Buried in the Algorithm by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

Buried in the Algorithm

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,792

The caption had to be flawless. Something witty but raw, something to make them pause mid-scroll.

“Calm before the grind.” No. Too cliché.

“How I stay grounded in chaos.” Ugh. Too try-hard.

My latte was growing cold under the ring light as I typed, deleted, and retyped. Finally, I settled on: “Brewing balance in a world of noise. ☕✨” Perfect. I posted it, watching the likes roll in.

My feed painted a picture of serenity. But in real life? My fridge was empty, my inbox overflowing with sponsorship deadlines, and Trey, my ex, hadn’t called in weeks. Not that I blamed him. He had warned me once: “You’re too obsessed with being seen.”

Still, the likes poured in, and for a moment, they filled the hollow parts of me.

Until the DM arrived.

***

At first, it was easy to ignore. A blank profile picture, no followers. User12345:

"Do you think they’d still like you if they knew the truth?"

I rolled my eyes. Trolls were part of the territory. I deleted the message and posted a new story—another “candid” moment of me laughing in perfect lighting.

But the message stuck in my mind. The truth? What truth? My life was curated, sure, but wasn’t everyone’s?

Later that night, another DM arrived:

"You can’t bury lies forever, Callie."

I blocked the account and set my phone down, but the unease stayed with me.

***

The next day, I was at the café where I staged most of my “morning routine” posts. I handed my name to the barista and took a seat by the window, arranging my latte and croissant for the perfect flat lay.

When the barista called out my order, I grabbed my cup, only to freeze.

Instead of my name, someone had scrawled LIAR in black marker across the lid.

I spun around, searching the café, but no one seemed to notice. The barista looked blank when I asked who’d written it. “Must’ve been a mistake,” she mumbled.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.

Back home, my followers were turning. Comments on my latest post were cutting: “She’s so fake.” “Why does she always look so posed?”

I deleted the post and curled up on my couch. That night, the lights flickered, plunging my apartment into darkness.

***

A notification pinged on my phone. User12345: “This is who you really are, Callie.”

I stared at the screen, my breath shallow. I typed back, “What do you want from me?”

Dots appeared, then disappeared. My laptop screen lit up across the room, an open live feed showing me sitting at my kitchen table.

But I wasn’t there.

I screamed, slamming the laptop shut. The air around me felt heavy, charged. When I tried to turn on the lights, they flickered, then died.

Another DM arrived:

"Are you ready to see the truth?"

Before I could respond, everything went black.

***

When I woke, the air was thick and damp. My hands hit wood above me. Darkness pressed against my eyes, and the realization hit: I was buried alive.

I screamed until my throat was raw, my fists pounding the lid. Panic clawed at my chest, stealing my breath.

Then, a voice—not human, but mechanical, distorted—echoed around me.

“You built this coffin, Callie. Every like, every lie. Now you get to live in it.”

The pressure in my chest grew unbearable. “Please!” I sobbed. “I’ll delete everything. I’ll tell the truth!”

Silence, then a low laugh. “Do you even know what the truth is anymore?”

***

Faintly, I heard voices above me. “Callie! Where are you?”

“Trey!” I screamed with everything I had. The dirt shifted, vibrations running through the wood. A crack of light broke through, followed by Trey’s hands pulling me free.

I collapsed into his arms, gasping for air. The fresh air hit me like a drug.

“How… how did you find me?” I choked out.

Trey looked conflicted. “Your last post. You tagged your location. I couldn’t ignore it.”

My stomach twisted. Even at my lowest, my obsession with being seen had left me vulnerable.

***

Back in my apartment, I stared at my phone. Notifications piled up. People were speculating about my disappearance. Conspiracy theories trended: “Did Callie fake this for clout?”

Trey sat across from me, his arms crossed. “You don’t have to keep doing this, Callie.”

Tears burned in my eyes. “It’s all I have.”

“No,” he said gently. “It’s not.”

My finger hovered over the app. With a deep breath, I deleted it. The weight lifted, but not entirely.

As I set my phone down, a single notification flashed across the blank screen.

User12345: “You can’t bury the truth.”

***

The silence of my phone was deafening. Without the app, my usual distractions—notifications, comments, and DMs—were gone. The emptiness felt like a hole in my soul, but at least it was quiet.

Trey stayed for a while, helping me clean up the apartment. He was gentle but firm, guiding me through deleting old files, clearing staged props, and boxing up brand products I’d never even opened. Each discarded piece felt like shedding a layer of someone I no longer recognized.

But as night fell, the silence became oppressive. Trey was leaving soon, and I didn’t trust myself alone.

“You don’t have to go,” I blurted out, surprising even myself.

He looked at me, hesitant. “Callie, this isn’t about us. You need to figure out what you want without me being your safety net.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Thanks for saving me.”

“Always,” he said softly, closing the door behind him.

***

That night, I dreamed I was back in the coffin. Dirt pressed against my lungs, my phone screen glowing faintly in the dark. On it, the app had reappeared. Every time I tried to delete it, the app multiplied, filling my phone with infinite copies.

I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat. My phone sat on the nightstand, blank and silent.

But the next morning, when I turned it on, the app was back.

My blood ran cold. I hadn’t reinstalled it. My thumb hovered over the icon, shaking. Against my better judgment, I opened it.

My profile was intact, but it was different. My curated posts were gone, replaced with images I had never taken.

A candid shot of me arguing with Trey.

A tear-streaked selfie I didn’t remember taking.

A blurred photo of my reflection, distorted and hollow-eyed.

The captions were worse. They revealed truths I’d never admitted, not even to myself.

"I don’t even like coffee, but they do."

"I love the idea of love, not Trey."

"I’m afraid of being forgotten."

I slammed the phone down, my chest heaving. The line between reality and manipulation was crumbling.

***

The next day, I went to Trey’s place. He opened the door, surprised to see me.

“I think I’m losing my mind,” I admitted. “The app—it’s back. But it’s… wrong. It’s showing things I’ve never posted. Things I’ve never said.”

Trey frowned, his concern deepening. “Have you told anyone else about this? Maybe a therapist or—”

“No,” I interrupted. “They’ll think I’m crazy. Hell, I think I’m crazy.”

He led me inside, sitting across from me at his kitchen table. “Okay. Let’s figure this out. Did anyone have access to your account? A manager? A hacker, maybe?”

I shook my head. “No one. And even if they did, how would they know these things?”

Trey didn’t have an answer. But he stayed with me as I tried to piece together the timeline, searching for any rational explanation.

***

That night, the messages returned.

User12345: “You can’t run from yourself, Callie. You’ve lied so long, you’ve forgotten the truth. Let me remind you.”

I stared at the screen, heart pounding. This time, I didn’t delete the message. Instead, I typed back.

“What do you want from me?”

The response was immediate: “To see you.”

My phone buzzed with a notification: a live feed had started from my account. It showed my apartment—but not the way I’d staged it. The camera panned to my bedroom, where I sat frozen in real-time.

I stood up, my legs trembling. “Who are you?” I screamed into the empty room.

The lights flickered, plunging me into darkness. My phone screen was the only source of light now, and the feed was still running. Slowly, the camera on the live stream turned to show the mirror behind me.

