The Hollowing by Olivia Salter | Anti-Romance | Short Story

 

The Hollowing

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,427

The rain came down in relentless sheets as Carla stood alone on the bridge, her arms wrapped around herself to shield against the biting chill. She looked down at the dark, swirling water below, watching as the current twisted and churned like a pot boiling over. Each drop that struck her felt like a needle, a sharp reminder of the raw emptiness inside her. The world around her felt heavy, a blank canvas filled only with shadows, with nothing left to guide her forward.

But in the back of her mind, he was still there—Evan, his ghost a phantom that haunted her every thought.

She had fled his apartment barely an hour ago, her heart pounding as she escaped through the rain. Their argument had been vicious, but it had left her with an unexpected, liberating realization: she could walk away. After years of giving every part of herself to him, of sculpting her life around his whims, she had finally found the strength to say “enough.” But even now, she could still feel the scars he had left, the hollow places within her that he had carved out bit by bit, like a master sculptor molding a figure from stone.

Carla shivered, her mind drifting back to the night they’d met. The memory was hazy, a blend of warmth and charm, the faint smell of cologne, his voice low and smooth. She could still remember how he’d moved through the party like he owned it, flashing smiles at everyone but lingering on her, his gaze intense, magnetic. She’d felt a thrill as he laughed at her jokes, his fingers grazing her arm as he leaned in close, as if drawn to her in a way he couldn’t control. That night, he’d kissed her in the dim light of her apartment, his hands tracing her face with a adoration that had left her breathless.

Looking back, she wondered if that had been real at all.

“What did you expect?” His voice, sharp and familiar, cut through the rain-soaked silence. Carla’s heart jolted. She turned to see him standing at the other end of the bridge, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, a faint smirk on his lips. His expression was calm, almost bored, as if this was all a game he was tired of playing. He tilted his head, eyes glinting with that same cold, detached amusement she had come to know so well.

“Did you really think I’d stay forever?” he asked, voice laced with mockery. His words were soft, almost gentle, and yet they held a quiet cruelty, a satisfaction in the hurt he’d caused.

Carla clenched her fists, her voice shaking as she forced herself to meet his gaze. “You made me believe you cared, Evan. You made me think I was... enough.”

He laughed—a low, disdainful sound that sliced through the rain. “Enough?” he echoed, rolling the word around as if tasting it. “Carla, you wanted too much. I told you that from the start. You kept trying to make me into someone I’m not.”

She felt the words hit her, sharp and painful, like a knife twisting in her chest. For a long time, she had believed him. She had taken his words to heart, convinced that the problem was her, that her needs and her desires were unreasonable. She’d tried to mold herself to fit his vision, dimming her own light so he could shine, cutting herself down so he wouldn’t feel overshadowed.

It had started innocently enough, with little criticisms that seemed like simple observations. He’d mentioned that her friends weren’t “serious enough” for the life he envisioned for them. She’d argued at first, but he’d worn her down, reasoning that they were holding her back, keeping her from her potential. Gradually, she’d let go of those friendships, convinced that they hadn’t truly understood or supported her.

Then he’d started in on her art, once her greatest joy. “It’s nice,” he’d say, studying her paintings with a critical eye, “but a little too amateur, don’t you think?” She’d tried to defend her work, but he’d always counter with gentle, reasonable suggestions—ways she could improve, techniques she could learn. Over time, she’d stopped showing him her art, and eventually, she’d stopped painting altogether, her hands too paralyzed by doubt to pick up a brush.

And now, staring at him across the rain-soaked bridge, she could see it all with a startling clarity. Evan hadn’t loved her. He had wanted a version of her that fit neatly into his life, one he could control and manipulate. He’d stripped her down, piece by piece, until she was nothing but a shell, an echo of the woman she’d once been.

“You took everything from me,” she said, her voice raw, each word a tremor of the rage simmering within her. “Every dream, every friendship, everything I loved—you tore it all down. And I let you.”

Evan’s smirk faltered, just for a moment, his expression flickering with something close to surprise. But he recovered quickly, shrugging with a dismissive smile. “You gave it to me, Carla. Willingly. You wanted to be with me, didn’t you?”

For a moment, the words hit her with their familiar weight, stirring up old doubts and guilt. But this time, she didn’t let them burrow inside her. She didn’t let him twist her pain into something he could use against her. She looked him straight in the eye, her voice steady, strong. “Yes, I gave it to you. But that was my mistake. And it’s a mistake I won’t make again.”

Without another word, she turned and walked away, each step carrying her further from him, from the memories, from the hollow space he’d left in her. The rain washed over her like a baptism, cold but cleansing, stripping away the last remnants of his hold on her. By the time she reached the other side of the bridge, she could barely feel the chill at all.

***

Back in her tiny apartment, Carla sat on her bed, pulling out her phone and hesitating for a moment before scrolling through her contacts. She stopped at a name she hadn’t spoken to in months: Alyssa. Her best friend, the one Evan had convinced her to leave behind.

Taking a deep breath, she typed a message: I’m sorry. Are you around?

The response came almost instantly: For you, always.

An hour later, Carla found herself in Alyssa’s kitchen, the familiar warmth of the room surrounding her like a blanket. They sat together at the table, mugs of tea steaming between them, and for the first time in years, Carla felt truly safe.

“So,” Alyssa said quietly, her eyes full of understanding and a fierce protectiveness, “do you want to tell me what happened?”

Carla took a deep breath, feeling the words rise up within her, raw and unfiltered. She told Alyssa everything, every painful detail, every small, insidious way Evan had chipped away at her confidence, her dreams, her identity. She spoke of the isolation, the doubt, the way he’d made her question her own worth. And as she spoke, she felt a strange weight lifting, as if each word was a piece of Evan’s hold on her, slipping away into nothing.

Alyssa listened without interrupting, her hand steady on Carla’s, grounding her. When Carla finally finished, her voice a hoarse whisper, Alyssa gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“I’m so sorry, Carla,” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “I wish I’d seen what was happening. I should have—”

“No,” Carla interrupted, shaking her head. “This was his fault. He kept me away from everyone, even you. I thought I was protecting our relationship. But I was just... disappearing.”

They sat in silence, the weight of those lost years settling between them. Then Alyssa spoke, her voice firm, unyielding. “You’re here now. That’s what matters. And I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

Carla managed a smile, small but genuine, as she squeezed her friend’s hand. For the first time, she felt a glimmer of hope, a warmth filling the emptiness Evan had left.

***

Over the next few months, Carla slowly began to rebuild her life. She reconnected with friends she hadn’t spoken to in years, threw herself back into her art, and rediscovered passions she’d once abandoned. And each day, she felt herself growing stronger, more whole, filling the hollow spaces within her with the things she loved.

One night, after hours spent working on a new painting, Carla stood back and looked at her work, a vibrant canvas of colors and movement, each brushstroke a declaration of her reclaimed identity. The painting was raw, imperfect, but it was hers—a reflection of the woman she was becoming, free from Evan’s shadow.

And in that moment, she knew she would never let anyone take her light again. Her heart was hers, filled with a strength that no one could ever hollow out.

***

Several weeks after completing that painting, Carla was at her first solo art exhibit—a modest gallery in the city, but still, it was a dream she’d all but abandoned. She walked through the space, brushing her fingers along the frames of her canvases, each one alive with the textures of her journey. Bold strokes of reds and blues, shadowed landscapes, and fractured faces filled the walls, raw and unfiltered. They were parts of herself she’d thought lost forever. But they were here, real and solid, for the world to see.

She heard murmurs of appreciation as people examined her work. Some faces looked thoughtful, others moved. The gallery wasn’t large, but it was full, and for the first time in years, Carla felt proud of herself—of her story and her strength.

Alyssa was there too, standing by her side, a glass of wine in her hand as she beamed with pride. They shared a quiet look, a moment of understanding and triumph. Alyssa had been her anchor, her constant, and knowing she was here to witness this made it all the more meaningful.

Then, from the corner of her eye, Carla saw a familiar figure by the doorway—tall, poised, wearing that same calculating smile she knew so well. Her stomach tightened instinctively, but she didn’t let it show. She straightened her spine, drawing herself up with the strength she’d fought so hard to reclaim. Evan was here.

