What we find may cost much more than we know.

📦🕰️🖼️📖

It was another evening of no social calls or friends for Albert Monterio — the introverted historian genuinely preferred archiving subjects for historical research.

Everyone had gone home to their families for the evening — all but him.

The archives were empty — and profoundly silent.

Too silent.

He combed the stoically silent shelves.

In the strange quiet there was a stack of photographs from the 1946 bombardment of Haiphong.

One photograph stood out.

A photo that disobeyed its own era.

An anomaly hiding among sepia images.

And a strange rustling that he shouldn’t have felt.

---

🔍📷🕵️‍♂️

Albert grabbed a magnifying glass and focused on the odd,
out-of-place mark.

Everything was in ruins.

Pieces of zinc roofing were scattered on the pavements.

Smoke billowed from surrounding debris.

Two soldiers lifted a seriously wounded comrade who was attempting to walk.

Amid it all stood a child, grasping an object that was out of place for its time — a modern smartphone.

Albert shook his head.

Probably some debris the kid picked up, he thought.

But the anomaly only sharpened —
on Logic’s defying path.

---

🖼️⌛🖌️

A second envelope fell from the archive bookshelf.

A similar photograph.

With him, fully present, in the frame.

The child’s device showed a timestamp — the present day’s date.

The photo shimmered, and tiny sketches appeared at the corners.

A temple he was familiar with — bombed.

A street, newly built, shattering in pieces.

Smoke billowing from the debris.

The young boy showed disaster.

Showed change.

---

⏳💀📱

And true to that, the photograph —

Changed.

The child’s gaze had shifted —

Through the screen.

Ever so slightly, staring Albert in the face.

And then —

His outline materialising where it should not have been.

Standing, motionless, beside the child’s.

With tomorrow’s date flashing on the screen’s right.

Albert hadn’t been merely observing history — he had become it.

---

🕰️💔📖

The child’s device showed a timestamp — today’s date.

The time — a minute into the future.

Albert lying slumped in his chair in the archive.

A smile etched on his face.

He had found what he had to.

And become what he had found.

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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

Take time to remember the self.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

Marina Chua was the classic wallflower—at 34, she was perpetually passed over, whether at work or at home.

Home was just as overlooked. After all, no one noticed abandoned terrace houses.

It had a memory like a sieve. One that sorted the maize from the chaff. The essential from the inconsequential.

Even the hallway seemed to erase her, as if the house chose who it wanted to retain–or dispose.

Everyone knew the drab, cookie-cutter house on the street—they didn’t bother with them.

But there was one room that no one remembered existed.

A room. Where shadows swallowed sound. It forgot people, including Marina—but never the walls.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

It was just another weekend. One Marina spent, as usual, unnoticed- in life, or in love.

Blending in with the walls of the home – and the room.

Being the must-be-in-order administrative assistant that she was, she decided that it was time for a little decluttering.

She started with the room few remembered – that she seldom did herself.

As she started sorting items –

They shifted.

Appearing.

Disappearing.

The house seemed to be misplacing her – like an old receipt.

Her mobile began to forget her passwords and encrypted fingerprints.

The walls and floorboards whispered names that weren’t hers –

Her family members.

Her friends.

But never hers.

They stretched – and pulled back, as if needling her mind.

Testing her mettle.

Corridors rearranged themselves, bending with uncertainty.

Hers.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

Wallflower though she was, she wasn’t defeated.

Marina decided to find out more about the property she had inherited from her father when he passed all those years ago.

On one of her forays into the home’s many back rooms, she discovered a small, nearly inconspicuous space.

The dust danced in the beam of her mobile.

A hidden alcove.

Lined with decades of family Polaroids, each of a person who had disappeared.

Then-

A blank Polaroid.

Labelled with her name.

An empty slot waiting for her face.

The room wasn’t teasing or frightening just because it could; it was a room waiting.

A predator, hungry for the forgotten.

A hunger she seemed to know.

Fear wrapped around her, a shroud creeping, waiting to strike.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

She managed to shake the gripping fear off to make sense of the alcove.

And the blank Polaroid.

With her name.

She touched each of the Polaroids and the dusty shelves.

There had to be a way to lock them in place, to keep them from swallowing her.

Then she thought of the little, cherished memories.

Her dog. Her Mum’s signature fried noodles.

Her dad’s cologne, mixed with perspiration, when he returned from work.

Each memory made the room less hungry.

Weighed its menace down.

Finally, the corridors stopped bending. The stretching stopped.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

As she recalled her dog Benj, her mother’s noodles, and her father carrying her in his arms when he returned from work, the room stilled.

Every recalled detail punched a hole in her darkness.

With each recollection, the walls settled into place.

The holes became larger.

She grasped the life buoys of her memories-her lifelines.

And she knew–the room victimised.

Not those who remembered themselves or their places in the world.

Rather, they wanted the souls who felt-

Invisible.

Forgotten.

But she had won the battle between her mind-

And the room’s predatory instincts.

The holes widened-

Then vanished.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

Marina left the room, still weary.

Still on edge.

But she chose to report it to the Town Council for its-

For want of a better word-

Defects.

Several weeks passed. She chose to live fully, tapping into her passion-

Cooking.

Sharing meals with friends.

Discussing recipes.

Watching the Food Network Channel or teaching cooking classes.

Then a stall selling “Char Kway Teow” (flat noodles in soy and oyster sauce).

Receiving rave reviews in the Straits Times.

She chose to be seen again, leaving the house to wallow in its own hunger.

Insatiable need to swallow-

Those who felt forgotten.

Not Marina.