In the reflection, I wasn’t alone.

A figure materialize behind me, its face featureless but unmistakably me—hollowed out, a grotesque parody of the persona I’d created.

“Stop it!” I shouted, whipping around. But the room was empty. When I turned back to the phone, the figure was gone, replaced with a single message.

“It’s time to face the truth.”

***

For the next few days, I refused to leave Trey’s apartment. He offered to stay home with me, but I could see the strain in his eyes. I was dragging him into something I didn’t fully understand, and it wasn’t fair.

Late one night, I decided I couldn’t hide anymore. If User12345 wanted me to face the truth, I would.

I went live on my account, this time intentionally. My hands shook as I stared into the camera. Thousands of followers joined within seconds, their comments flooding the screen.

“This is the real me,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’m not perfect. I’m not grounded or serene. I’ve lied to all of you, and to myself. I’ve hurt people I love for the sake of likes and attention. And now… now I don’t know who I am anymore.”

The comments froze. For a moment, the silence felt unbearable. Then one by one, real messages started coming through:

"Thank you for saying this."

"I’ve felt the same way."

"We see you, Callie. The real you.”

The screen dimmed, a final notification appearing at the top:

User12345 has left the chat.

***

The app didn’t delete itself, but I stopped using it. Trey helped me find a therapist who understood the unique pressures of living a curated life. Slowly, I began reconnecting with the world outside the screen.

One day, I returned to the café—not for content, but for coffee. When the barista handed me my cup, my real name was written on it.

As I sat by the window, sipping the coffee, I felt the sun on my face for the first time in what felt like years. The haunting wasn’t entirely gone; I still felt its shadow in the quiet moments. But I was learning to live with it.

And for the first time, I wasn’t afraid to be unseen.

The Curse Beneath the Sand by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

The Curse Beneath the Sand

By Olivia Salter

Word Count:  1,141

The desert night was silent, the only sound the faint hiss of sand slipping against the stone. By the glow of his lantern, Howard Carter knelt before the massive stone slab, barely breathing. Beneath his fingers, the cold sandstone felt alive, pulsing with secrets older than civilization. Weeks of fevered digging had led him here, to this shadowed chamber sealed for millennia. And now, beneath the Valley of the Kings, he was on the verge of his greatest discovery—one that had eluded him, teased him, through rumor and half-formed tales.

As his crew lifted the stone lid, an ancient, sickly odor seeped into the air, harsh and stale. Carter’s stomach turned, but he forced himself to look. Towering before him were sarcophagus, larger than any he had ever encountered, crafted with precision so fine that even the dim lantern light seemed to make the carved faces breathe.

“Sir…” whispered Winters, his young assistant, pale and shivering despite the desert heat. “Have you…have you seen anything like this?”

Carter shook his head, his gaze locked on the giant stone forms. These weren’t just any pharaohs—they were colossal, their limbs elongated in strange, unnatural proportions, the lids etched with snarling jackals and serpents twisted around arms as thick as pillars. Hieroglyphs glistened under the flickering light, symbols of rage and sorrow intertwined: Guardians of the Sun’s Path. Blood of Ra.

A chill ran through him, but he brushed it off. This was his life’s work—his ambition, his purpose. But even as he marveled, a sliver of doubt wormed into his mind. Perhaps there was a reason this chamber had remained sealed. The hieroglyphs around him spoke of curses, but one line repeated again and again, as though to drive the warning home: Leave the blood of Ra to rest.

And then, in the silence, he heard it—a low, rhythmic sound, like a heartbeat pulsing through the stone. It was faint but unmistakable, as though something slumbered, half-awake and listening.

Winters staggered back, clutching a small protective charm to his chest. “Sir…maybe we shouldn’t…”

“Stay calm, Winters,” Carter snapped, more out of fear than impatience. He couldn’t turn back now, not with everything at stake. And yet, as he stared into the painted stone eyes of the colossal figures, a strange thought crossed his mind: perhaps they were staring back. The shadows seemed to deepen, the air thickening with a presence as ancient as the desert itself.

Just then, the ground beneath them trembled, a low rumble that sent dust cascading from the ceiling. And then he saw it—the massive stone lid of the largest sarcophagus shifting, as though something inside was pressing against it, testing its seal.

“Sir…” Winters stammered, frozen with terror.

Before Carter could respond, the lid groaned open, revealing an arm reaching from within—a limb dark and sinewed, cracked like ancient bark, each finger long and clawed, longer than any human’s. Carter’s heart pounded as his mind scrambled for explanations, but there were none. This was no artifact, no mere stone carving. It was alive.

The figure rose, a towering mass draped in remnants of gold and royal linen, its face framed in a ceremonial headdress. But its eyes—those blackened, pitiless eyes—glowed with a faint red, burning through the gloom. The giant form looked at Carter, its gaze filled with something beyond hatred, something deeper, as if it recognized him.

Carter stumbled back, his throat dry. What have I done? Every curse he had ever laughed off, every warning he had ignored, seemed to press down on him now. He thought of the tombs he’d disturbed, the treasures he’d claimed. And in the pharaoh’s gaze, he felt the weight of his choices.

The figure raised its hand and pointed to the wall, where images began to shift, hieroglyphs flickering to life under the faint red glow. Carter stared, mesmerized, as the story of this pharaoh came to life. He wasn’t buried with treasures or servants, nor was he honored. This giant had been sealed away as a guardian, a creature half-myth, cursed to remain here to protect Egypt from something darker than death.

“Sir…please…let’s go,” Winters whispered, edging toward the exit, clutching the charm in his hand.

But Carter couldn’t move. He was bound, his legs frozen, his mind ensnared by the revelation, the terrible beauty of it all. He was looking at something that no human was meant to see, something that defied time itself. And then, as though reading his every thought, the figure spoke, its voice a low, guttural rumble that filled the chamber with the weight of centuries.

“Thou who hast trespassed,” it intoned, the words seeping into Carter’s mind, bypassing language, “thou who would steal from the dead—know that my wrath shall be eternal.”

The chamber began to quake, stone cracking, dust billowing around them. Winters screamed, backing away as the ceiling began to crumble, chunks of stone crashing to the ground. But Carter, even now, could only watch, mesmerized, as the colossus stepped forward, one titanic foot shaking the ground with every movement.

Reality broke through, and Carter finally turned, pulling Winters toward the entrance. They fled, the walls collapsing behind them, the roar of falling stone and the thunderous footsteps of the guardian filling their ears. But even as they scrambled through the narrow passageways, Carter knew there was no escaping the pharaoh’s judgment.

They burst into the open desert, gasping, gulping down the cold night air, but a shadow still loomed over them. Carter glanced back, and there, framed in the moonlight, the giant stood at the entrance of the tomb, its eyes like twin fires against the stars.

“Run,” Carter said, shoving Winters toward the tents. “Take the charm. Go, and don’t look back.”

Winters looked at him, eyes wide with terror, clutching the charm as though it might save him. “What about you?”

Carter managed a weak smile. “I’ll stay. This… this was my mistake.”

For a moment, Winters hesitated, but then he turned and ran, disappearing into the darkness. Carter faced the towering figure alone, feeling the sand shift beneath him, as if the desert itself sought to reclaim him.