He walked toward her slowly, his gaze flickering from her to her paintings, a look of mild surprise and, perhaps, admiration in his eyes. When he reached her, he offered a small, almost awkward smile. “Carla,” he said smoothly, his voice lower than she remembered, but no less disarming.

She met his gaze, keeping her face neutral, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered. “Evan.”

He glanced around the room, nodding slightly as his eyes roamed over her work. “I heard about your show and… I wanted to see it for myself. To see you.”

His words were soft, almost reverent, but she could feel the familiar weight of his manipulation behind them, the way he always knew exactly what to say to make her doubt herself, to make her feel like he cared. But tonight, she was different. She was not the woman he had once controlled.

“Thank you for coming,” she replied simply, her voice steady. She wanted to leave it at that, but she sensed he wouldn’t. He never did.

Evan hesitated, his expression wavering as he searched her face, as if looking for some sign of the Carla he’d once known—the one who would have looked at him with pleading eyes, waiting for his approval. But she wasn’t there anymore.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I know I wasn’t… everything you wanted,” he said, his tone softening. “But I missed you. I miss… us.”

She could feel him trying to pull her back, weaving a web of nostalgia and regret, an old habit he used to keep her on edge. But as she looked at him now, she felt nothing but distance, a growing sense of clarity.

“I don’t miss who I was with you,” she replied, her voice firm. “I was someone I didn’t even recognize.”

Evan’s face tightened for a moment, the smooth facade slipping. He let out a faint sigh, feigning disappointment. “It’s a shame, Carla. You’ve… changed,” he said, his tone laced with subtle criticism. She knew this tactic—he wanted her to question herself, to feel uncertain, unsteady. But she wasn’t falling for it anymore.

“Yes,” she said, meeting his gaze with unwavering certainty. “I have. And I like who I am now.”

Something flickered in his eyes—irritation, maybe even anger—but he masked it quickly, offering her a forced smile. He took a step back, as if realizing she was no longer his to control, his hand slipping into his pocket in a gesture of retreat. “Well… congratulations, then,” he muttered, his voice hollow.

She watched as he turned and walked away, his shoulders tense, his confident stride faltering just slightly as he disappeared through the doorway. And as she watched him go, she felt an unexpected lightness settle over her, a freedom that was deeper and truer than anything she’d felt before.

Alyssa nudged her, raising an eyebrow. “Was that…?”

“Yes.” Carla let out a small, relieved laugh, glancing back at the room full of her art. “And he’s finally gone.”

They shared a smile, Alyssa’s eyes shining with pride and warmth. “I’m so damn proud of you, Carla,” she whispered, her voice filled with genuine admiration. “Look at what you’ve done. Look at who you are.”

Carla looked around, taking in the faces of the people who were moved by her work, who saw her story in her art. She felt the air fill her lungs, the weight of the past lifting, leaving her unburdened. For so long, she’d been haunted by what Evan had taken from her, by the pieces of herself he’d hollowed out. But here she was, whole and complete, every inch of her belonging solely to herself.

“I’m proud of me too,” she replied, her voice soft but steady.

Together, they walked through the gallery, and Carla could feel each step grounded, real. She knew, now, that she had the strength to stand on her own, to create and live without fear or apology. Evan was a part of her past, a chapter she had closed. And ahead of her was a future that was finally, fully hers.

Butterflies and Bruises by Olivia Salter | Short Story | Anti-Romance

 

Butterflies and Bruises

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,359


The first time I saw Jamie, he was standing by the coffee shop counter, arguing with the barista over a double charge for oat milk. His voice was low but insistent, his posture somewhere between relaxed and tense, and there was a tilt to his smile that suggested he enjoyed the sparring.

I should’ve walked out then. But when he turned to look at me—caught my glance lingering, really—he smiled, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just him.

“You a regular here?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Something like that.”

“Good coffee?”

“Great coffee. If you can pay for it without getting into a fight.”

The barista smirked. Jamie laughed, shaking his head. “You’re probably right. First round’s on me—assuming I ever get out of oat milk jail.”

I should’ve said no. I should’ve walked away.

But I didn’t.

***

Jamie had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room. It was in the way he leaned in when you talked, his eyes locked onto yours like he couldn’t get enough. It was in the small touches—a hand on my back as we crossed the street, his thumb brushing my knuckles when we held hands.

“I don’t usually do this,” he confessed on our third date, over cheap beer and loaded fries at a dive bar. “Get so into someone this fast, I mean. But with you… I don’t know. You make me want to try.”

I wanted to believe him. And for a while, I did.

For weeks, it was perfect. Late-night conversations that stretched into morning, stolen kisses in quiet corners, the rush of falling into something that felt bigger than either of us.

But cracks started showing early, even if I didn’t want to see them.

***

It started small. Jamie was late to dinner one night—“Got caught up at work,” he said, flashing that disarming smile—and spent most of the evening scrolling through his phone.

“You good?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Just busy. You know how it is.”

I didn’t. But I nodded anyway.

The next time, he canceled outright.

“Raincheck?” he texted, an hour after we were supposed to meet. “Something came up.”

I stared at the message, frustration bubbling in my chest. He didn’t offer an explanation, didn’t call, didn’t even pretend to care how his flakiness might feel.

I let it slide. I told myself it was just a rough patch, that everyone had off days.

But deep down, a voice I didn’t want to acknowledge was whispering: He’s not who you think he is.

***

Jamie’s absences became more frequent. When he did show up, he was distracted, his attention drifting to his phone or the sports highlights playing on the bar TV.

One night, after he bailed on plans for the third time in two weeks, I confronted him.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

He looked at me, his brow furrowing like I’d asked him to solve a riddle. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my frustration spilling over. “Maybe the fact that you keep canceling on me? Or that you’re here but not really here half the time?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’ve just got a lot on my plate right now. Work’s been crazy, and I’m trying to figure out some stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Just… stuff, Tasha,” he snapped. “Why do you always have to make everything so heavy?”

The words stung more than I wanted to admit.

***

The first real blow came a month later. I was scrolling through Instagram when I saw the picture: Jamie at a rooftop bar, his arm slung casually around a girl I didn’t recognize.

The caption read: “Rooftop vibes with my favorite people.”

My stomach sank.

When I confronted him the next day, he didn’t even try to deny it.

“She’s a friend,” he said, his tone defensive. “We were out with a group. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that you didn’t tell me about it,” I said, my voice shaking. “The big deal is that you’re always too busy for me, but somehow you’ve got time to hang out with other people.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

“No, Jamie. I’m not.”

But he didn’t listen. He never listened.

***

By the time our relationship fell apart, it felt like a relief.

Jamie had been pulling away for weeks, his excuses growing more hollow with each passing day. I stopped asking for explanations, stopped waiting for him to show up.

The final straw came during what was supposed to be a romantic weekend getaway.

We’d planned the trip months ago, back when things still felt good, back when I still believed in us. But from the moment we arrived, Jamie was distant, his attention fixed on his phone or the game playing on the cabin’s TV.

On the second night, I finally snapped.

“Why did you even come here?” I demanded, my voice cracking with frustration.

“What do you mean?” he asked, not even looking up.

“I mean, you’re not here, Jamie. You’re checked out. You’ve been checked out for months.”

He sighed, setting his phone down. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’ve just got a lot going on right now.”

“You keep saying that,” I said, tears spilling over. “But you never tell me what it is. Do you even want to be with me?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then he shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he said.

And that was it.

***

When Jamie left the next morning, I didn’t try to stop him.

For days, I felt hollow, like a part of me had been ripped away. But slowly, I began to see the truth: Jamie hadn’t taken anything from me. He’d just shown me what I was willing to give up for someone who didn’t deserve it.

One afternoon, I opened my journal and found an entry from the early days of our relationship:

I wish I could tell him how he makes me feel. How the sound of his voice gives me butterflies, how his smile makes my heart skip a beat. I’ve never felt this kind of happiness before.

Reading it now, I felt like a stranger to the girl who had written those words.

He didn’t give me happiness, I wrote beneath it. I gave it to myself. And I can do it again.

***

Months later, Jamie reached out.

“Hey,” his text read. “Been thinking about you. Can we talk?”