Her life was no longer dimmed at the edges.

She remembered it.

Herself.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

November 17. Bells tolled all over Hatfield, not in triumph, but in foreboding.

Shadows strayed where sunlight could not reach.

Elizabeth stood alone in a tight cloak, feeling the weight of the crown she held– and its power.

And the eyes that watched from everywhere–and saw it all.

🖤👑🕯️

Dawn broke with a November chill over Hatfield. The soft tolling of bells ascended with the morning sun — not in victory, but with an ominous note of caution.

Queen Elizabeth’s gaze fell over the castle ramparts. She wrapped herself tighter in her cloak, not from the chill, but from the eyes — of someone unseen.

The pants of an anxious messenger were only too audible as he ran into the room.

“Your Majesty… Queen Mary. She’s… dead.”

A heavy silence consumed Elizabeth’s room.

A raven — typically tied to a pole in a corner of the castle gardens — flew to her window and perched.

A death call to the House of Windsor.

In her chambers, Elizabeth slipped the crown off her head. She gazed at its perfectly set jewels —

Each gleamed.

With glittery foreboding.

And the whispers from the afternoon court —

“A lone queen will succumb.”

Later, in bed,

the voice of her mother haunted her ears — and mind.

“Power costs blood…”

She shot up in bed. Catherine’s voice was too loud for sleep.

She trailed through the corridors of Windsor’s halls. Each step she took was heavy with memory.

And weight.

Of her mother. Of England.

The tapestries darted from one wall to the other, as if touched by someone —

Not her.

Not a courtier.

Not there.

Windsor was testing her mettle.

She turned to face the shadows and spoke.

“If this —” she held the crown — “is mine, then I’m your master.”

The room stilled. The shadows lined up to face her.

The raven cawed once, in a sharp, approving screech.

The messenger burst into her chambers once more.

He ran before her and knelt.

“Your majesty, the council believed you would decline the throne. They’ve prepared another successor.”

A figure entered — in a dark cloak.

Her successor.

It lifted its cloak.

Elizabeth stared herself in the face.

A perfect double.

Herself to fight.

She stepped forward, unafraid.

Her double bowed — in complete homage.

It didn’t just accept her — it revered.

🖤👑🕯️

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

She did it her way–snd we should too.

☕🍂

November rain knocked on the window and glass door of the Wits Cybercafe. The interior of the cafe combined with the month’s transitional energy; it smelled of cinnamon, damp clothes, and thick espresso.

Nancy noticed another scent—quiet competition.

The delicate pastries that Wits was known for were aligned in a complex jigsaw no one cared to fix.

Yes, the game was afoot.

Nancy wondered if anyone else had noticed the friendly rivalry in the air.

The cafe’s usual coffee-soaked clientele seemed to be part of an absurd contest—whether it was who could gulp their hot coffee the fastest or fold their napkin the quickest.

Every sip of coffee felt like an unspoken contest.

Nancy tested her theory, folding her napkin the wrong way on purpose.

Of course, her rivals applauded with extra zest.

A love song played as piped-in audio, defying the cafe’s competitive vibe.

A stranger’s eyes met hers.

Ready to incarcerate.

Put her on one of the cafe’s chopping boards.

A gaze that held both judgement and irresistible curiosity.

Had she broken an unwritten rule by mistake?

The games paused—a heartbeat suspended.

She sipped her coffee—

In triumphant gulps.

And finished the last with a satisfying burp.

Horrified gasps from her friendly rivals.

Grinning, Nancy swiped her lips with the back of her hand.

Horrified gasps.

But the same stranger gave her a nod of acknowledgement—she had won this round.

She left the cafe, victorious—but slightly confused.

The rain tapped on the windows, giving her a round of quiet applause.

Her triumph, though invisible—

Perfect.

Nancy-style.

🏆☕

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

The Berlin Wall fell this day, November 9th, 1989.

It took just one night for its pieces to shatter.

The walls that surround hearts can take a lifetime to break.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

50-year-old Thomas Weiss stood before a crumbling wall, wielding a hammer he wasn’t sure he wanted to use. His wife, Hannah, and twin sons had resided in the free zone for years–because she wanted to.

The wall had come down in 1989–ten years to this day. The shattered pieces lay on the ground, waiting to come together.

Thomas wondered if they would–but some walls sealed hearts.

And stood taller.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

Youngsters still came to hack at the bricks that hadn’t yet given way, breaking out in raucous hollers as they did.

Thomas watched them, his memories more dislodged with each blow of the hammer. Each cheer he heard felt like an accusation—like Hannah’s last words to him.

He wasn’t sure he envied the wall for coming down.

Before he slammed the door of the family home–sharper than the barbed wire that accompanied the bricks.

A young man spotted him standing, still in a reverie. He stretched out his hand–a small piece of the wall lay in his palm.

Thomas hesitated. He wasn’t sure if it was just unwanted history coming apart, or a piece of his own heart.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

His wife appeared amidst the dust and fallen wall splinters.

Older.

Strange.

The shadow of the wall that was, stood between them–too real.

Freedom felt foreign–the hardest reunions were the ones one didn’t prepare for.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

He dropped his hammer, the crowd’s joy flooding over him. He and Hannah didn’t embrace–but stood together.

Breathing the air of freedom for the first time–

In decades.

Their unity had begun—in silence.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

As dawn broke, the wall had nearly crumbled completely. The crowd had vanished, save for a few stragglers.

The bricks had come apart in just one night in 1989. His peace with Hannah would take a lifetime of rebuilding.

The Berlin wall had finally fallen. The one in his heart–still solid brick.

And had to shatter–within.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.