He dropped to his knees, hands trembling, bowing his head in resignation. He’d spent his life tearing into the earth for secrets, defying every warning, chasing glory without regard for those who had come before. Now, he understood the cost.

The pharaoh’s eyes blazed brighter as it raised one colossal arm, and in the final instant, as the winds swept around him and the sands began to swallow him whole, Carter let out a breath, almost grateful to be undone by the very forces he’d ignored.

The sands settled, erasing every trace of the dig, leaving only a hollow, haunted silence where the curse had at last found its justice.

Unfinished Symphony by Olivia Salter | Poetry

 

Unfinished Symphony

By Olivia Salter 

In a dim, drab office,
under buzzing fluorescent lights,
a young lady—ebony skin, yet striking—
sits, grinding away day after day.

The gray, cracked walls
and the bland hum of the ticking clock
beat out a lifeless rhythm,
filling the silence with steady taps.

Her tired brown eyes wander
across endless columns of numbers,
lines and curves of 2's and 3's,
her pen scratching the page,
disrupting the stillness.

Autumn sun slips weakly
through the grimy glass,
streaking across her ledger.
Then—what was that?

A soft, familiar tune, distant yet clear,
breaks through the walls around her mind.
Louder, closer it comes.
The pen falls from her grip, forgotten.

Tears glisten in her eyes,
her lips tremble into a faint, wistful smile.
She stands there, captured in a silent dance,
one hand resting on her heart,
the other raised, as if to catch the music.

The clock’s ticking fades,
and she loses herself,
draws in the music like breath,
her face bright with visions,
her soul alive with poetry.

The words pour out, unbidden,
rising from somewhere deep.
She murmurs verses, her lips barely moving,
lost in the moment.

Then, the clock strikes—
a harsh reminder, a sudden jolt.
The music ends, the words vanish.
She blinks, the vision fades,
and a look of pain clouds her face.

"Tick, tock," the clock chants,
“Work, work,” it insists.
Dreams don’t pay rent,
don’t buy food for her children,
don’t bring security.

The dream is pulled back, forced down.
But oh, if she had the chance,
if the world opened to her voice,
She’d be more than a shadow,
She’d be a name, a legacy.

And you, world, with all your wealth,
couldn’t you make room for such a voice?
Why should brilliance suffocate,
why should a soul burn out,
unseen, uncelebrated?

Trapped in that cramped room,
she feels ideas beating at her mind,
like birds, desperate to fly free—
only to fall silent, caged,
fading back into the dark.

Betrayed by Love: The Web of Lies Between Us by Olivia Salter | Short Story

 

Betrayed by Love: The Web of Lies Between Us

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 5,352

The rain was relentless that night, pounding against the kitchen window as Maya scrubbed the dinner plates, alone. She felt the stillness, the absence of laughter that used to fill this room—their room, the home they’d built. A message buzzed on her phone, lighting up the counter with two familiar words: Working late. Again.

She stared at the message, her grip tightening around the dish towel. Lately, “working late” had become Andre’s go-to excuse, but it had once meant something different. In the early days of their marriage, he’d come home after those long nights exhausted but full of stories. He’d laugh as he told her about the chaotic clients, or she’d see his eyes light up when he’d finally signed a big deal. He was ambitious, and she admired that. Together, they’d navigated setbacks, the bruising failures of his first business, and she’d stood by him, reassuring him they could make it through anything. But now, instead of the warmth she once felt, all that remained was a shadowy emptiness.

It started as little things, barely noticeable at first. Andre would leave his phone face-down on the counter or slide it into his pocket whenever she entered the room. He had taken to answering her questions with quick, clipped responses that told her everything and nothing at once. She’d find herself repeating, He’s just busy, or, He’ll open up when he’s ready, but there was an undercurrent—a slow-building tension, like a crack running through glass, expanding in silence.

The memory of his laugh felt more like a distant echo, and she found herself searching his face when he spoke, looking for traces of the man she’d married. But he was slipping away from her, fading into the polished, professional mask he wore for the world, his smile rehearsed, his warmth hollow.

One night, unable to sleep, she lay in the dark beside him, staring at the ceiling, the stillness pressing down on her like an invisible force. Something was wrong; she knew it. But every time she opened her mouth to ask him, her voice felt too small, her questions foolish and unfounded.

Yet the nagging doubt didn’t fade. One evening, as she sat alone in their kitchen, she pulled up their joint credit card account. She wasn’t snooping—she managed their finances; it was her habit to check expenses, to budget. But when she saw the charge—a hotel booking from two weeks ago—her heart stilled. It wasn’t the amount that shocked her, or even the location. It was the date. That particular night, he had come home late, kissing her on the forehead with the quick murmur of, “Just another long day.”

The walls around her seemed to close in as she stared at the screen, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to believe it was a mistake, that there was a logical explanation, but her mind kept spiraling, filling with questions she was too afraid to ask.

She spent that night tangled in the sheets, twisting restlessly beside him as he slept, undisturbed. By morning, the uncertainty had morphed into a simmering anger, fueled by every evasive response, every dismissive wave of his hand. She was done with silence.

Over breakfast, she finally confronted him, her voice shaking with an anger she hadn’t expected. “I saw a charge for a hotel room on our credit card,” she said, staring directly into his eyes. “Want to explain that?”

He looked up, his spoon frozen mid-air, and for a split second, she saw something flicker across his face—guilt, perhaps, or maybe just surprise. He quickly composed himself, forcing a casual smile that felt wrong, like he was slipping on a mask.

“Oh, that?” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “It was a business meeting. Sometimes clients don’t want to discuss things in public spaces.”

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, her mind dissecting every word, every twitch of his expression. There was a time when his easy charm had been comforting, but now it felt like a barrier, a way to keep her at arm’s length. “A business meeting,” she repeated, her voice hollow.

He avoided her gaze, spooning up another scoop of grits as though nothing had happened. “Yes, Maya. It’s just business.”

But her stomach churned, and she felt something shift inside her—a breaking point, a slow shattering of the trust they had spent years building. She wanted to believe him, wanted to brush it off and move forward, but her instincts screamed otherwise.

***

The following days passed in a haze. She’d walk through their home and catch sight of their wedding photos, the smiling faces frozen in time, each image a reminder of the life they had once dreamed of. She would lie awake, listening to his soft breathing beside her, feeling like there was an invisible wall between them, a distance she couldn’t bridge.

Then, weeks later, she stumbled across a pile of unopened letters. They were mostly bills and bank statements—things she usually sorted through without a second thought. But when she saw her name listed as the primary borrower on a loan document, she felt her world tilt. She hadn’t taken out any loans. Her heart sank as she read through the statement, the total amount glaring back at her like a condemnation.

He had used her name. He had taken out a loan without her knowledge, hiding it under her identity like a parasite leeching off her trust. The betrayal felt like a knife twisting inside her, sharp and cold, as if everything she thought she knew was unraveling, leaving her grasping at broken threads.

When he came home that night, she didn’t hold back. Her anger spilled over, her voice rising as she confronted him, every accusation tumbling out in a bitter torrent. “How could you do this to me? How could you take out a loan in my name and lie about it?”

