Happy Holidays!

 

Weapons (2025)

 

When a classroom is completely empty—

every desk abandoned,

every chair untouched—

except for one student…

Who, or what, is to blame?

One teacher?

Unlikely.

What could a teacher possibly do?

Cross a line no teacher should ever cross?

Maybe.

But that still doesn’t explain why an entire classroom — except for one quiet boy — has vanished.

Realistically, one person cannot make over twenty children disappear without a trail.

It’s impossible.

Illogical.

And yet… somehow, it happened.

But a motive?

Bad grades?

Disobedience?

Not quite enough.

Not unless you’re running an Academic Boot Camp.

Bullying, though…

Now that’s something.

A shy, awkward boy who keeps to himself becomes the favorite target.

The teacher tries to intervene — there’s only so much any adult can do.

You can’t expel an entire class for cruelty.

Not through normal channels, anyway.

But something else can.

Something else will.

Student by student.

Child after child.

One by one.

And every parent begins to suspect.

Because this is no longer a school issue.

This isn’t even a police matter.

This is something much darker.

An entity.

A force.

Old… ancient… ungovernable.

A presence that does not play games —

but absolutely plays with your mind.

It feeds on fear.

It thrives in it.

It moves above authority.

Above consequences.

Above anyone who thinks they can stop it.

And if someone dares to confront it?

It will only take one snap.

Just one.

And you will see exactly what happens next.

Happy Halloween!!

 

The Long Walk (2025) - The Breakdown of Humanity

Okay everybody…

Today is the day.

The day you signed up for.

The day you thought would be “such a cool thing to try.”

You’ve all got a point to prove, huh?

Eyes locked on the prize —

A prize you can’t even see from here.

Because truth is, that prize isn’t real.

It’s a mirage, dangling at the end of a road that never ends.

What makes you think you’ll get so lucky… and survive The Long Walk?

Y’all come from different walks of life —

But now, you walk the same path.

Your name? Forgotten.

Your story? Irrelevant.

You’re not a person anymore.

You’re a number.

A statistic.

A soon-to-be body in the count.

Because here, on this Long Walk, you must keep the pace.

Even if you’re sick.

Even if you’re a scrawny, awkward kid who gets bullied to death.

Even if your own body betrays you in the most humiliating way.

Even if your bones shatter and your feet bleed.

Slip once — you’re warned.

Slip twice — another warning.

Slip again…

And the consequences are mercilessly traumatic.

But hey — this is what you signed up for.

The breakdown of character…

The erosion of humanity…

It all starts now.

NOW GO.

Fine Red Wine (WARNING GRAPHIC CONTENT)

Constantine Petrova, 35, had once owned a modest winery outside Moscow. There, among barrels and cellars, he thrived. His wines were complex, his blends sought after by those with refined palates. But misfortune fell upon him—debts, betrayal, a crumbling empire. With nothing left, Constantine fled to America, carrying only his old-world charm and a hunger for reinvention.

From the start, he was striking. At 5'9, dark-haired and brooding, his presence filled every room. His manners were formal, his smile careful. People described him as handsome, but there was something in his eyes—something watchful, something that unsettled. Family back in Russia had teased him for years, calling him “Count” because of his taste for red wines so deep they looked like blood. But Constantine never joined in their laughter.

He carried that silence with him.

The Winemaker in Exile

In New York, Constantine took a job at a liquor store. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept him close to his passion. By night, in the solitude of his apartment, he pressed grapes with near-religious devotion. His hands stained crimson, his cellar filling with bottles. He whispered to the fermenting vats as if they were confidants.

Finally, he perfected his signature vintage. Bold. Smooth. Impossible to forget. He christened it Count Constantine—a nod to the family joke, though there was nothing humorous in his tone.

The Women

It was at the liquor store that Constantine met Sydney, a petite raven-haired woman with crystal-blue eyes. She lingered at the counter, fascinated by his accent, his manner, his dark allure. Soon, they were seen everywhere together.

And then… nowhere.

“She relocated for work,” Constantine explained when asked, his smile unchanged.

Not long after came Miranda—tall, auburn-haired, green-eyed. She laughed brightly, leaning into him as though she had known him all her life. Then, one day, she vanished as well. Constantine dismissed it with a shrug: “It wasn’t working out.”

And so the pattern continued. Each woman more radiant than the last. Each relationship short-lived. Each disappearance left whispers hanging in the aisles of the liquor store.