When we met, he looked the same—charming, confident, his smile as disarming as ever. But to me, he seemed smaller now, less significant.

“I messed up,” he said, his voice low. “I didn’t realize what I had until it was gone.”

I listened quietly, letting him say his piece. Then I stood, leaving my untouched coffee on the table.

“Goodbye, Jamie,” I said.

And for the first time in a long time, I walked away without looking back.

***

As I stepped out into the sunlight, I felt a strange sense of peace.

The butterflies, the joy, the love—they had always been mine.

And I didn’t need anyone else to feel them again.

***

In the weeks following that conversation with Jamie, something shifted in me. At first, the quiet was unbearable—the empty space where his laughter used to live, the pauses in my days when I’d wonder what he was doing, where he was.

But as the days turned into weeks, I began to fill that silence with my own thoughts, my own life. The quiet no longer felt like a void but a kind of freedom.

Sasha noticed.

“You seem different,” she remarked one afternoon as we sat on the porch of her apartment, sipping iced coffee under the heavy summer sun. “I mean, in a good way. You seem lighter.”

“I feel lighter,” I admitted. “I didn’t realize how heavy it was carrying him around, all that emotional baggage.”

Sasha raised an eyebrow. “Emotional baggage? Girl, Jamie was more like a full-on suitcase you tried to drag up a mountain.”

I laughed, but it wasn’t the easy, carefree laugh that used to come when I was with Jamie. This one felt more like an exhale—long overdue, but good.

“I kept thinking there was something wrong with me for not being happy,” I continued. “Like, it was my fault that I wasn’t feeling complete or that I didn’t get what I wanted from him. But... maybe it wasn’t about me.”

Sasha nodded, her face softening with understanding. “It wasn’t about you, babe. Jamie’s the one with the issues. He’s the one who couldn’t meet you halfway, no matter how hard you tried.”

I smiled at her, grateful for the reminder.

***

I threw myself into the work I’d been neglecting during the months I spent lost in Jamie’s orbit. I enrolled in an online photography class, something I had always wanted to do but never found time for. I started painting again, filling my apartment with color and chaos—bright yellows, deep blues, swirls of orange.

One evening, as I was rearranging a canvas in my living room, my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram notification: Jamie liked your post.

I froze, my heart skipping a beat. It had been months since we’d last spoken, months since I’d felt that pang in my chest when his name appeared on my screen.

I didn’t look at the post. Instead, I set the phone down on the counter and walked to my window, staring out at the city below.

I had wondered if he’d try to reach out again. The doubt that crept in didn’t feel like longing—it felt like curiosity, like I wanted to know if he would have the guts to admit his mistakes.

But deep down, I knew the truth. The Jamie who had left months ago wasn’t the same Jamie who might have reached out now. And I wasn’t the same person who would have waited.

***

A few days later, I saw Jamie again—not by chance, but because he’d asked to meet up. I wasn’t sure why I agreed at first, maybe out of some need for closure, or maybe because I thought I could confront the version of him that had haunted me for so long.

We met at a small, dimly lit café, one of those places that felt like a sanctuary from the city outside. He looked almost exactly the same—tall, unshaven, his dark hair falling into his eyes—but there was a distance in his eyes now, a kind of heaviness I hadn’t noticed before.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” he began, his voice soft but unsure. “About us, about everything.”

I waited, my heart a strange mix of indifference and curiosity.

“I get it now,” he continued. “I hurt you. And I... I’m sorry. I was so caught up in myself that I couldn’t see what I was doing to you.”

I held his gaze, but I didn’t feel the rush I once did. There was no flutter in my stomach, no racing pulse. There was only the echo of my own voice in my head, saying the words I should have said months ago: It’s too late.

“I don’t need your apology,” I said quietly. “What I needed was for you to be there when I needed you. I needed you to show up, to stop making excuses for why you couldn’t be the person I thought you were.”

Jamie winced, the words hitting him harder than he expected.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t that person,” he whispered. “But I was trying. I swear, I was trying.”

I shook my head. “No, Jamie. You weren’t. You were trying to keep me around while you figured out what you wanted. And I let you. I let you take more from me than you ever gave.”

The silence between us stretched out, thick and suffocating. And in that silence, I realized something: Jamie wasn’t the problem. I was.

***

As Jamie sat there, looking at me with that same mixture of regret and helplessness, I knew it was time. Time to let go for good. Time to stop wondering about what could have been and start building what was waiting for me.

“I don’t think we can be friends,” I said, my voice steady. “I need more than that. I need to be okay without you. And I can’t do that if you’re still here, lingering in the background.”

Jamie opened his mouth to respond, but I held up a hand.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I forgive you. But I’ve got to let you go.”

He nodded, his eyes filled with something I couldn’t place—maybe understanding, maybe sorrow. “I get it,” he whispered. “I really do.”

I stood, my legs shaking slightly, but my heart stronger than it had been in months. “Goodbye, Jamie.”

And this time, there were no regrets, no lingering doubts. I left that café with a quiet certainty I’d never felt before.

***

The next few months were a whirlwind of growth. I poured myself into my art, my relationships, and my own happiness. I started traveling again, capturing the world through my lens, finding beauty in the chaos.

Sasha’s apartment became my second home, the place I could laugh, cry, and feel like I belonged.

But one evening, when I was standing on the rooftop of a hotel in the city, snapping a few photos of the skyline, my phone buzzed.

Jamie liked your post.

I stared at the notification for a moment. The old me would’ve dropped everything and reached out. But this time, I didn’t feel the need to.

Instead, I smiled to myself, tucked the phone into my pocket, and turned back to the city lights.

I was enough.

Safe Harbor by Olivia Salter | Poetry

 

Safe Harbor

By  Olivia Salter

Darling, in this vast and turning world,

laden with burdens we each must bear—

an endless sea of worry and wear,

shadows cast across our days—

there is so much sorrow, so very much.

Yet when you draw me close, your arms around,

and kiss me soft as evening rain,

the weight of it all slips away.

Held in your warmth, anchored and whole,

the world outside fades to a distant hum.

Joy rises, filling every part of me,

a quiet peace that only you bring.

Here, no sadness can breach, no aching grief—

just two hearts, a gentle rhythm, beating as one,

safe in a love that nothing can shake.

In your embrace, the storms grow still,

their furious winds at last subdued;

no fear can breach this solitude,

no doubt can pierce our woven calm—

for in your arms, I find my home.

Your whispered words, a soothing song,

unravel cares so tightly wound;

a balm upon each weary wound,

they lift me high above the fray—

a sacred light to guide my way.

Together, we rise beyond the ache,

past fleeting trials, past sorrow's sting;

the world fades to a gentle ring,

and only love remains, steadfast—

a fire to warm us through the past.

So let this turning world revolve,

its sorrows swirling like the sea;

for here, in you, I am set free,

my heart a steady, glowing flame—

eternal, boundless, without shame.

In every breath, our love renewed,

its quiet strength, a rooted tree;

here, sheltered close, just you and me,

where nothing else need ever be—

our sanctuary, vast and true.

The Kama Sutra Complex by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Anti-Romance

 

The Kama Sutra Complex

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 701

He wanted connection. She wanted control. Their journey through intimacy would unravel a world they never expected.

The pages were worn, the edges kissed with the oils of a thousand hands. Jai found it on the top shelf of an obscure bookstore in Brooklyn, nestled between feminist manifestos and modern erotica. A leather-bound edition of the Kama Sutra, its spine gilded and embossed with swirling vines, seemed to glow under the buzzing fluorescent light.

“This,” he thought, running a finger down its cover, “is the key.”

The key to impressing Camille.

Camille wasn’t the kind of woman who could be wooed with flowers or a Netflix binge. She spoke in half-finished philosophy quotes and sipped cocktails she couldn’t pronounce. She would sneer at the effort of a lesser man, but Jai wanted her like nothing else. His goal was simple: seduce her. Not just her body, but her mind. He would be the man she wrote essays about, the muse she carried like a secret.

The Kama Sutra felt like the answer. Ancient wisdom, modern packaging. He bought it without haggling, the clerk giving him a knowing smirk.

***

Camille laughed when he handed her the book.

“Really? You think this is how you’re going to understand me?” she asked, her eyebrow arching, voice dipped in mockery.