Andre stood there, his face a mixture of frustration and desperation. “I thought—I just needed a little help,” he said, his voice cracking. “The business— it’s not easy, Maya. I didn’t want you to think I’d failed again.”

His words felt hollow, a string of excuses that only deepened her anger. She watched him, seeing him fully for the first time—not the man she had loved, but someone who had used her trust as a shield, hiding behind it to protect himself from the consequences of his actions.

“Do you even realize what you’ve done?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You’ve destroyed us, Andre.”

She turned away, unable to bear the sight of him, feeling as though she were watching her life fall apart piece by piece, each memory tainted by his betrayal. The man she had once thought she’d grow old with was gone, replaced by a stranger.

The tension hung thick in the room as Maya sat across from Andre, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a storm brewing behind her eyes. She had spent the last few hours unraveling what felt like a twisted web of deception, her mind reeling with the reality of it all: the money, the lies, the betrayals she hadn’t even begun to fully comprehend. It had taken a single phone call with their bank to confirm what she had long feared—Andre had taken out a massive loan of a million dollars in both of their names, without her knowledge or consent.

Andre shifted nervously on the couch, his eyes darting to the floor. He had known the confrontation was inevitable, but he hadn’t expected Maya to uncover it so soon. He tried to reach for her hand, but she drew back, her expression hard like a pit bull.

“Maya, please,” he began, his voice pleading, “I know this looks bad, but I was going to tell you. I just… I thought I could handle it on my own, that I could fix things before you even knew. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Handle it?” Maya’s voice was low, barely containing her anger. “Andre, you took out a loan in my name. Behind my back. Without even considering the consequences it would have on both of us. Do you understand how serious that is?”

Andre’s face flushed, his gaze darting to the side. “I know it was wrong, but I was desperate. Things at work haven’t been going well, and the bills… they were piling up. I thought if I could just get some cash flow, we’d be okay.”

Maya shook her head, bitterness rising in her chest. “And that’s supposed to make it okay? That’s supposed to make me feel better?” She paused, her voice trembling. “You lied to me, Andre. You made a decision that affects both of us without even consulting me. How am I supposed to trust you after this?”

Andre’s hands clenched into fists. He tried to mask his frustration, but it slipped through the cracks. “I did it for us, Maya. I didn’t want to drag you down with my problems. I thought… I thought I could fix it myself.”

“For us?” Maya repeated, her voice distrusting. “You didn’t do this for us, Andre. You did this for yourself, to avoid facing the reality of our situation, to avoid having an honest conversation with me. I would have helped you if you’d just told me the truth. But instead, you decided to keep me in the dark, to let me believe everything was fine when it wasn’t.”

Andre looked away, guilt etched into his features. “I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But please, Maya… please, don’t end things like this. We can get through this. I’ll fix it, I swear.”

Maya stood up, the weight of his betrayal settling heavily in her heart. She looked down at him, her voice steady but filled with pain. “I thought we were partners, Andre. I thought we were building a life together, sharing everything—the good and the bad. But you’ve shown me that I can’t trust you. You kept secrets, you lied, and you put me in a position I didn’t ask to be in. That’s not love. That’s not respect.”

Andre’s face twisted in desperation. He stood, reaching for her, his voice breaking. “Maya, please, don’t do this. Don’t throw everything away over one mistake. I’ll make it right. I’ll be better, I swear.”

She took a step back, putting distance between them. “It’s not just one mistake, Andre. It’s the trust you broke, the lies you told. How am I supposed to move forward with someone I can’t even trust? Every time I look at you, I’ll remember that you didn’t respect me enough to be honest.”

“Maya, I love you,” he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “I love you, and I can’t lose you.”

She looked at him, tears pooling in her eyes, but her decision was unshaken. “Love isn’t enough, Andre. Not without honesty, not without trust. And you took both of those things from me.”

With one last glance, she turned, grabbing her coat from the chair, and walked toward the door. He called out to her one last time, but she didn’t stop, didn’t look back. As she stepped out into the cool night air, she felt a strange mixture of grief and relief. Her heart was breaking, but at least now, it was breaking for something true.

***

In the months that followed, the apartment felt like a ghostly shell of itself. The rooms were filled with silence, the spaces where Andre’s belongings had been now empty. She felt hollow, as if her heart had been scooped out, leaving only an aching void. Nights were the worst; she would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every conversation, every touch, every moment she had missed. She questioned her own instincts, wondering how she could have been so blind.

It was a cold, gray Saturday morning when Maya’s phone buzzed unexpectedly. She was in the middle of her usual weekend routine, tidying her apartment while humming along to the smooth rhythm of "Choosey Lover" by the Isley Brothers drifting from the radio. The scent of her freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air as she took a slow sip, savoring the moment of quiet comfort. Then her phone screen lit up with an unknown number, cutting through her small oasis of peace.

Maya hesitated, eyeing the phone with a mix of annoyance and mild curiosity. Unknown numbers rarely brought anything good, yet something inside her—a feeling she couldn’t quite shake—urged her to pick up. She took a breath, steadying herself as she answered.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end was soft, almost hesitant. “Hi, is this Maya?”

The simple question prickled at her nerves. “Yes, this is she,” Maya replied, keeping her tone polite but guarded.

There was a pause, a breath too long, before the voice continued. “My name is Lena. I’m calling… I’m calling because of Andre. He’s my fiancé.”

The name hit Maya like a punch to the gut. Andre. Her Andre. The man she had spent years loving, only to have her trust shattered by his lies. She had clawed her way out of the despair he left her in, rebuilt herself bit by bit, and put his name away in a locked drawer in her mind. She hadn’t heard it in months, hadn’t wanted to, and now, here it was, resurrected by a stranger’s voice.

“What do you want?” The words came out sharper than she intended, each syllable laced with the remnants of the bitterness she thought she’d buried.

The woman on the other end took a shaky breath, her voice unsteady. “I know this is awkward, and I really didn’t want to intrude on your life. But I felt you deserved to know.” Lena’s voice wavered, as if she was struggling to push each word out. “I’m… I’m pregnant,  due any day. And Andre is the father.”

For a moment, Maya couldn’t breathe. The words didn’t make sense; they felt like jagged pieces of some cruel puzzle she was supposed to put together. The sounds of the apartment faded away, leaving a dull, ringing silence. Her grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles were white, grounding her in the face of this fresh wave of betrayal.

“What…?” Her voice came out as a hollow whisper, her throat dry as sand.

Lena’s words tumbled out in a rush, as though she feared Maya might hang up. “I didn’t know he was married,” she continued, sounding both pained and apologetic. “He never told me until recently… until I found out about you. I confronted him, and that’s when he confessed everything—the loan he took out in both your names, that he used for the down payment he made on our new place. I felt like my whole world crumbled. And then… I found out I was pregnant.”

Maya’s knees grew weak, and she sank down onto the edge of her bed, clutching the phone as if it were the only thing tethering her to reality. The words washed over her, cold and brutal, ripping open wounds she thought had finally started to heal. She had suspected the lies, felt the strain, but another life? Another woman, another home, another future? It was more than she could bear.

“So… he kept all of this from me,” Maya murmured, the bitterness lacing her voice now raw and sharp. “Not just the loan, not just the lies. But… an entire other life.”

