Iazaz hussain
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Stories (65)
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The Last Light on Willow Creek
Willow Creek, Montana, didn’t look like the kind of place where nightmares lived. From the highway, it seemed peaceful—mountains in the distance, tall pines swaying like they were whispering to each other, and a narrow gravel road leading to a handful of houses, a diner, and a closed-down mine that everyone pretended didn’t exist.
By Iazaz hussain3 months ago in Horror
Whispers in the Fog
The village of Kharband was known for two things: its endless blankets of thick white fog, and the strange silence that fell after sunset. No matter how loudly children laughed or how far the goats wandered, the moment the sun slipped behind the mountains, the entire valley grew so silent that even the wind dared not whisper.
By Iazaz hussain3 months ago in Horror
The Last Lightkeeper
No one had lived in it for years—not since Elias Marrow vanished on a fog-heavy morning and left the shoreline without its keeper. Yet every evening at dusk, without fail, the lantern ignited. A thin beam of gold carved through the dark like a watchful eye, sweeping over the waves with mechanical precision.
By Iazaz hussain3 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Last Hour
In the heart of an old bazaar, tucked between a spice shop and a forgotten bookstore, stood Rauf’s Clockworks, a tiny shop filled with ticking, chiming, and humming clocks. Some were antique, some handmade, and some—according to rumor—were not entirely from this world. Rauf, the elderly clockmaker, had spent his whole life repairing time, second by second.
By Iazaz hussain3 months ago in Horror
The Timekeeper’s Last Message
In the towering, neon-soaked city of Zareenabad, where hover-cars zipped between sky-bridges and digital billboards painted the night with electric colors, lived a quiet mechanic named Arib Khan. His workshop was small, buried between high-tech repair shops and drone-delivery terminals, but Arib didn’t mind. He liked small spaces. They made the world feel manageable — predictable.
By Iazaz hussain3 months ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Signal
A soft hum of electricity filled the control room of Station Orion, a small communications outpost floating quietly above the Earth’s atmosphere. For most people, it was an unimportant dot on the map — but for Ayaan Malik, it was home, duty, and purpose.
By Iazaz hussain3 months ago in Fiction
The Last Lightkeeper
The Forgotten Lighthouse High above the restless sea, where the waves roared like ancient beasts and storms carved their rage into the cliffs, stood the Asterfall Lighthouse. For centuries, its white tower had guided ships away from the jagged rocks below.
By Iazaz hussain3 months ago in Fiction
The House That Waited
When the old Rehman House finally went up for sale, nobody in the village expected anyone to buy it. The place had been abandoned for decades, its windows sealed with wooden planks, its garden swallowed by wild thorns and crooked trees. Children dared each other to run up and touch the rusted gate, but no one ever stayed near it after sunset. People said it wasn’t just haunted—it was patient. It waited.
By Iazaz hussain3 months ago in Horror
The Shadows Beneath the Well
Subtitle: . In the remote village of Darosh, nestled deep in the misty valleys of northern Pakistan, there stood an ancient well. No one remembered who built it or how long it had been there. The elders claimed it predated even their grandfathers. The well was covered with a heavy wooden lid, its sides overgrown with ivy and moss. For as long as anyone could remember, the villagers were warned never to open it after sunset.
By Iazaz hussain3 months ago in Horror
The Shadows Beneath Marrow Hill
Subtitle: Marrow Hill was a forgotten place — a crooked village swallowed by time and fog. No map marked its boundaries, and no one ever claimed to live there. Yet, travelers who dared cross its forest road often whispered of strange figures, flickering lights, and voices calling from the trees.
By Iazaz hussain3 months ago in Fiction
The Whispers Beneath the Floorboards
The village of Darenhill had always been quiet, surrounded by thick forests and old farmland that had long been abandoned. Its narrow streets twisted between cottages that leaned inward like tired old men, whispering secrets through the cracks of their walls. But one house stood apart—the old Marlowe House—its windows shattered and roof sagging as though the earth itself had given up trying to hold it up.
By Iazaz hussain3 months ago in Horror