“I think it’s a start,” Jai replied, steady.

He planned meticulously. Each chapter was an unveiling—seduction as an art, intimacy as a language. But Camille, like mercury, shifted. She read passages aloud, dissecting them with surgical precision, and weaponized the teachings.

“Lesson one,” she said one night, her legs draped over his lap. “Desire thrives on power dynamics. So, Jai, what do you desire? And what will you give up for it?”

He chuckled nervously, unsure how to answer.

“Too slow,” she teased, standing up and leaving him cold on the couch.

***

Jai studied the book obsessively. Its pages turned into a maze of philosophy, its wisdom intertwining with his growing confusion. Camille began playing cruel games. She’d disappear for days, leaving cryptic texts: Learn patience. Desire isn’t about possession. When she returned, her affection was overwhelming, intoxicating.

The contrast was dizzying. He thought of leaving her, but the idea felt like failure.

“You’re not ready,” she whispered one night, her lips brushing his ear. “You want to control me, Jai. But you can’t even control yourself.”

She handed him the book again, this time open to a chapter on emotional surrender. The subtext was clear: master yourself, or lose her forever.

***

Jai began noticing the cracks. Camille wasn’t a goddess; she was a woman playing her own games, using him as a stage for her insecurities.

One night, while she was asleep, he read her journal. His hands shook as he turned the pages, expecting confessions of love, or perhaps disdain. Instead, he found entries of fear:

“Am I lovable, or just powerful? Jai’s too easy to mold—what happens when he sees the real me?”

Her vulnerability was a knife.

When she woke, he confronted her.

“You’re scared,” he said.

She laughed bitterly. “And you’re just now figuring that out? Bravo, Jai. Maybe the Kama Sutra taught you something after all.”

“Why play these games?” he demanded.

“Because it’s easier than being honest,” she shot back. “What’s your excuse?”

***

Jai walked out that night, leaving the book behind. Weeks later, he saw Camille again, this time on the arm of another man. She was dazzling, as always, her laughter cutting through the air like a blade.

But Jai no longer felt her pull.

He’d started writing—a memoir about his time with her, framed around the lessons of the Kama Sutra. The book taught him not about seduction, but about the flaws in chasing love as a means to fill voids.

When Camille saw him, she froze. He smiled, a genuine, bittersweet smile, and walked away.

***

In the end, the Kama Sutra was a mirror, reflecting their fears and flaws. Jai’s journey wasn’t about conquering Camille but rediscovering himself, proving that love is less about power and more about authenticity.

The game was never about her. It was about the truth he’d been running from all along.

Depths of Her Own Making by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Anti-Romance

 

Depths of Her Own Making

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 3,312

There’s a weight, like drowning, pressing against my chest, heavy and unrelenting. But it’s not the water pulling me under—it’s him.

His words hang in the air long after he’s gone, lingering like smoke that’s seeped into every corner of the room. I can still hear his voice, sharp and biting, telling me I’m not enough, that I’m selfish, that I wouldn’t last a day without him. It’s a script he’s perfected over the years, each line carefully crafted to chip away at the edges of me until I barely recognize what’s left.

It’s not just his voice. It’s his presence, the way he moves through a room and rearranges the air, making it thinner, harder to breathe. The way his footsteps fall heavy against the floorboards, a reminder that no matter where I go, he’s there, pulling me back, dragging me under.

I think about it often, this weight. It’s not physical, but it’s tangible in the way my shoulders ache from carrying it. It’s the look in his eyes when I try to speak my mind, the smirk that says You’ll never escape this.

But there’s something else now. A flicker of defiance. It started small, like the faintest glimmer of sunlight breaking through the surface of the water. At first, I barely noticed it, too consumed by the darkness to see anything else. But now, it’s growing.

I feel it when I put my hand on my belly, the life stirring inside me like a current I can’t ignore. It’s a reminder that this isn’t just about him anymore. It’s about me, about what I can endure, about the shore that I know is somewhere out there, waiting for me to find it.

The weight is still there, pressing against me, threatening to pull me back under. But for the first time, I can see a way out. And as terrifying as it is to think about swimming alone, I know I’d rather face the unknown than stay anchored to him forever.

It’s not the water that will drown me. It’s him. And I refuse to let him win.

***

The clinic lights buzzed faintly, sterile and cold. Cindy sat on the examination table, her fingers worrying the edges of the thin paper gown. Her belly, still just a whisper of a curve, felt like an anchor she hadn’t asked for.

“I need you to be sure.” he had said, his hands gripping the back of the kitchen chair, knuckles white against the peeling paint. “You can’t just… decide something like this.”

Deciding had been a privilege stripped from her long ago. They’d been together four years, and in that time, her voice had become a soft murmur, distorted and nearly inaudible. Dylan didn’t like loud opinions, so she swallowed hers. He didn’t like confrontation, so she learned to fold into herself.

“Congratulations,” the doctor said with a practiced smile, handing over a printout of grainy black-and-white shapes. “Everything looks healthy so far.”

Healthy. As if she were a vessel for someone else’s life. A submarine navigating uncharted waters, silently housing this tiny, forming person while her own desires sank further into the abyss.

***

The pregnancy wasn’t planned. It was an accident, a crack in the brittle structure of her life with Dylan. He called it her decision, though he never really meant it. Every time she tried to bring up the subject of choices, he silenced her with the same condescending line: “Good mothers don’t think about those things.” His words clung to her like seaweed, slimy and suffocating, wrapping around her until she couldn’t tell where his judgment ended and her own doubts began.

By the second trimester, Cindy’s body became a stranger to her. Her joints groaned like rusted hinges, and her skin felt stretched so tightly she feared it might tear. Her belly swelled, marking her as someone different, someone tethered to an unknown future. Sleep became elusive, and when it came, it brought dreams of water. In those dreams, she floated on an endless, dark ocean, her body weightless but tied to a thin, unbreakable cord—the life growing inside her. The cord was both an anchor and a lifeline, holding her above the abyss but reminding her how easily she could be pulled under.

Dylan didn’t notice her unraveling. Or maybe he did and didn’t care. Their fights grew more venomous, erupting over everything from the temperature of the room to the prenatal vitamins she bought on sale. “Do you really need those?” he’d snapped one evening, his voice dripping with irritation. “Maybe if you stopped wasting money, we’d have some for the kid when it gets here.”

That night, after he fell asleep, Cindy slipped out of bed and onto the small balcony that stuck out from their cramped apartment. The air was cold and sharp against her skin, the city sprawled out below her like a glittering, disjointed map. The moon hung full and heavy in the sky, casting silver ripples across the buildings, turning the world into a monochrome reflection of itself.

She stepped closer to the edge, her bare feet brushing against the metal railing. She gripped it with trembling hands, her heart pounding as her mind raced with thoughts she dared not say aloud.

“If I jumped,” she thought, staring down at the lights blinking far below, “would I sink fast enough that it wouldn’t matter? Would it all just… stop?”

The cold metal bit into her palms, grounding her, but the weight in her chest was heavier than ever. She leaned forward slightly, just enough to feel the pull of gravity.

Then it happened—a sharp, sudden kick, strong enough to make her gasp. She froze, her hands flying to her belly. The baby.

Her lips parted as tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks and catching on the corners of her mouth. It wasn’t just her life; it was theirs. This small, unseen force inside her—resilient, alive, insistent—was tied to her, just as much as she was to it.

In that moment, something shifted deep within her, like a faint ember catching fire. It wasn’t hope, not yet, but it was rebellion—a quiet, persistent whisper that maybe she wasn’t just a vessel, a submarine meant to carry and protect while sinking herself.

Cindy stepped back from the edge, her hands still pressed to her belly. She stared at the moonlit skyline, her breath steadying. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or even the next hour, but for now, she knew one thing: she would fight. For herself. For the baby. For the chance to surface, no matter how far she had to swim.

***

Dylan didn’t notice the subtle ways Cindy began to push back. He was too absorbed in his own world, too busy complaining about her perceived shortcomings to see the quiet rebellion brewing beneath the surface. She stopped cooking his meals, claiming nausea with a faint shrug. “The smell of meat makes me gag,” she’d say, even though she secretly relished the simplicity of making a bowl of cereal for herself instead.