“Yes,” Lena replied, her voice breaking slightly. “I’m so sorry. I know this must be devastating to hear. And I don’t expect you to have any sympathy for me—I feel betrayed too. I thought he was honest with me, that he was… my future. But I couldn’t go through this without telling you. You deserved the truth.”

Maya’s mind was spinning, her memories rushing back in stark, painful clarity. The late-night calls he’d dismiss as “work emergencies,” the odd disappearances, the vague answers she’d brushed aside because she’d trusted him, believed him. Every piece fell into place now, a jigsaw of betrayal that formed a picture too painful to look at.

“Thank you for telling me,” she managed, her voice brittle. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

Lena’s voice softened, carrying a note of understanding, almost a sad sisterhood in their shared suffering. “I understand. I know this doesn’t change anything, and I’m not expecting you to forgive him—or me. But I thought maybe… maybe it would give you closure.”

After a few more strained exchanges, the call ended, leaving Maya in a silence that felt like it might crush her. She sat there for what felt like hours, staring blankly at the walls as her apartment filled with the hollow weight of Andre’s betrayal. It seeped into the room like a dark fog, wrapping around her heart, her bones, pulling her back into the pit of anguish she thought she’d escaped.

She rose slowly, almost as if in a trance, wandering to the living room where the remnants of her morning lay—the coffee cup still half full, the scent of it mingling with the faint echo of the Isley Brothers’ melody, now silent. She looked around at the life she had built, the life she had invited Andre into, only to be deceived so thoroughly. Her home, once a sanctuary, now felt tainted, a reminder of how easily love could turn to ashes.

The realization of the depth of his dishonesty felt like an anchor, pulling her down into an ocean of hurt she had barely escaped. She wanted to scream, to cry, to rage against the unfairness of it all. But all she could do was sit there, hollow and numb, as the life she had once shared with him unraveled completely.

Hours later, as dusk began to settle over the city, Maya finally found the strength to get up. She walked to the window and looked out, her heart aching, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts. This betrayal was a wound that would take a long time to heal, one that went beyond lies and secrets—it was a wound that cut to the very core of who she was and the trust she had given so freely.

***

Two days later, Maya was still processing Lena’s call, her emotions like raw, exposed nerves. She was replaying every moment, every detail, when her phone buzzed again. This time, it was Andre’s name on the screen. Her stomach twisted, but she felt a strange calm settle over her. She knew she needed answers.

She answered, voice steady. “What do you want, Andre?”

“Maya, please,” he started, a pleading edge in his voice. “Can we talk? I know I messed up—I know I lied, and I hurt you. But I just need a chance to explain.”

Against her better judgment, she agreed to meet him at a small café near her apartment. She kept her guard up as she arrived, her heart hardened against the familiar face waiting for her. He looked thinner, a bit ragged, as though he hadn’t slept well. She felt a pang of sympathy before remembering all he had done.

“Maya,” he said as soon as she sat down, reaching for her hand. She pulled back, crossing her arms, waiting for him to explain himself.

He cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable under her gaze. “Look, I know… I know I’ve been awful. I know I lied, and I hurt you more than I can even understand. But it wasn’t… it wasn’t what you think.”

Maya arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Really? So you didn’t lie to me about the money? Or about where you were all those times?”

Andre swallowed, then shook his head. “No. I did lie about those things, and I know it was wrong. I just—I didn’t want to tell you because… because I was embarrassed. I got in over my head, Maya. The debt, the pressure… I was drowning, and I thought I could handle it on my own. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

She felt her jaw tighten as he spoke, frustration building. “So that was it? You were just in debt?”

He nodded, eyes downcast. “Yes, that’s it. I swear, Maya, there wasn’t… there wasn’t another woman.”

Maya’s heart clenched at the blatant lie. She wanted to throw Lena’s words back in his face, to reveal that she knew everything. But something held her back, an instinct to let him reveal himself, to see how far he’d go with the charade.

“You expect me to believe that?” she asked, voice low, barely masking her anger.

“Yes,” he insisted, his eyes finally meeting hers, a flicker of desperation in them. “There was no one else. I swear to you. It was just the money. That’s all. I know I should’ve come clean sooner, but I didn’t want to lose you, Maya. You mean everything to me.”

Maya felt a hollow ache rise up in her chest as he reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. She pulled her hand away, crossing her arms again. “Andre, do you think I’m stupid?”

He looked at her, startled. “What do you mean?”

“You think I don’t know about Lena?”

The color drained from his face. For a moment, his mouth opened, but no words came out. He swallowed hard, and she saw the mask crack, a flicker of fear crossing his face.

“Lena… she called me,” Maya said quietly, watching his expression closely. “She told me about the baby. She told me everything.”

Andre’s shoulders slumped, his entire demeanor deflated. “Maya, I… I didn’t want you to know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I could fix things before you found out. I didn’t want to hurt you any more than I already had.”

“But you did hurt me, Andre. Over and over again. Do you even realize what you’ve done?”

Tears filled his eyes, and he reached for her hand again, desperation in his touch. “Please, Maya. I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I can change. I swear, I’ll do anything to make this right. No more secrets. No more lies. I want to make this work. I still love you.”

She looked down at his hand, her fingers resting in his, but she felt no warmth, no spark, no hope. Only a dull, aching sorrow for the life she had once thought they would build together, for the man she had once loved and trusted. That man was gone, replaced by someone she no longer recognized.

“Love?” she repeated, pulling her hand away. “You think you still love me after all of this? Love isn’t secrets, Andre. Love isn’t betrayal. And love definitely isn’t bringing a child into the world with someone else behind my back.”

He reached for her again, but she stood, pushing her chair back with a firm finality. “Don’t,” she said, holding up her hand. “Don’t say anything else. I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth anymore.”

The pain and confusion in his face seemed genuine, but she knew it was too late. She couldn’t afford to believe him, not after all he had taken from her. She had nothing left to give him.

“Goodbye, Andre,” she said, her voice steady, even as her heart felt like it was splintering all over again. She turned, leaving him sitting at the table, his hand outstretched, empty.

Walking out of the café, she felt a strange sense of freedom mingling with the sorrow. The weight of Andre’s lies and betrayal no longer held her captive. She was finally ready to let go, to move forward without looking back. And for the first time in a long time, she felt the faintest glimmer of peace.

But even as the pain settled in, there was a flicker of hope. Andre had taken so much from her, but he could not take her peace, her strength, or her ability to move forward. He had betrayed her in unimaginable ways, but she would not let him define her future.

Maya took a deep breath, grounding herself in the present, feeling her own strength. She would carry this pain, but she would also let it sharpen her, fortify her. She was no longer the woman who would believe in hollow promises and empty reassurances. She was rebuilding herself, one scar at a time, into someone stronger than she had ever been.

As the first stars began to blink into the darkening sky, Maya turned away from the window, ready to face whatever came next.

***

Finally, unable to bear the silence anymore, she called a therapist. The first few sessions were grueling, each one like peeling back a layer of pain she had hidden from herself. She learned about dishonesty, how it could seep into a relationship, eroding trust until nothing remained. The betrayal had left her raw, vulnerable, and yet, there was a spark—a faint flicker of joy that refused to die.

