightning bugs hung in the air, Crane Curren and his girlfriend Melanie Biscoff sat with certainty. He wore a Kente cloth t-shirt, black jeans and sneakers. Melanie donned an orange summer dress that looked like marmalade and blue flats. As the sun set, they just knew that something felt unsettling in their bones. They could look down the road and see what it was.
By Skyler Saundersabout a year ago in Fiction
The Nun in the Dark
It was Ava’s first week in Willow Creek, a quiet, fog-covered town buried deep in Indiana. She had moved there for a fresh start, a slower life, and a clean break from the noise of the city. Her aunt had left her a small cottage near the edge of town, close to the woods. The place felt old and forgotten, like time moved differently there. Ava kept to herself, but curiosity pulled her out one Friday evening. At the gas station, a group of local teens stood around smoking and daring each other to do stupid things. When they saw her, they called her over. “You just moved here, right?” one of them asked. She nodded. “You know the old church on the hill?” They all turned to look at the dark silhouette of a building just beyond the treeline. St. Agatha’s Church. Its spire leaned like it was trying to fall. The windows were black. The trees around it were twisted and bare, even in summer. “It’s haunted,” said another. “They say something crawls inside it at night.” Ava laughed, trying to play along. “Bet you won’t go in,” one of them challenged. “I will,” she said. She should have walked away. That night, around 10:30, Ava stood at the foot of the hill, alone. The wind howled through the trees. Her phone battery was dying, so she brought a flashlight. The climb to the church was steep. Every step forward made her stomach sink deeper. The front doors creaked as she pushed them open. Inside, it smelled like wet wood and rotting fabric. Dust filled the air. Pews were broken and scattered. Torn Bibles lay open on the floor. The ceiling had caved in at the center, and vines hung like ropes from the rafters. She stepped carefully, her flashlight beam flickering. Then she heard it. Crawling. It wasn’t footsteps. It was something soft, fast, and too smooth to be human. It came from behind her. She froze. The sound grew louder. A wet scraping across the floor. She turned. And saw her. A woman in a shredded nun’s habit. Her limbs were too long, bending backward like an insect’s. She moved on four thin legs, her body jerking like a puppet on invisible strings. Her face was pale, stretched, and wrong. Two glowing eyes stared straight into Ava’s. The thing didn’t speak. It just kept crawling forward. Ava couldn’t move. Then the nun opened her mouth, and a sound like wind through broken glass whispered, “You shouldn’t have come alone.” Ava dropped her flashlight and ran. She didn’t scream. She didn’t look back. She reached the church doors and burst into the night. And that was the last time anyone ever saw her. When the teens returned the next morning to prove she hadn’t gone, they found the church door wide open. Her flashlight lay just inside, cracked. Her phone was never found. The police searched the hill and the forest for days. Nothing. No footprints. No signs of a struggle. No body. The case went cold. But the townspeople still whisper about the girl who disappeared. Some say if you stand near the church at night, you can hear crawling just behind you. Some say you’ll see a pale woman in a nun’s dress watching from the broken window, her eyes glowing like fireflies in the dark. No one dares to go in anymore. Not even on a dare. To Be Continued......
By CreepVille Horror Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
“When Silence Speaks”
The first time I heard silence, it was deafening. Not the kind of silence that follows noise—like the hush after thunder or the pause between a conversation—but the silence that wraps itself around you like a cold shadow, pressing against your skin until your breath hitches.
By Muhammad Riazabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Prayed In The Club
He saw her across the room.”Beautiful”, he thought. Too beautiful for a place like this. The first time he saw her, she was dancing. Sort of. Her eyes were still. Her body swayed, but not to the beat, not to anything really. She moved out of rhythm, like she didn’t hear the same music as everyone else. He felt something then. Not desire. Not quite curiosity either. Something heavier: She was special and he wanted her.
By Zain Ali Jaffryabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Tree That Spoke to Those Who Listened". AI-Generated.