Yet while women vanished, Constantine’s wine grew famous. Bottles of Count Constantine appeared in shops, its flavor intoxicating customers. They described it as velvet on the tongue, with a haunting aftertaste that lingered long after the glass was empty. Some swore it tasted faintly metallic. Few questioned why.

The Investigation

Then came the missing persons reports. Sydney. Miranda. Others. Friends and family grew desperate. Police began asking questions.

Through it all, Constantine remained calm. Polite. Cooperative. His accent smooth, his eyes unwavering. “I honestly couldn’t tell you,” he would reply, as though puzzled himself.

But Officer Clarkson of the local precinct wasn’t convinced. A seasoned cop with a gut for lies, Clarkson saw something others didn’t.

“There’s something peculiar about him,” Clarkson muttered. “He’s too careful. Too smooth. He’s hiding behind charm. My instincts say he’s bottling more than wine.”

With a warrant secured, Clarkson went to Constantine’s apartment one evening while the Russian worked at the store.

The Cellar

At first, the apartment appeared pristine. Bottles lined shelves, gleaming in the light. The air was perfumed with the sweet tang of fermenting grapes.

But then Clarkson caught it—that undercurrent of rot, faint but undeniable. A sour-sweet stench that clung to his nostrils. He followed it, heart pounding, until he found a heavy wooden door at the back.

The cellar.

The hinges groaned as he pushed it open.

The smell hit him like a blow.

Bodies.

Sydney. Miranda. Others. Their limbs hung stiff and grotesque, draped over barrels as though they had been poured out and discarded. Pale faces stared lifelessly, lips stained red. Some lay arranged in grotesque circles around the vats. Their veins were collapsed, their skin sagging as if something essential had been drained from them.

Nearby, bottles gleamed, filled with liquid the color of garnets. Corks blackened with more than wine. Tools lined neatly, their edges dulled by repeated use.

Clarkson doubled over, retching violently until nothing remained in his stomach. The cellar echoed with the sound of his gagging, the smell of death searing his lungs.

And then—he froze.

The Beast Unmasked

From the far end of the cellar, shadow stirred.

Constantine stepped forward.

Tall. Dark. Sinister. His jet-black hair glistened in the overhead light. For a heartbeat, Clarkson saw only the handsome Russian, the man who charmed women with a smile.

Then Constantine stepped fully into the beam.

And the mask dropped.

His face twisted, bones cracking beneath skin. Cheekbones jutted unnaturally, his jaw lengthened, his mouth stretching into a grin too wide, too sharp. Flesh darkened, calcified, until his visage resembled carved stone. His eyes sank, glowing faintly red in their pits.

No longer a man.

A gargoyle. A malevolent thing of nightmare, risen from shadow.

Officer Clarkson screamed, stumbling back against the barrels. He screamed until his throat tore, until his voice was raw and useless. His flashlight slipped from his shaking hands, its beam quivering across bloodstained floors, illuminating bottle after bottle—each one shimmering as though alive, as though watching.

Constantine advanced, his shadow monstrous against the cellar wall.

The bottles hummed.

And then—silence.

The Next Day

Morning arrived as if nothing had happened. The liquor store bustled, its aisles alive with chatter. Behind the counter stood Constantine once more. Perfect hair. Impeccable smile. His eyes—dark, bottomless.

The bell above the door chimed.

A gorgeous young woman entered, her skin cocoa-dark, her curls tumbling like a waterfall. Her phone was in her hand, already recording.

Her name was Toni Marie. An influencer with fifty thousand followers.

When her eyes met Constantine’s, she brightened, entranced.

“Can I pose with Count Constantine for my followers?” she asked eagerly.

Constantine’s lips curved into that practiced, devastating smile. His eyes glowed faintly with a hunger only he knew.

“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “But first… have a sip of the sample.”

He lifted a crystal glass, the crimson liquid shimmering in the light like molten rubies.

“I’ve been considering a wine tasting party,” he added, his voice velvet, inviting. “The more guests, the better the wine.”

Toni Marie laughed, unaware of the cellar’s silence, unaware of the screams that had been swallowed whole. She raised the glass to her lips.

And Constantine’s smile widened.

***Fictional Story Written By Zainab Ali***

Together (2025) - Vows For You

I promise to always love you .

Cherish you..

Adore you...

Through good times - definitely..

Through bad times ..

Let's stick together...

Stick it through..

Stick it on..

Because now you are stuck with me..

