I needed the job. The pay was low, but the hours worked for me. The manager hired me quickly. She handed me the keys and said, “Patrol every hour. Don’t go to the lower levels after midnight. It’s not safe.” I didn’t ask questions. The structure was huge and deserted. Every floor looked the same: quiet hallways, flickering lights, and dirty desks. My footsteps echoed. Something felt off, and the silence seemed wrong—too full. My first night went without incident. I observed the monitors and made my rounds. The halls stayed quiet. But on the second night, I heard whispers. They were faint at first, just a soft hum. I stopped and listened, but they disappeared. By the third night, the whispers grew stronger. They echoed faintly through the corridors, as though someone had vanished just out of sight. I called out, “Who’s there?” No one answered. The sound stopped. Then I saw the shadows. They moved at the edges of my vision. When I turned to look, nothing was there. I told myself I was ti...

I woke. Silence. It wasn’t peaceful. It pressed against me, suffocating. The kind of silence that didn’t leave room to breathe. I was blind. A car crash took my sight. I’d never adjusted. The memories from that moment fractured. Faces blurred, moments tangled, and the crash—still there. The sound, the blood, everything wrong, out of place. That silence… It didn’t stay silent for long. The first night, I heard it. A voice. Soft. Faint. I thought it was a hallucination, but it came again the next night. The same voice. "Are you awake?" it whispered. It felt familiar, like a memory I couldn’t catch. The tone… warm, intimate. A voice from my past, one I couldn’t place. "Who are you?" I asked. "Someone you’ve known," the voice said. "Someone you’ve forgotten." The voice returned every night. It told me stories. My childhood. Secrets. Things I hadn’t thought of in years. It felt… safe. Familiar. But it didn’t...

I grew up in a small town, deep in the mountains. Every house felt like its own kingdom. The air thick with pine and incense. My family was old, older than most. Our lineage stretched back generations. As the only son, I was expected to preserve the family name, continue traditions, and follow my elders' lessons. My parents never said it, but I knew—the family legacy was mine. I never questioned it. My father, stern but loving, taught me that honor was sacred. Our actions reflected the spirits of our ancestors. In Confucius’ teachings, we learned that actions reflected not just ourselves, but the generations before. We were part of something greater, a link in an unbroken chain. But I didn’t understand the weight of it until I returned home. It had been ten years since I left. Modern life had pushed me far from my family. But after my father’s passing, my mother insisted I come back. She said it was time to return, to take my place. She said it with authority, like there was no cho...

It began with a simple request. My mother requested me to care after her old house, where I grew up, my father died, and she had lived alone for years. "I don't want it to be empty while I'm gone," she added quietly, with the gentle power that only a mother has. “Stay there for a while. Take care of it for me.” She was leaving to visit relatives, too frail now to maintain the house alone. I didn’t hesitate. I wanted to help. Raised on filial piety—the Confucian value of honoring one’s parents—I felt it was my duty. It seemed so simple then. I should have asked more questions. I should have known. The first night, the silence struck me. The house had always been quiet, serene, but this silence was different. It pressed on me, thick and suffocating. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, the creak of floorboards like whispers—whispers I wasn’t supposed to hear. I told myself I was imagining it. But the silence followed me, filling every room, growing louder with every st...

It all began when Mei, my sister, returned to our hometown. She was one of the top art restorers. But her last job had been too much. “It wasn’t the paintings,” she said, voice strained. “It was something inside them.” She wouldn’t explain more. When Mei returned, she brought only one thing: a huge canvas, wrapped in a dirty, yellowed sheet. It was as big as a door. I asked about it. She took hold of my arm. "Avoid looking at it," she said. “Not ever.” That night, while she showered, I couldn’t help myself. I pulled back the sheet. The painting showed a woman’s face. Not just a face, though—a visage that shouldn’t exist. Her proportions were wrong. Her eyes stretched too wide. Her lips were thin, frozen in a suffocating smile. Her irises were too dark—like endless wells. Something struck me. The face wasn’t painted on the canvas. It looked like she was inside it. Pressed against it. Trapped. Her eyes followed me when I moved. When I turned to cover it, I swear I heard breathi...

The weight of life weighs down on you at a place that is just beyond the edge of the earth, and no one else can see it. A realm where everything around you is governed by invisible forces rather than by physical borders. Forces so deeply embedded in the soil, the air, and the people that no one even knows they’re there—until they do. I’ve spent my life in a town where everything stays the same: the same weather, the same streets, the same small faces passing by. It’s a place where nothing changes, and it’s easy to forget how much power the world holds over you. You’re born into a role, and you play it without thinking. If you’re born poor, you stay poor. If you’re born rich, you stay rich. Simple. Safe. Unquestioned. That was my life—until I started noticing things. Small things at first. How the sky seemed darker in certain parts of the neighborhood. How people looked at me differently, like they could see the burden placed on me, without ever asking. It felt like the air itself was s...