Through therapy, she began to rebuild herself, piece by piece. She started identifying the warning signs she’d missed, the subtle lies, the dismissive comments that had eaten away at her sense of self-worth. She confronted the pain, the anger, and the guilt, slowly reclaiming the strength she had buried under layers of doubt and betrayal.

One evening, she decided to clear out the remnants of her past with Andre. She packed away his photos, removed the wedding ring she had once cherished, and opened the windows, letting in the cool night air. It was a ritual, a way to cleanse the space, to mark a new beginning. As she went through their things, she found herself drawn to her own belongings, her own memories—the books she loved, the art she had collected. Each item was a reminder of who she was before him, a woman who had once been whole.

***

Over the next few months, she created new routines for herself. She joined a local support group, where she found comfort in sharing her story with others who had suffered betrayal. There was solace in their shared pain, a reminder that she wasn’t alone. She rediscovered hobbies, lost herself in books, and began to rebuild friendships she had neglected.

One morning, as she walked through the city, she felt a lightness that surprised her. The city lights, the bustling streets, even the honking of cars—they all felt alive, vibrant, as if the world was inviting her to rejoin it. She smiled, a small but genuine smile, feeling, for the first time in months, a real sense of peace.

Maya stood by her apartment window that night, watching the skyline twinkle against the dark. She no longer felt haunted by the shadows of her past. Instead, there was pride, a quiet peace that had been forged through pain and healing. She had survived the wreckage, emerged stronger, wiser, and more sure of herself than ever.

As she leaned against the window, she knew she was ready to begin again—not out of need, but out of choice. She had woven a new story for herself, one grounded in honesty and self-respect. The wounds Andre had left were still there, but they were healing, fading into scars that no longer defined her.

Maya continued to fill her life with the things she loved. She found a quiet joy in decorating her apartment anew, slowly transforming each room into a reflection of her own taste and dreams. The kitchen, once a place filled with tense conversations and hurried glances, now became a cozy sanctuary. She painted the walls a warm shade of yellow and bought a set of matching mugs, one for every morning she would savor coffee by the window, a quiet ritual of gratitude for the freedom and peace she was reclaiming.

Eventually, Maya began meeting new people. She joined a book club and reconnected with old friends who had noticed her withdrawal during the turbulent years with Andre. Each connection she made reminded her of the value of trust and vulnerability, not as things to be guarded against but as gifts she could choose to give when the right people came along.

One Saturday, while browsing at a local bookstore, she bumped into a man who spilled coffee on her scarf. Startled, they both laughed as he apologized profusely. His name was James, and after a few minutes of easy conversation, he offered to buy her a replacement scarf from the little artisan stall outside. She accepted, a bit hesitantly, her guard up but her heart curious. James had a warmth to him, a calmness she found both comforting and disarming. They talked about books, family, and dreams over tea, and when he asked her out again, she found herself saying yes, surprised at how natural it felt to open herself to someone new.

In the weeks that followed, Maya and James took things slowly, each learning the other’s edges and boundaries with care and respect. Unlike with Andre, there were no hidden phone calls or vague excuses. James was open about his past, his career, his dreams. He listened as Maya shared her own story, the caution she now carried, and the heartbreak she had endured. When she told him about the betrayal, she expected him to change the subject or to offer the empty reassurances she had grown used to. Instead, he simply listened, his gaze steady and full of empathy.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he said, his voice soft. “No one deserves to be hurt like that. But I’m here, Maya. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words settled over her like a balm, soothing and reassuring. She had learned to be skeptical, to question her own instincts, but with James, something inside her relaxed. He wasn’t rushing her or asking for anything more than what she was ready to give. Their relationship was marked by small acts of trust, each one a tentative step forward, a way for her to rediscover what it meant to let someone in.

Months turned into a year, and slowly, Maya’s heart began to soften. She no longer held onto the bitterness or the fear that had once defined her. She was learning to love again, but this time with an awareness she hadn’t had before, a strength forged from the lessons of her past. She had boundaries now—clear and firm—and she communicated openly with James, letting him know when she felt insecure or unsure. They navigated those moments together, building something honest and unbreakable.

One evening, as they walked hand-in-hand through a quiet park, James stopped, turning to face her. “Maya,” he said, his voice a little shaky, “I know we’ve both been through a lot, and I don’t want to rush anything. But…I can’t imagine my life without you. I want us to keep building something real, together.”

Maya’s breath caught, her heart swelling as she looked into his eyes. She remembered the pain of betrayal, the fear of being hurt again, but those feelings no longer controlled her. She had rebuilt her life, found peace, and learned to trust herself. Standing there with James, she realized that while her journey had been marked by loss, it had also led her here—to a place of healing, hope, and love that felt more profound than anything she’d ever known.

“I want that, too,” she whispered, her voice steady. “Let’s keep building, together.”

As they continued down the path, Maya looked up at the sky, a deep indigo scattered with stars, each one a reminder of the beauty that existed beyond darkness. She was no longer defined by her past but by the strength she had found within herself. Her heart, once broken, was now whole, and she knew that whatever the future held, she was ready.

The Redemption of Black Bart by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

The Redemption of Black Bart

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,354

Bartholomew “Black Bart” Roberts was feared and loathed across the Caribbean. A tall, rugged figure, his raven-black hair and piercing gaze struck terror into the hearts of all who crossed his path. His ship, The Fortune’s Call, boasted sails as dark as midnight and a flag marked with skeletons gripping hourglasses—Bart’s infamous symbol, warning that time was running out for anyone unlucky enough to face him. A strategist at heart, Bart valued cunning over brute force, striking swiftly and vanishing into the horizon before his enemies even realized the threat.

Though the life of piracy had gifted Bart with unimaginable wealth, it hadn’t granted him peace. For months now, he’d been haunted by strange, troubling dreams. He’d see the faces of men he had betrayed, ships he’d burned, and families he’d left destitute. Each dream ended with a slow, steady ticking—an hourglass dripping its last grains of sand.

One night, as Bart stood alone on the deck, a chill swept over him, and the familiar sensation of being watched made his skin prickle. The moon hung low over the water, illuminating the sea with an unnatural, silvery glow. Bart narrowed his eyes at the stillness, sensing something unearthly.

Suddenly, a soft voice broke the silence. “Time is slipping away, Bart.”

Bart turned sharply, but the deck was empty. His grip on his cutlass tightened. Though he had long since buried any sense of fear, this voice, low and mournful, struck deep. For the first time in years, he felt a sliver of doubt worrying him.

Shaking off the unease, Bart steeled himself. Tomorrow, he would lead his crew to raid the wealthiest merchant vessel in the area—a ship carrying treasures destined for the Governor of Havana. It would be his most daring haul yet. Rallying his crew, Bart shouted, “Tomorrow, we’ll be richer than any king!” The men roared their approval, their greed overpowering any fear they might feel.

But even as he spoke, Bart felt a strange hollowness in his words. The thrill that had once driven him seemed distant, replaced by a subtle, creeping dread that tightened around him like a noose.

***

The Fortune’s Call sailed through a dense fog as dawn broke, the mist wrapping around the ship in ghostly twists. Bart’s crew moved in uneasy silence, the usual camaraderie replaced by tense glances toward the horizon. Bart himself felt the weight of an unseen presence pressing down on him, something ancient and heavy. But he kept his focus on the task ahead, ignoring the eerie stillness.