She started locking the bathroom door—a small but seismic shift. Inside, she found refuge in long, steaming baths, the water soothing her aching body. She brought books with her, losing herself in tales of the ocean and its mysterious inhabitants: giant squid with tentacles that stretched for meters, bioluminescent fish glowing softly in the inky depths, and strange creatures that thrived under crushing pressure.

When Dylan grumbled about her extended absences or the rising water bill, she would emerge, towel wrapped tightly around her, offering him a faint smile that was more challenge than apology. “I’m growing a person, Dylan. What are you growing?”

His scoff was predictable, but Cindy found that she no longer cared. His jabs slid off her now, as if the water had made her skin impenetrable.

Her therapist, a soft-spoken woman with kind eyes named Dr. Fisher, suggested journaling as a way to process her thoughts. “Write whatever comes to mind,” Dr. Fisher had said during their first session. “There’s no right or wrong, Cindy. Just let it flow.”

So Cindy wrote. She filled pages with metaphors of water, her pen carving out a secret language she hadn’t known she possessed. She wrote about drowning, yes, about the weight of the ocean pressing down on her, but also about survival. About the strength it took to navigate unpredictable currents and the resilience of creatures who lived in the darkness, unseen but undeterred.

One afternoon, as rain drummed softly against the window of her apartment, she wrote something that stopped her in her tracks:

A submarine is both confinement and protection. It carries its precious cargo through depths no one else can see. But what happens when the captain wants to abandon ship?

Her hand hovered over the page, the question hanging in the air like a challenge. For months, she had felt like a vessel—trapped, used, her own needs buried beneath the weight of expectation. But a captain wasn’t just a figurehead. A captain had control. A captain could chart a new course, even if it meant braving unknown waters.

She closed the journal and placed her hands on her belly, feeling the faint flutter of life inside.

“I’m still here,” she whispered, her voice steady. “I’m not abandoning you. I’m steering us out.”

The words felt like a declaration, a promise to herself and the life she was carrying. Cindy knew it wouldn’t be easy. Dylan would fight to keep her submerged, to drag her back into the depths of his control. But she also knew something else: she wasn’t just a submarine anymore. She was the captain. And she was ready to surface.

***

By her eighth month, Cindy was unrecognizable—not because of her swollen belly, but because of the steel in her gaze. She began speaking her mind in clipped, pointed sentences that left Dylan floundering.

“You’ve changed,” he muttered one night after she refused to let him dictate the baby’s name. His voice was low, edged with a bitterness she hadn’t heard before. He stood in the doorway, his hand gripping the keys so tightly they left faint indentations in his palm.

Cindy didn’t flinch. “Maybe I have,” she said, her voice steady but quiet, like the calm before a storm. She leaned back against the kitchen counter, one hand resting protectively on her belly. “Or maybe I’ve just stopped letting you decide who I’m supposed to be.”

Dylan’s jaw tightened, his lips pulling into a thin line. “This isn’t you,” he said, shaking his head as though trying to dislodge the image of the woman standing before him. “You’re acting like—”

“Like what?” she cut in, her tone sharp. “Like I have a mind of my own? Like I don’t have to bend over backward to keep the peace?”

For a moment, the only sound between them was the ticking of the wall clock. Dylan’s eyes darted toward it, then back to her, the frustration in his face mingling with something else. Uncertainty, maybe.

“I’m going out,” he said finally, his voice cold and clipped. He shoved the keys into his pocket, the metal jangling. “Don’t wait up.”

He turned and strode to the door, slamming it behind him with a force that rattled the picture frames on the walls.

Cindy exhaled slowly, her chest tight but steady. She glanced at the vibrating frames, the photos within them—old memories of a woman who once thought silence was strength.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered to the empty room, her hand sliding down to rest firmly on her belly. “I stopped waiting a long time ago,” she replied.

***

On a rainy Tuesday, the kind of day where the gray clouds seemed to stretch endlessly, Cindy packed a bag while Dylan was at work. The sound of the rain pattering against the window mixed with the hum of the radiator, filling the silence of the apartment.

She moved quietly, her movements deliberate. A sweater she hadn’t worn in years, her favorite book with the cracked spine, and a stuffed rabbit she’d already decided would belong to the baby—all folded neatly into the worn duffel bag. Her breath caught when she picked up the ultrasound picture from the counter. She stared at it for a moment, tracing the curve of the blurry, unformed figure with her thumb.

“This is for you,” she murmured, her voice steady but soft, as if the baby could hear her through the noise of the rain and the static of her thoughts.

On the counter, she left a note written on the back of an old grocery list:

I’m taking the submarine to shore. I’ll be in touch when I’m ready.

The words felt strange, almost too poetic for the sharp, bitter truth of what they meant, but they were hers, and that was enough. She placed the note beside the empty coffee mug Dylan had left that morning and zipped the bag with a finality that made her stomach swirl.

By the time Dylan came home, the apartment was empty except for the furniture and the lingering scent of her lavender shampoo.

***

Cindy’s new place wasn’t much—just a cramped one-bedroom with peeling wallpaper and a faint musty smell that even the rain couldn’t wash away. The radiator clanged like it was alive, and the water pressure in the shower was more trickle than stream, but the windows overlooked the river.

At night, she would sit on the couch that came with the place, her hands resting on her belly as she watched the rain create ripples on the water. The river wasn’t beautiful, not really. Its surface was dark, murky, littered with stray branches and the occasional shimmer of headlights from passing cars. But it moved. It flowed.

And for the first time in years, Cindy felt like she could breathe.

She didn’t have to answer to anyone. There was no one to question her silences, to twist her words into something she didn’t mean, to demand pieces of her she no longer wanted to give. The space was hers, the stillness hers.

The baby kicked as if to remind her she wasn’t truly alone. Cindy smiled faintly, pressing her hand against the tiny movement.

“Just us now,” she whispered. “And that’s more than enough.”

***

Labor came like a storm, fierce and unrelenting, tearing through Cindy’s body with no mercy. The sterile hospital room was silent except for the rhythm of the monitor and the occasional encouragement from the nurse, but it felt huge, echoing with her gasps and cries. Each contraction was a wave, crashing into her with brutal force, dragging her further into pain and exhaustion.

She gripped the sides of the bed, her knuckles pale, tears streaming down her face. She wanted to scream for someone to help, to take over, to make it stop. But there was no one. Dylan was gone, and even if he were here, he would’ve been useless. This was her fight, hers alone.

The nurse’s voice broke through the haze. “You’re almost there. Just one more push.”

Cindy didn’t believe her. She didn’t believe the pain could end, that she could survive it. But then she thought of the tiny life inside her, waiting to surface. She closed her eyes and pushed with everything she had, her scream ripping through the room like thunder.

And then, suddenly, it was over.

The baby’s cries filled the room, piercing and raw, and Cindy collapsed back against the pillows, gasping for air. Her body felt broken, her mind foggy, but the sound of that wail was like an anchor pulling her back from the edge.

The nurse carefully placed the baby in Cindy’s trembling arms. She looked down, and the world seemed to tilt.

Tiny hands, impossibly small fingers, a red face scrunched with the effort of life. Cindy’s tears came in a rush, hot and unstoppable. “You’re here,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “You’re really here.”

The baby quieted, its cries fading into soft, rhythmic breaths. Cindy touched its cheek, marveling at the warmth, the softness. For a moment, everything else fell away—the hospital, the storm of labor, even the years of fear and doubt. All that existed was this fragile, miraculous life in her arms.

But then the baby opened its eyes.

Cindy froze, her breath catching in her throat. The eyes weren’t the soft, cloudy blue of a newborn. They were black, bottomless, reflective like the ocean at night. She stared, unable to look away, as if the baby’s gaze was pulling her in, showing her something she couldn’t comprehend.

It wasn’t frightening—not exactly. But it was overwhelming, as though those eyes carried the weight of something ancient, something vast. Cindy felt small, insignificant, like a speck of dust floating above an infinite abyss.

And then, impossibly, the baby smiled.

It wasn’t the reflexive pout of a newborn. It was deliberate, knowing, almost... amused. The corners of its tiny mouth curled up, and for a split second, Cindy thought she saw something in the reflection of its eyes—a vast expanse of water, dark and rippling under an unseen moon.