I never believed in the paranormal—not until the mirror in my living room whispered. It’s simple—oval-shaped, dark wood frame, polished smooth. A gift from my grandmother. She said it was special. I thought it was just sentiment. I always noticed its strange glow, especially late at night, when the room was still. Not normal light. Not the moon, nor reflections from outside. Something else. Something off. I didn’t think much of it until the whispers. Initially, hardly perceptible—a faint whisper, as if from a great distance. I assumed it was a trick of my imagination. tiredness from the late hours of the night. You know, sometimes you think you hear voices, but it's actually the house settling or the wind. Then it happened again. I sat on the couch, watching TV. The room was quiet except for the show’s sound and the occasional house creak. Then, between the static on the screen, I heard it—clear as day. "Look at me." I froze. My heart skipped. The voice faint, but there. ...

I never meant to get a dog. I wasn’t an animal person. My apartment in New Orleans wasn’t a place for a pet. The old building creaked and groaned. The streets were narrow, winding, full of tourists, noise, damp air. But one late afternoon, after a long workday, I came home. There it was, waiting at my doorstep. A scruffy black dog. Thin, dirty, fur matted and wild. Its eyes were wide, dark, unnatural. It didn’t bark. It didn’t whine. It stared. I hesitated. But something—maybe loneliness, maybe curiosity—pulled me forward. I reached out. The dog didn’t flinch. It nuzzled my hand, like it always knew me. I named it Charlie. I told myself I’d care for it until I found its owner. But as days passed, Charlie became part of my life. He followed me everywhere. His presence felt like a weight behind me, constant but never demanding. At first, it seemed harmless. Just a dog. But something was wrong. Charlie didn’t act like other dogs. He never played with toys. He never wagged his tail. I was ...

I moved into the house alone. Not because I wanted to—only because I could afford it. Woods stretched around the property, thick and unbroken. The road, overgrown and narrow, seemed like the forest wanted to take the place back. The landlord rushed to hand me the keys. He called it "perfect for solitude." He didn’t mention tenants before me, the ones who left quickly. Their reasons stayed vague—just shrugs and quiet words. The house had a room. Small, windowless, and stuck at the hallway's end. The wallpaper, faded and floral, peeled at the edges. Roses on it twisted inward, their petals drooping strangely, like they were caught mid-decay. I left the room for storage. It felt too stifling to sit there. The air, dense and heavy, made me uneasy—like breathing deeply might wake something unseen. The isolation felt healing. I came here to write. I wanted to escape the city’s noise. Friends pitied me after my breakdown. Their looks stayed with me. Days passed. Weeks followed. ...

 I’ve always loved the idea of aliens. The universe is so big, so how could we be alone? I’d stare at the stars for hours, imagining someone, or something, staring back. Last month, I realized they were. It started late one night. My house is at the edge of a quiet town. The stars here are clear, brighter than anywhere else. But that night, one star stood out. It didn’t twinkle like the others. It stayed still, steady, and white. It pulsed, like it was alive. I couldn’t stop looking. The next morning, it was still there. In the daylight, it wasn’t a star at all. It was a bright dot, fixed in the sky. My neighbor, Mr. Connelly, saw me staring. He waved. “That weird star’s been there all day,” he said. “Don’t look too long. It messes with your head.” Then he walked away. No small talk. That wasn’t like him. That night, the dot seemed closer. I could see faint shapes around it. They weren’t clear—just outlines—but they looked strange, almost alive. My chest felt tight. Breathing was ...

I found the box in a small thrift shop. The wood felt smooth, warm in my hands. On the lid, a crescent moon was carved, faint but detailed. Inside, there was a note. Its words were strange, almost alive. The shopkeeper smiled. "Three wishes," she said. "Be careful." I didn’t laugh. Something about her felt wrong. For the first wish, I asked for rain. Within an hour, the sky turned gray. It rained for three days. The second wish came quickly. I asked for money. The next morning, I got a letter. An uncle I’d never met had died. His fortune was mine. But guilt followed. I dreamed of his empty house, his lonely end. The third wish wasn’t planned. I held off as long as I could. But one night, I gave in. "I wish for love," I whispered. The changes were small at first. Old friends called. Strangers smiled at me. Then Anna appeared. She was perfect—too perfect. She knew my thoughts, finished my sentences. At first, I was happy. But soon, it felt wrong. One night, ...