The target vessel emerged from the fog, a grand merchant ship with polished wood and sails that gleamed in the dim morning light. Bart raised his cutlass and signaled the attack. His crew swarmed aboard, swift and ruthless, overpowering the merchant sailors in minutes.

Bart descended into the cargo hold, eager to lay eyes on the treasure he’d risked so much to capture. But when he opened the first crate, he froze. Inside were not gold or jewels but hourglasses—hundreds of them, their sands trickling down in synchronized, relentless rhythm.

A cold shiver ran down his spine as he watched the hourglasses. The tick-tick of the sand seemed to echo in his ears, growing louder with each second. He staggered back, feeling his heart pound as shadowy figures began to form in the edges of his vision. They floated toward him, their faces familiar yet skeletal, hollow-eyed, and accusing.

These were the men he’d betrayed, the ships he’d sunk, the families he’d torn apart. They hovered around him, holding hourglasses of their own, the sands slipping through at an agonizing pace. Bart’s breath hitched as he recognized their faces—the young merchant he’d left stranded, the deckhand who’d begged for mercy, the captain whose ship he’d sunk without a thought.

“You… you’re dead,” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. The figures said nothing, their hollow eyes staring into him, their hourglasses ticking. The room felt colder, and his chest tightened with a suffocating weight of guilt he couldn’t ignore.

“Leave me,” he snarled, desperation slipping into his tone. But the figures remained unmoved. As he backed toward the stairs, the voice from his dreams echoed through the hold, louder and clearer than ever. “Time is slipping, Bart.”

Overwhelmed, Bart stumbled back to the deck, the eerie calm of the fog pressing in around him. His men watched him with confused glances, sensing their captain’s turmoil. For the first time, Bart didn’t know if he was running from the ghost or from himself.

***

Haunted and unraveling, Bart ordered his crew to set a course away from the raid. For days, he wandered the decks, unable to shake the vision of the hourglasses or the hollow eyes of his victims. His once-unbreakable courage was fracturing, his legendary ruthlessness fading with every passing night. Bart realized with a sense of dread that he had only one course left: he needed to face his past.

He gathered his remaining crew and ordered them to sail for his childhood village, a remote place where he had once dreamed of a life far different from piracy. Some of the crew protested, unable to understand why their captain would turn away from a life of wealth and power, but Bart silenced them with a dark, determined look. Only a few loyal men remained, too awed or afraid to abandon him entirely.

As they neared the shore of his village, Bart felt a strange calm wash over him. He ordered the men to unload the cargo of treasure they’d stolen over the years, instructing them to give it back to the people of the village. Watching the villagers come forward, cautious and wary, Bart saw their fear give way to shock and then something he hadn’t seen in years—gratitude.

He walked among them, handing gold coins and precious gems to widows, orphans, and those who had been victims of his greed. Though he knew no amount of wealth could right his wrongs, he felt a weight lift with each treasure he surrendered.

But just as the final piece was placed in a trembling villager’s hand, a familiar, icy chill swept over him. Bart turned to the water, where the mist had thickened, forming shadows that danced across the waves. The ghost figures appeared again, each one holding an hourglass that glowed faintly in the dim light. They stood there, silent, watching.

Bart took a deep breath, feeling an odd serenity as he faced them. The figures nodded, their hollow eyes no longer accusing but almost… approving. The hourglasses in their hands stilled, and one by one, the apparitions faded back into the mist.

But one figure remained—a version of himself, young and unscarred by the life he had chosen. This ghostly image of Bart looked at him with a gaze that was not bitter or resentful, but reflective, as though recognizing the man Bart had become. Bart raised a hand, and the specter mirrored the motion, nodding once before vanishing.

As the last of the mist cleared, Bart felt the weight of years lift from his shoulders. He looked back to his remaining crew, who stood watching in stunned silence. “Take what remains and sail,” he commanded. “I’ll not be joining you.”

They left, casting nervous glances back at the man who had once been their fearless leader, now a shadow of his former self but somehow… whole.

***

In the years that followed, stories spread of Black Bart’s final voyage and the mysterious treasure he’d given back to the villagers. They spoke of the pirate who had come to face his own sins, who had looked into the eyes of his victims and, in the end, chosen redemption over wealth. Some whispered that his ghost still walked the shores, watching over the village as a silent guardian.

On misty nights, travelers swore they could hear the faint ticking of an hourglass, an eerie reminder of Bart’s final journey. And for those brave enough to listen, the sea seemed to murmur a tale of a man who, in his last days, had finally found peace.

The Asylum's Echo by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

Whispering Shadows

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,777

Lucy stood at the crumbling entrance of the asylum, the wind howling through the broken windows like the mournful cries of lost souls. The air was thick with the scent of decay, and the cracked walls hovered above her, whispering secrets of a time long forgotten. She had always felt a strange pull toward this place, an inexplicable connection that tugged at her heart. It wasn’t just curiosity that drove her here; it was a deep-seated need to uncover the truth behind the shadows that flitted through her dreams.

As she stepped inside, the darkness surrounded her like a shroud. The peeling wallpaper clung to the walls like the remnants of memories, each tear and stain telling its own story. Lucy’s heart raced as she ventured deeper, the echo of her footsteps mingling with the whispers of the past. She had heard tales of the asylum’s inhabitants—ghosts trapped between worlds, each with their own tragic tale.

Suddenly, she caught sight of a figure in the corner of her eye—the Thumbless Man, his gaze fixed intently on a tattered piece of fabric he was weaving. There was a haunting beauty to his concentration, and Lucy felt a strange kinship with him, as if she understood the pain of his lost potential. 

“Why do you weave?” Lucy found herself asking, her voice a mere whisper in the oppressive silence.

He paused, looking up at her with eyes that held centuries of sorrow. “To create what I can no longer hold,” he replied, his voice a raspy echo. “Every thread tells a story.”

Further down the corridor, she found the Traveler, lost in thought, his eyes filled with longing as he stared into the distance. Lucy felt her heart ache for him; she had always been drawn to places and people that seemed out of reach, as if she were wandering through life in search of something she could never find.

“Where do you seek to go?” she inquired gently, stepping closer.

He turned to her, a flicker of hope in his gaze. “Somewhere beyond this place, where memories don’t haunt the living.”

And then there was the Rabbit Woman, her nervous energy palpable as she paced back and forth, whispering to herself. Lucy felt a pang of recognition; she too often felt restless, trapped in her own mind, seeking solace in the chaos of her thoughts. 

“Why do you fear?” Lucy asked, her curiosity piqued.

The Rabbit Woman paused, glancing at Lucy with wide eyes. “Fear is all I have left. It keeps me safe from the memories that threaten to consume me.”

As she moved deeper into the asylum, the air grew colder, and Lucy's breath formed clouds in front of her. She could feel the weight of their despair pressing down on her, a chorus of voices urging her to listen, to understand. The conflict within her grew—her curiosity battled against the instinct to flee. What if she uncovered something that shattered her understanding of herself?