Her hands trembled as she held the baby tighter, her heart pounding. “You’re... different,” she whispered, the words barely audible.

The baby cooed softly, its tiny fingers curling around hers. In that moment, Cindy felt something shift deep within her. The fear that had clung to her for months, the doubt that had weighed her down—it all began to dissolve.

The baby’s black eyes blinked, and for the first time in what felt like years, Cindy didn’t feel like she was sinking. She felt like she was floating, weightless, drifting toward something she couldn’t yet name.

***

Cindy’s journey was one of reclamation. For so long, she had been adrift, a submarine submerged in someone else’s world, carrying burdens that weren’t hers to bear. She had been a vessel—an uncomplaining protector, a silent carrier of life and expectations. But now, as she cradled the baby in her arms, she felt something shift.

She wasn’t just the submarine anymore; she was the captain. The map of her life had been blank for so long, uncharted waters stretching endlessly before her, but now she gripped the wheel with steady hands. She had no guarantees, no promises of calm seas, but she also knew something else: even the deepest oceans couldn’t drown her.

In the quiet moments, as she rocked the baby to sleep in her small apartment overlooking the river, Cindy often found her thoughts circling back to that first smile. The way it had curled up at the corners, so deliberate, so knowing. It stayed with her, haunting and comforting in equal measure.

Perhaps, she thought, it wasn’t just a child she had carried for nine months. Perhaps it was a part of herself—something she had buried long ago. The baby’s existence felt like a mirror held up to her soul, reflecting not just her fears but her strength, her resilience.

Every coo, every tiny stretch of the baby’s hand felt like a message: You made it. You surfaced.

Cindy wasn’t naive. The waters ahead would still be rough—late nights, unanswered questions, the weight of single motherhood pressing on her shoulders. But she also felt something she hadn’t in years: hope.

There was a quiet power in knowing she had made it this far. The baby wasn’t just her child; it was a symbol of rebirth. She had faced the storm, braved the depths, and emerged not as the woman Dylan had tried to mold, but as someone entirely her own.

She was reborn, strong, and ready to swim. And thìs time, she wasn’t afraid of the water.

Whispers of the Ruins by Olivia Salter / Short Story/ Supernatural

 

Whispers of the Ruins

By Olivia Salter

Word Count:  3,359

The last time Erin saw her grandmother was a humid summer night, five years ago. They had been sitting on the porch, the air thick with the scent of magnolias and the buzz of cicadas.

“Do you ever feel like some stories don’t want to be told?” her grandmother had asked, her voice soft but distant.

Erin had laughed nervously. “Like ghosts guarding their secrets?”

Her grandmother didn’t laugh. Instead, she stared into the darkness, her fingers tracing the edges of the leather-bound journal on her lap. “Not ghosts. Something worse. Something that takes and never gives back.”

Two weeks later, her grandmother disappeared, leaving only the journal behind.

***

Erin hadn’t expected the package. It came on an ordinary Tuesday, while she was sorting through dusty shelves at the bookstore. Wrapped in worn brown paper and tied with string, it bore no return address. Her name, written in her grandmother’s familiar scrawl, sent a shiver down her spine.

Inside was a map, its edges frayed and brittle, the paper marked with strange symbols. Tucked beside it was a note, written in the same hand:

“To find me, you must follow the path I took. But the ruins take more than they give. Be sure you’re ready to pay the price.”

Erin stared at the map, her pulse quickening. Her grandmother’s disappearance had been a wound that never fully healed, a mystery no one dared to solve. Her mother, especially, refused to speak of it.

When Erin brought the map home that night, her mother’s reaction was immediate and sharp.

“Burn it,” she said, slamming her hand on the kitchen counter.

“What?” Erin blinked, clutching the map.

“You heard me. Burn it, and don’t look back.”

“Mom, this could help us find her—”

Her mother’s face was pale, her voice shaking. “She’s gone, Erin. Gone because she wouldn’t leave those ruins alone. And if you follow her, they’ll take you too.”

Erin hesitated, her chest tightening. “What do you know about the ruins?”

Her mother looked away, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Enough to warn you. Enough to beg you not to go.”

But the note and the map felt like a call she couldn’t ignore.

***

The swamp was a suffocating labyrinth of tangled roots and stagnant water. Mist clung to the ground like a living thing, and the air smelled of decay. Erin followed the map, its lines guiding her deeper into the wilderness.

Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the swamp were testing her will. The journal, now tucked into her backpack, seemed to pulse with its own energy, as though it could sense the nearness of its origin.

The first sign of the ruins was a faint hum in the air, a vibration that tickled the edges of her hearing. Then the trees parted, and she saw them: ancient stone structures half-sunken into the earth, their surfaces covered in carvings.

The carvings were unsettling—faces twisted in agony, figures frozen in desperate poses. Erin’s stomach churned as she realized some of the faces were eerily lifelike, their eyes seeming to follow her every move.

“You’re braver than I thought.”

The voice came from behind her, low and gravelly. Erin spun around to see an old man leaning on a crooked staff. His eyes were sharp, piercing her like twin daggers.

“Who are you?” she demanded, gripping the map tightly.

“I’m a warning,” he said cryptically. “The same warning I gave to your grandmother.”

“You knew her?” Erin asked, her voice tinged with desperation.

The man nodded, his expression somber. “I told her the ruins take what they want. I told her to leave. She didn’t listen.”

“And what do they want?” Erin’s voice trembled.

“Everything,” the man replied simply. “They take everything.”

***

The ruins seemed alive. As Erin stepped closer, the carvings pulsed faintly, as though the stones were breathing. The hum grew louder, resonating in her chest.

The old man followed at a distance, his presence both reassuring and unnerving.

“What are they?” Erin asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Not cursed. Not haunted. They’re… hungry,” he said. “They take stories, memories, truths. They keep them locked inside, so they’re never forgotten. But they don’t give them back for free.”

Erin’s breath hitched as they entered a large central chamber. The walls here were different, adorned with intricate scenes that seemed to shift and change as she moved.

And then she saw her.

Her grandmother’s face was carved into the wall, her expression serene but hollow. Beside her, a scene unfolded: a woman holding a journal, stepping into the ruins. Her face twisted in shock as the journal disintegrated in her hands, her figure fading into the stone.

“She’s here,” Erin whispered, tears pricking her eyes.

The air grew colder, and the carvings began to glow. Light spilled from the walls, pooling in the center of the chamber. A shape emerged, flickering and translucent.

It was her grandmother.

“Erin,” the apparition said, her voice layered with echoes.

***

Erin froze, her heart pounding. Her grandmother’s eyes—though ghostly—were full of recognition and sorrow.

“Why did you come here?” her grandmother asked, her voice soft but filled with urgency.

“I had to find you,” Erin said, her voice trembling. “I had to know what happened.”

Her grandmother reached out, but her hand passed through Erin like smoke. “I made a mistake,” she said. “I thought I could uncover the ruins’ secrets. I thought they would reveal the truth. But they took more than I was willing to give.”

“What did they take?”

“Everything,” her grandmother said, her voice breaking. “My memories. My soul. I’m bound to this place now. I can never leave.”

Erin’s chest tightened. “Then I’ll free you. There has to be a way.”

The old man stepped forward, his expression grim. “There’s always a way,” he said. “But the ruins will demand a price. They always do.”

The carvings trembled, and the whispers grew louder. Erin clutched her grandmother’s journal, the weight of it pressing against her chest.

“What do you want?” she asked, addressing the ruins directly.

The whispers swelled, filling the chamber with a single, resonant word:

“Story.”

Erin’s hands shook as she opened the journal. She thought of the life her grandmother had lived, the memories she’d recorded.

“This is hers,” Erin said, holding the journal out. “Take her story, and let her go.”

The ruins seemed to hesitate, the hum faltering. Then, slowly, the light around her grandmother began to fade.

“Thank you,” her grandmother whispered as she dissolved into mist.

***

When Erin woke, she was at the edge of the swamp, the journal gone. Her grandmother’s face no longer haunted the ruins.

But something lingered—a faint hum in the back of her mind, a whisper she couldn’t shake.

Months later, she published her grandmother’s story, sharing it with the world. It became a sensation, a testament to legacy and sacrifice.