I shouldn’t have opened that door. It was not intended for me to see. The map didn't show it. No one brought it up. I discovered it just now. It was concealed in a corner, tucked away. I initially believed it to be a component of the wall. However, a crimson door was there, beckoning me to approach it. It didn’t look special. Just a door. But the color was off. It wasn’t the bright red I expected. It was dark. Like it was absorbing the light around it. I reached for the handle. The room looked normal at first. The floor was gray carpet. The walls were bare. A bulb hung from the ceiling. It smelled stale, like no one had been here in years. I walked in. The door clicked shut behind me. I didn’t think much of it. Just a room, right? But something didn’t feel right. It felt off. Like it was watching me. The walls felt closer. I didn’t move. But something changed. The room was shrinking. The air was heavier. I turned back to the door. It wouldn’t open. The handle wouldn’t budge. Locked...

Discovery I didn't anticipate discovering anything. I was back in the house I grew up in, just organizing things before my parents sold them. Boxes, furniture, nothing special. Then, I found it. There was a little, worn leather diary in my old room, tucked away beneath a pile of old books. I didn't identify it at first. It looked old, but I couldn’t remember it. It felt familiar but distant. I took it up and opened it even though I had no idea why. The pages were yellowed, fragile. I started reading. The first entries were normal kid stuff: school, friends, family. Nothing unusual. It felt like reading a stranger’s life. Then, I hit a page that stopped me. It was from just before my twelfth birthday. The entry described a dinner I couldn’t remember. It said my parents argued loudly about money. But I always remembered quiet family dinners. This didn’t match. Maybe it was nothing. Just a kid’s imagination. I pushed it aside and turned ...

I thought I controlled the story. I wrote the worlds. I created the rules. Last month, that changed. I was working on a new book, a psychological horror. The story followed Daniel, a writer. He started hearing whispers. His characters appeared in his mirrors. The idea felt vivid. Too vivid. I wrote for hours, late into the night. The scenes came easily. My desk lamp flickered sometimes. I blamed the old wiring. Then one night, I saw it. Daniel had written about me. He described my desk. The mess on it. The coffee stain on my papers. Even the way I tapped my pen. I froze. I hadn’t written those words. I deleted them. I told myself I’d imagined it. The next morning, the words were back. This time, Daniel wrote about my dreams. He described the figure by my bed. The whispers it spoke. I deleted the passage again. My hands shook. After that, I stopped sleeping. Shadows felt heavier. Every corner seemed to watch me. The story kept changing. New words appeared. Daniel’s thoughts felt sharper...

I didn’t expect it. A small silver device sat in the corner, covered by old junk. The label said “Mind Eraser.” It sounded ridiculous, but I needed it. Painful memories weighed me down. The shopkeeper, old and silent, handed it to me. His smile seemed to know something. “Use it wisely,” he said, looking at me. I didn’t understand, but I paid and left. Later, alone in my apartment, I stared at the device. It felt heavy, almost alive. I pressed the button. At first, nothing happened. Then, a hum filled the air. A screen lit up, showing my face—young, happy. I hesitated but pressed it again. The worst memory—losing her. I couldn’t bear the pain. The hum filled my head, and everything went black. When I woke up, the weight was gone. The pain was gone. I felt free. It worked. I smiled, something I hadn’t done in years. But something was wrong. The next day, the world felt off. Faces blurred, familiar yet strange. I felt uneasy. What was happening? I pressed the device again. I erased my fat...

The ancient house on the hill became my home. I had no interest in the closed door at the end of the corridor. I didn't pay much attention to it because it was little and concealed by a tapestry. I didn't mind the house at first, even though it seemed odd and silent. Days passed, and the door stayed there. But one evening, while I unpacked, something changed. A sudden urge to open the door hit me. It felt like it was calling me. I couldn’t explain why. When I tried to open it, I found it locked. The feeling didn’t stop. It grew. I searched the house. No key. The key I had didn’t fit. But I couldn’t shake the feeling. Something was behind that door. Something I had to find. That night, the dreams started. They were blurry at first—quick, strange flashes. I woke, confused. I saw a room. The room. It wasn't mine, but I was in it. Although I was unsure of who owned it, I knew it was important. I knew I had to find the key. Each night, the dreams grew clearer. I saw more of the ...

I bought the house for a fresh start. It seemed perfect—quiet, cheap, and big. I didn’t ask why it was so cheap. I needed space to breathe. My life had been a mess for too long. This house was supposed to fix that. In the basement, I found something odd. At first, I didn’t see it—the door was hidden behind some boxes. When I started cleaning, I saw it: a locked door. Rusty keyhole. No handle. Just a dark, cold panel. I didn’t care much at first. I had bigger things to worry about. But that door stuck in my head. Why was it locked? What was behind it? I made an effort to recall, but it got tougher the more I tried. Like sand between my fingers, the memory vanished. Perhaps I was going crazy, I thought. But it was just a door, right? Then one night, I started seeing things. It was after I moved in. The house still felt strange. I passed the basement door and saw it—a figure. It was standing still in the dark. My heart skipped. I froze. I stared, but the figure didn’t move. I told myself ...