You are stuck with my amazing traits that made you 

fall in love with me in the first place..

But you are also stuck with my ugly..

You are stuck with my madness..

You are stuck with my dysfunction..

And eventually..

We will both morph into each other's insanity..

And I wouldn't have it any other way..

And neither would you..

Because you love me just like I love you..

And I can never survive without you..

In sickness...

And in hell...

Till death rip us part...

Come Home To Me - ⚠️ WARNING -Graphic Content!

 

Mary Alice didn’t choose Somerset Nursing Home.
It was assigned. A cursed placement in a rotting facility that stank of mildew, bleach, and something metallic underneath—like rusted blood that had soaked too deep to scrub away.
At 26, Mary Alice should’ve had her whole life ahead of her. But her soul felt older every day she stepped through the heavy double doors. The air hung thick like phlegm in a dying man’s lungs. The lights flickered not because of faulty wiring—but because this place was rejecting electricity.
Mary Alice wasn’t just scared of the elderly. She was haunted by them. Her grandmother Anna had died here. But she hadn’t gone gently.
Anna, once so sweet and lucid, had deteriorated into a night-screaming, piss-covered shell of herself. Her skin split easily like old fruit. Her eyes… had turned black in her final days. Not from illness, but from something that had crawled in.
There were nights when Anna didn’t recognize Mary Alice. There were nights when she whispered, “It’s coming for you too.”
Mary Alice had prayed for her death.
She still hated herself for that.

She was warned by Margaret. Everyone who lasted at Somerset was warned. “Don’t linger in the right wing.”
That’s where Louise was. A mute Alzheimer’s patient who sang instead of speaking. Not songs from the radio. But guttural lullabies, like something dragged out of a crypt.
“She hums to something in the dark,” Margaret said. “Like she’s keeping it company… or feeding it.”
Then Margaret vanished.
Quit overnight. No goodbye. Left her badge on the desk smeared in something sticky and dark.

Mary Alice tried to act professional. But the fear chewed her bones.
Every shift, she passed the right wing and the humming grew louder. Sometimes the song looped. Sometimes it answered itself.
“Come home to me, my darling love…”
She began to hear it even when she wasn’t there. In her apartment. In the shower. In her sleep. It slithered under her skin and coiled around her spine.
Then came the day it changed. She heard the words. And she recognized them.
“Come home to me… where our love will never die…”
That was Anna’s song.
The one she wrote—only for Mary Alice.
No one else knew it.

The hallway stretched forever that day. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like flies.
Mary Alice pushed open Louise’s door.
The air inside was thick—not warm. Wet. Like stepping into a womb made of rot.
Louise sat in bed. Back turned. Head twitching to the rhythm of the song. Strings of saliva dangled from her chin. Her spine jutted out beneath her gown like knives.

“Louise…?” she whispered.
No reply. Just the melody. Louder. Clearer.
Mary Alice stepped closer. The shadows pulsed on the walls like lungs expanding.
She touched the woman’s hand.
It was ice cold and damp. Like a corpse underwater.
Louise turned.
Her face converted..
Into Anna's..
The flesh sagged. Her jaw hung unhinged. Her teeth were decayed and rotting, emitting a pungent and deathly odor. Anna's once pale blue eyes, now rimmed with a watery red. A bloody red. Anna's unhinged jaw hung open and words came out without moving her mouth.

“You left me,” she said. “Now I’ll never be alone again.”

Anna moved fast. Too fast.
She didn’t lunge. She floated—arms spreading, her mouth stretching to impossible width as a scream erupted like a thousand voices caught in a meat grinder.

Mary Alice tried to scream, but her throat collapsed inward. Blood bubbled from her ears.
Anna's hands clamped down on her head. Not her throat. Her skull.

And squeezed.

CRACK..

Mary Alice’s eyeballs ruptured. Blood sprayed in twin arcs across the bed. Her mouth twisted in a death scream as her skull caved in like a rotten pumpkin.

When they found her, her face was gone. Not scratched. Not torn. Gone. Peeled off, leaving only muscle and sockets.
Louise sat nearby, singing gently. Calmly. Sweetly.
“Come home to me, my darling love…”
They said it was an aneurysm. They said it was trauma-induced cardiac arrest. They said it wasn’t Louise.
But the nurses started hearing that same lullaby.
Even in the daylight.
And one by one, the staff in the right wing began turning in their resignation letters…
…or vanishing entirely.