But late at night, when Erin stared into the mirror, she sometimes saw her own face begin to shift.

And the ruins whispered: 

***

The book became an overnight sensation. Critics hailed it as “a masterful blend of memoir and mystery,” praising Erin for her vivid prose and the haunting depth of her grandmother’s story. It brought her attention she hadn’t sought and opportunities she hadn’t expected.

But it also brought questions—ones Erin couldn’t answer.

“What inspired you to write about the ruins?” an interviewer asked during a live-streamed panel.

Erin hesitated, her fingers gripping the microphone tightly. “It was... personal,” she said, her voice measured. “A way to honor my grandmother.”

“And the supernatural elements? The voices, the carvings? Were those creative liberties?”

The audience leaned in, eager for her response. Erin’s chest tightened as she glanced at the shadowy edges of the stage, where the faint hum of the ruins seemed to linger.

“No,” she said finally. “Those were real.”

The room fell silent, a charged stillness spreading through the crowd. For a moment, Erin thought she saw a flicker of movement in the dark corners of the room—faces etched in shadow, watching her.

When the panel ended, she retreated to her dressing room, her hands trembling. The whispers were growing louder now, more insistent.

***

As the book’s success grew, so did the whispers. They followed Erin everywhere—echoing in the hiss of a kettle, the murmur of wind through trees, even the static between radio stations.

At first, she thought it was paranoia, the cost of reliving the ruins’ horrors every time she spoke about the book. But then the shadows started to move.

It began with small things: a flicker of light where there was none, the sense of being watched when she was alone. One night, she woke to find the pages of her grandmother’s unpublished notebooks scattered across the floor, though she had locked them in her desk.

Then came the dreams.

In them, she was back in the ruins, the walls closing in as the carvings whispered her name. Faces she recognized—her grandmother, the old man, even her mother—emerged from the stone, their eyes hollow and accusing.

“You gave them my story,” her grandmother’s voice echoed in her mind, “but what have you kept for yourself?”

Erin woke drenched in sweat, the hum vibrating in her skull. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the ruins wanted more.

***

The first time she noticed something missing, it was a small detail—a childhood memory of her grandmother baking peach cobbler. She remembered the smell, the warmth of the kitchen, but not what her grandmother had said to her that day.

As the days passed, more memories began to fade. Conversations, faces, moments that had once been vivid now felt like static.

One evening, Erin sat with her mother, who had finally agreed to talk about the book.

“You’re losing yourself,” her mother said, her voice trembling. “I can see it in your eyes. The same thing happened to her.”

“Who?” Erin asked, confused.

Her mother’s expression shifted from worry to horror. “Your grandmother, Erin. Don’t you remember?”

Erin’s breath caught. The memory of her grandmother’s face—once so clear—was now a blur.

“What’s happening to me?” Erin whispered.

Her mother grabbed her hands, her grip firm. “The ruins don’t just take stories. They take you. Piece by piece, they’ll erase you until you’re nothing but a shadow.”

***

Desperation drove Erin back to the swamp. The world she’d built—the fame, the book tours, the acclaim—felt meaningless if she couldn’t hold onto herself.

The ruins were waiting, their hum louder than ever, vibrating through the ground like a heartbeat.

As she approached, the old man stepped out of the shadows, his face haggard and weary.

“I told you not to come back,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation.

“I don’t have a choice,” Erin shot back. “They’re taking my memories. My life. I need to stop them.”

The old man sighed, leaning on his staff. “You can’t stop them. But you can make another bargain.”

“What do they want?” Erin demanded, her voice cracking.

The old man’s eyes darkened. “The same thing they’ve always wanted: stories. Memories. Truths. But this time, they’ll ask for something deeper.”

***

The ruins felt alive as Erin stepped into the central chamber. The carvings glowed faintly, the faces shifting as though watching her every move.

The whispers unite into words, filling the air with an unearthly resonance:

“What will you give?”

Erin swallowed hard, her voice shaking. “You’ve already taken my memories. What more could you want?”

The whispers grew louder, swirling around her like a storm. The old man stood at the edge of the chamber, his expression grim but silent.

“Your story,” the ruins answered. “All of it.”

Erin’s heart pounded. She thought of everything she had fought for—her grandmother’s legacy, her own identity. Without her story, who would she be?

“Will you give it back to me?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

The ruins pulsed with light, their answer clear: “No.”

Tears streamed down Erin’s face as she clutched her chest, the weight of the decision pressing down on her.

Finally, she nodded. “Take it.”

The light surged, and Erin felt a searing pain as the ruins reached inside her, pulling at the threads of her being. Her memories, her identity, her very essence—everything was drawn into the stone.

As the world faded, Erin saw her grandmother’s face one last time, etched into the walls alongside her own.

***

The book remained a bestseller, its pages now studied by scholars and devoured by readers. But Erin’s name faded from memory.

Her mother kept a photograph of her on the mantle, though she could no longer recall why.

And in the ruins, the carvings whispered new stories—stories no one outside the swamp would ever hear.

The old man remained their guardian, watching as the ruins claimed their next victim.

And the hum continued, eternal and unyielding.

***

The swamp was eternal, its landscape shifting with time but its essence unchanged. The old man, who had no memory of his true name, wandered its depths with a purpose he both despised and couldn’t abandon.

He was the keeper. The ruins had chosen him decades ago, claiming his story in exchange for sparing his life. Now, he remained a shadow, an observer of their endless hunger.

But something about Erin lingered in his mind. She had been different, her determination burning brighter than most who stumbled into the ruins. And unlike the others, she had left something behind.

Tucked in the folds of his tattered coat was a small scrap of paper, a fragment of Erin’s grandmother’s journal. The old man had taken it before the ruins could absorb it entirely, a quiet act of rebellion against their insatiable will.

***

The ruins hummed with satisfaction, their glow pulsating through the swamp. They had taken Erin’s story, her memories, her essence. Yet, the old man couldn’t shake the feeling that the ruins were growing restless.

For years, they had fed on wanderers and seekers, their power expanding with each life absorbed. But the old man sensed a shift—a hunger deeper than before.

The ruins were no longer content with solitary stories. They wanted the world.

He knew he couldn’t stop them alone. But perhaps Erin’s sacrifice wasn’t the end. Perhaps it was the beginning of something greater.

***

Miles away, in the small town Erin had once called home, her mother sat by the fireplace, staring at the photograph on the mantle. The edges of the memory were blurry, but something in her heart refused to let go.

The sound of a knock at the door startled her. When she opened it, she found a woman standing there—tall, with dark hair and piercing eyes. Her presence felt both familiar and unsettling.

“I need to speak with you,” the woman said, her voice calm but urgent.

“Who are you?” Erin’s mother asked, clutching the doorframe.

The woman hesitated. “I’m someone who knows what took your daughter. And I think we can bring her back.”

***

The woman introduced herself as Dr. Nyla Carter, an archaeologist who had spent decades studying ancient sites tied to inexplicable phenomena. Her research had led her to the ruins, though she had never dared to enter them.

“I’ve seen what they can do,” Nyla said, spreading out a series of maps and sketches on the kitchen table. “And I believe they’re not just consuming stories—they’re creating something.”

“Creating what?” Erin’s mother asked, her voice trembling.

Nyla pointed to a symbol etched on one of the maps—a spiral surrounded by concentric circles. “A gate,” she said. “A way to expand their reach. If they succeed, no story will be safe. They’ll take everything—history, memory, identity—until there’s nothing left but them.”

Erin’s mother stared at the maps, her hands shaking. “And you think we can stop them?”

Nyla nodded. “But we’ll need someone who knows the ruins. Someone who’s been inside.”

***

The old man stood at the edge of the ruins, the scrap of journal paper clenched in his hand. The ruins hummed louder, their power pressing against his mind like a vice.

He knew the ruins would sense his betrayal. But he also knew that if he didn’t act, their hunger would consume everything.

That night, he left the swamp for the first time in decades, the journey to Erin’s town filled with memories of the life he had lost. He arrived at her mother’s house just as dawn broke, his presence a shock to Nyla and Erin’s mother.

“You came,” Nyla said, her eyes wide with both relief and suspicion.

“I don’t know why,” the old man muttered, his voice weary. “But if there’s a chance to stop them, I’ll take it.”