Then, amidst the shadows, she stumbled upon a room filled with faded photographs and forgotten artifacts. It was here that the weight of the asylum’s history crashed over her. Lucy felt an overwhelming sense of loss, as if the echoes of the past were pulling her into their depths. In that moment, she realized that her connection to the asylum was deeper than she had ever imagined. She wasn’t just a visitor; she was part of the tapestry of souls woven into its walls.

As she turned to leave, an unsettling thought gripped her—what if she, too, was destined to linger in this place? The asylum had whispered something only she could hear, a half-formed dream she didn’t want to confront. The urge to turn back and join the silent watch of the ghosts flickered in her mind. 

The silence in the asylum grew heavier, oppressive, like the weight of a thousand unseen eyes pressing down on her. Lucy’s breath came in shallow bursts, her legs trembling beneath her. She tried to move, to escape, but her feet felt rooted to the floor, as if the very ground was claiming her as its own. She could feel the cold seep through her shoes, into her bones, gnawing at her, the chill of the ghosts' presence seeping into her skin.

The Traveler’s eyes never wavered. His stare, empty yet full of ancient knowledge, seemed to pierce through the fabric of her thoughts, reading her every fear, every regret. His lips parted slowly, and for a moment, she thought he might speak, but the words never came. Instead, there was only a deep, resonant silence, a hum that filled her chest, making her heart beat in time with it, as if her very pulse was syncing with the rhythm of this forsaken place.

The Rabbit Woman’s footsteps echoed in the hallway again, her erratic pacing growing more frantic. “It’s coming,” she muttered, more to herself than to Lucy. “The end. The end of all things. Don’t let them catch you. Don’t let them take you.”

Lucy turned, drawn by the urgency in the Rabbit Woman’s voice. She tried to reach out, to ask her what she meant, but before she could speak, the Rabbit Woman vanished into the shadows, swallowed whole by the asylum’s endless corridors. Lucy’s breath caught, her eyes wide with disbelief. Had she really been here? Had any of them been here? Or was this all just a fevered hallucination of a mind long broken?

But as the air grew colder still, she knew it wasn’t just her mind. This place was real. These spirits were real.

In the distance, the dragging sound returned—slow, deliberate. Lucy’s skin crawled as she turned to face the source. The Silent Gods had moved closer, their broken forms shifting like shadows in the periphery of her vision. They were no longer distant figures, their faces obscured by their contorted, unnatural postures. No, now they were standing before her, their eyes empty voids. The twisted forms reached toward her, silent and hungry, their motions jerky, unnatural.

Lucy’s heart slammed against her ribcage. The gods had seen her. She could feel their gaze, cold and unblinking. It was as if they were not just watching, but waiting, waiting for her to make her choice.

She turned to the Thumbless Man, his loom now eerily still, his raw hands resting on the thread. He was watching her, his blank face expressionless, but his fingers twitched as if beckoning her forward. Something in his posture was different now—there was a pull, an invitation. But an invitation to what? She wanted to scream, to demand answers. She wanted to break free of this suffocating dread.

But then she saw it—the loom, the tapestry, that web of gray threads. In the dim light, the strands shimmered, and Lucy realized that the pattern was shifting, subtly at first, like the slow turning of a wheel, but then faster, becoming clearer.

It was her.

She was woven into it, a part of the design.

The tapestry was no longer just threads of time or fate; it was her fate. Her image, her likeness, slowly unraveling in the weave. The weight of it pressed against her chest, choking the breath from her lungs.

"No," she whispered, backing away. "No, this isn’t me. This can’t be me."

But as her words echoed through the hallway, they too seemed to fade, becoming part of the pattern, swallowed by the very tapestry she feared.

The Thumbless Man slowly lifted his head, the hollow emptiness of his face never shifting, yet Lucy could feel him looking directly into her soul. She knew then that she was already trapped. The asylum was not just a building of broken souls; it was a mirror, and she had been staring into it, all along.

She spun away from him, her body moving on instinct now. She had to get out. She had to run, to escape. But the hallways stretched on endlessly, the walls closing in around her. No matter which direction she ran, she only found more shadows, more ghosts, more faces. The Traveler, the Thumbless Man, the Rabbit Woman—they were everywhere, pressing closer, surrounding her.

Her pulse quickened. Her feet stumbled, her vision blurred. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. The shadows were alive, closing in around her with every step.

And then, just as the darkness seemed to claim her, she felt a sudden warmth. A fleeting warmth, like sunlight breaking through the cracks in a storm cloud. The whisper of it seemed to cut through the haze of panic, just for a moment, just enough to give her the clarity she needed.

The tapestry. She had to destroy it.

Without thinking, Lucy tore herself away from the shadows, her feet carrying her back to the loom. The Thumbless Man’s hands twitched, but Lucy was faster. She grabbed the loose end of the thread and yanked it, her fingers trembling as she pulled.

The fabric unraveled in her hands.

A sharp, shrill sound echoed through the asylum, like the breaking of glass. The room shuddered. For a moment, Lucy thought she had broken it—broken the cycle. But then, in the silence that followed, she heard it: the low hum. The whisper of the loom, slowly spinning again.

But it was different now.

This time, it was no longer just her face in the threads. This time, it was the faces of all the lost souls, weaving together, forming something new.

Something else.

The asylum hadn’t claimed her yet. But now, she was no longer just a visitor. She was part of its story. A story that would never end.

With each step toward the exit, Lucy battled the desire to remain, to intertwine her fate with theirs. As she burst into the night, her breath caught in the frigid air, the images of those lost souls still flickering in her mind. She wondered if the door she’d escaped through could truly close, or if a part of her would forever remain within those crumbling walls, woven into the forgotten memories, gray on gray.

In that moment, Lucy understood—she was not merely an observer; she was a part of their story, and they would forever be a part of hers. The haunting nature of her encounter would echo long after she left, a reminder of the shadows that lingered not just in the asylum, but within her own heart. Now, more than ever, she felt compelled to confront her own fears and losses, knowing that the ghosts had shown her a path she hadn’t dared to explore before.

Echoes of the Forgotten Asylum by Olivia Salter | Poetry

Echoes of the Forgotten Asylum

By Olivia Salter

In the Asylum’s clinging dark,

Mad silhouettes ink fading screens,

Figures smudged on shrinking, splintered scenes.

Their hollow depths reach thin and bare—

Lank shadows clawed like brittle branches,

Empty eyes once bright in life, now faint as mist.

The grave-smell sharp from freshly turned sod,

And deeper down, the damp of forgotten rot,

Hangs heavy with each smothered breath.

Their laughter strains—quiet shadows, cracked and thin,

Once dreams, now dust within these walls.

The Thumbless Man wrings air that remembers pain,

Fingers curling ‘round what he’ll never grasp again,

While Rabbit Woman creeps, wrapped in trembling care,

Threadbare, sewn with frantic eyes,

Haunted by fears alive even here.

The Emperor’s proud shade presses on, bound for far-off lands,

His cloak a faint blur, frayed by forgotten tales.

Trapped within walls they’ll never escape,

Ghosts dissolving to threads, pale on pale.

A rasp of bone on stone—

The empty scrape of what lingers still,

Figures forever lost, their remnants thin,

Echoes in this house that breathes their sin.