In a small village surrounded by gentle hills and whispering woods, there lived a quiet boy named Elian. While most children ran through the fields shouting and laughing, Elian preferred to sit alone by the edge of the forest, listening. He wasn't shy or strange. He just believed that the world had more to say when one stopped speaking. People often talked about him. “That boy’s always staring at trees,” they would say. “Does he ever speak?” Elian didn’t mind. He enjoyed the company of silence and the rustling of leaves more than noisy conversations. One afternoon, as golden sunlight poured through the forest, Elian wandered deeper than usual. The trees grew older and taller there. The air was cooler. And then he saw it — a massive tree unlike any he had ever seen. Its trunk was wide, knotted with age. Vines curled around its bark like veins. Its branches stretched out so far, they seemed to touch the sky. But more than its size, it was the feeling around the tree that caught Elian’s attention. It was calm. Alive, in a different way. He sat down beneath it and closed his eyes. For several minutes, nothing happened — just the gentle sound of leaves moving with the breeze. But then, in the softest whisper, he heard a voice. “Not many stop to listen anymore.” Elian opened his eyes and looked around. There was no one. “Down here,” the voice said. It was the tree. “You can talk?” Elian whispered, unsure if he was imagining things. “I’ve always spoken,” the tree replied gently. “But very few ever hear. They come, they pass, they shout. But you… you listen.” Elian smiled. “What do you say to those who listen?” “Stories,” said the tree. “Lessons. Memories.” And so began a friendship like no other. Each day, Elian would return to the tree. And each day, the tree would share something different. It spoke of changing seasons. Of how the rain never rushed but always arrived in time. Of birds who remembered the wind’s direction even in sleep. Of roots that held tight even during storms. “Why do you tell me these things?” Elian asked one day. “Because you’re growing too,” the tree replied. “And what grows quietly, often grows strong.” As weeks passed, Elian began to change. His actions became more thoughtful. His voice, though still soft, carried weight. When someone was sad, he listened. When someone was angry, he waited. People noticed. “There’s something wise about that boy,” the villagers began to say. “He understands without needing to speak.” One morning, Elian came to the forest, but the tree didn’t greet him. He waited… and waited. Finally, a soft voice came. “I’m tired, Elian.” “You’re a tree,” he said. “You don’t get tired.” “Even trees have endings,” the voice said gently. “But that doesn’t mean the story ends.” Elian felt a lump in his throat. “What should I do without you?” The tree was silent for a moment. Then it said, “Share what you’ve heard. Not just the words, but the way to hear them. Remind others that silence is not empty. It’s full of answers waiting to be heard.” That evening, the tree stood tall, leaves glowing in the sunset. Elian placed his hand on its trunk for the last time. “Thank you,” he whispered. The next day, when he returned, the tree was gone. In its place was a small circle of fresh saplings — as if it had left behind seeds instead of sorrow. From that moment on, Elian began to speak — not often, but meaningfully. He told children stories about the forest, about the wind, the rain, and the strength of stillness. He taught people not just to talk, but to listen — truly listen. And over time, the village grew quieter — not with fear, but with peace. People paused more. They watched the sky. They sat beneath trees. And sometimes, when the wind blew just right, it almost sounded like a whisper. --- 💡 Moral of the Story: In a world full of noise, those who truly listen discover the deepest wisdom. Not all voices are loud — some speak through wind, silence, and time. --- 🧾 AI Disclosure : > This story was created with the assistance of AI writing tools and was edited and refined by the author to meet Vocal Media’s quality standards.
By SS Orakzaiabout a year ago in Fiction
Title: Echoes of Tomorrow
this story create by khalid khan In the city of Vireon, choices weren’t made by people anymore. At the age of 16, every citizen received a LifePath Code—generated by the Central Algorithm—that told them everything: their job, their spouse, where they'd live, how many children they would have, and even when they would die.
By khalid khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Rollercoaster
I cannot describe the way I felt when her fingers slipped in between mine, clasping our palm lines together like the threads of fate weaved together into a tapestry of love - a blanket wrapping our bodies together in the warmth of the future they predicted.
By Adam Nottoliabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mistake That Made Me
The Mistake That Made Me When people talk about pivotal moments in their lives, they often mention a grand achievement or a moment of perfect clarity. Mine wasn’t like that. Mine was a mistake — one I made on a humid, restless August night when I was 22.
By Kine Willimesabout a year ago in Fiction