Erin’s mother stepped forward, her eyes searching his face. “You knew my daughter?”

The old man hesitated before nodding. “She was brave. Braver than most. But the ruins…” His voice trailed off, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him.

Nyla studied him carefully. “You know their secrets. If we’re going to stop them, we’ll need your help.”

The old man sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Then we’d better hurry. The ruins don’t like to be challenged.”

***

The journey back to the swamp was fraught with tension. Nyla carried a satchel filled with tools and artifacts she believed could disrupt the ruins’ power. Erin’s mother clutched a photo of her daughter, her determination masking her fear.

The old man led the way, his steps slow but deliberate.

As they neared the ruins, the air grew heavy, the hum vibrating through their bodies. Shadows twisted and danced in the corners of their vision, and the carvings on the stones seemed to shift as they approached.

“The ruins know we’re here,” the old man said, his voice grim. “They won’t let us leave easily.”

Nyla stepped forward, holding a small artifact—a shard of obsidian etched with ancient symbols. “Then we’ll give them something they don’t expect.”

***

Inside the central chamber, the ruins pulsed with light, their power almost overwhelming. The faces in the walls seemed alive, their expressions shifting between anguish and fury.

Nyla placed the obsidian shard on the ground, its surface glowing faintly. “This will disrupt their energy,” she explained. “But only for a moment.”

Erin’s mother stepped forward, her voice shaking. “What happens if it doesn’t work?”

The old man stared at the carvings, his face lined with determination. “Then we give them what they want. And we pray it’s enough.”

The ruins’ hum grew louder, the carvings trembling as the shard activated. A wave of energy rippled through the chamber, and for a brief moment, the faces in the walls froze.

“Now!” Nyla shouted.

Erin’s mother held up the photo of her daughter, her voice cracking as she called out, “Erin! If you can hear me, come back!”

The light in the chamber flickered, and a figure began to emerge from the stone—a faint, translucent shape that slowly solidified.

“Mom?” Erin’s voice was weak, her form flickering like a dying flame.

Tears streamed down her mother’s face as she reached out, her hand trembling. “I’m here, sweetheart. We’re here.”

But the ruins roared with fury, their light surging as they fought to reclaim their prize.

The old man stepped forward, his voice rising above the chaos. “Take me!” he shouted. “Take my story, my memories—everything! Just let her go!”

The ruins hesitated, their hum losing strength.

And then, with a final surge of light, Erin collapsed into her mother’s arms.

***

Erin woke in her childhood bedroom, her memories fragmented but intact. The ruins were silent now, their hunger satisfied —for the moment.

The old man’s sacrifice lingered in her mind, a reminder of the price of truth.

As she stared out the window, Erin knew the fight wasn’t over. The ruins were still there, still waiting.

But now, she had a story to tell—and this time, it would be a warning.

The Warehouse of Forgotten Things by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Horror / Supernatural

The Warehouse of Forgotten Things

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,096

Margaret didn’t like doing business online, or over the phone. Especially not with strangers. But after the last moving company had left her in the lurch, she was desperate.

“Mrs. Thompson, I understand your concerns,” the man’s voice purred through the line. He sounded warm, confident—like someone who had everything under control. “But you’re in good hands with EverSafe Moving. No brokers, no middlemen. My team handles everything directly. We’ll take care of you.”

Margaret leaned against the kitchen counter, her gaze drifting to the boxes stacked neatly by the door. “And you’ll be here at nine? No games, no surprises?”

“Sharp as a tack, ma’am,” he said with a smooth chuckle. “We pride ourselves on being punctual. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

By the time the call ended, Margaret’s knuckles had gone white around the phone. She set it down with a soft click and stared at the rows of taped boxes, feeling a knot of unease that refused to loosen.

***

The truck arrived at 2:07 PM, rumbling up her driveway like a coughing beast. Margaret stood at the screen door, her brow furrowing as she watched. The truck was old—its paint faded to a dull gray, its logo scratched beyond recognition.

Two men climbed out. The first, a wiry man in a dirty cap, spat onto her lawn before yanking a dolly out of the truck. The second—a stocky man in a torn tank top—walked behind him, scratching at his neck as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

“EverSafe Moving?” Margaret called, her voice tight with apprehension.

The wiry man grunted. “Yeah.”

“You’re late,” she said, crossing her arms. “You were supposed to be here at nine.”

The stocky man shrugged. “Traffic.”

Margaret’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t say anything. What good would it do?

By the time they started—2:30—the shadows on the lawn stretched long and thin. Margaret hovered in the doorway, watching them toss her belongings onto the truck like garbage. Her late husband’s desk scraped against the metal floor, leaving a jagged scar along its edge. A vase her daughter had made in middle school shattered when it tipped off a poorly stacked box.

“Hey!” Margaret’s voice cracked. “Be careful with that!”

The wiry man barely looked up. “It’s fine.”

When they finally shut the truck doors, nearly half her belongings were still sitting on the curb.

“What about the rest?” Margaret demanded, stepping forward. “You said the whole truck was mine!”

“Truck’s full,” the wiry man said, scratching at his neck.

“No, it’s not! I can see space in there!”

He smirked, holding out a clipboard. “Boss’ll call you about the rest. Sign here.”

Margaret stared at the paper, her fingers trembling. She wanted to scream, to argue, to grab her things and shove them back inside the house. But the movers were already climbing into the cab. By the time she found her voice, the truck was nothing but dust on the horizon.

***

She called the man who’d made all those promises. “Theo Grant,” he’d said, with a voice as smooth as honey.

For days, he didn’t answer. Then, finally, on the fifth call, he picked up.

“EverSafe Moving,” Theo said, his tone dripping with fake cheer.

“You have my things,” Margaret said, her voice tight with anger. “Where are they?”

“Mrs. Thompson,” Theo replied, his tone oozing false concern. “I believe there’s an outstanding balance.”

“I paid you in full,” she snapped.

“Yes, but there were additional costs. Didn’t the movers explain?”

“No! And I’m not paying a dime more until I see my things!”

There was a long pause, and when Theo spoke again, his voice was cold. “If you want your belongings back, you’ll need to wire the money. No exceptions.”

Margaret gripped the phone so hard her fingers ached. “You’re a thief.”

“Call it what you want,” he said smoothly. “But you’re not getting anything back without payment.”

***

Margaret found the warehouse at the edge of town, sitting alone on a stretch of cracked asphalt surrounded by weeds. It looked more like a tomb than a building.

The sign above the rusted door read Storage Facility 23, but the letters were peeling, almost illegible. She hesitated at the threshold, her heart pounding. But then she thought of her daughter’s school projects, her husband’s desk, the boxes of family photos she hadn’t had time to scan.

Inside, the air was bitter cold. The vast space stretched into darkness, filled with piles of forgotten things. A wedding dress hung limp over the edge of a broken piano. A child’s tricycle, rusted and bent, sat alone in a puddle of shadows.

At the far end, Theo Grant stood by a stack of mismatched boxes, clipboard in hand. But something about him was wrong. His face looked stretched, his features blurry and sunken, as though someone had started carving him from wax and never finished.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Theo said, his voice hollow and distant.

From the shadows behind him, something moved. At first, Margaret thought it was smoke, curling and coiling along the floor. Then she saw it—them. Long fingers slid over boxes, brushing their edges like a lover’s caress. Each touch seemed to pull something from the air—a whisper, a memory, a heartbeat.

“What is this place?” Margaret whispered, her breath fogging in the icy air.

Theo’s lips twisted into a grotesque smile. “It’s where things go when you trust the wrong hands.”

The creature surged forward, its fingers stretching toward her, black and endless. Margaret’s instincts screamed for her to run, but her eyes landed on a battered lamp—the one her husband had picked out on their honeymoon. She grabbed it without thinking, its weight grounding her in reality.

The shadows recoiled with a deafening shriek.

Margaret didn’t stop. She yanked a box marked Family Photos from the pile and clutched it to her chest. Each item she grabbed seemed to weaken the creature, its fingers splintering and fading like smoke in the wind.

She ran.

***

By morning, the warehouse was gone, leaving only cracked asphalt and a field of brittle weeds.

Back home, Margaret sat in her half-empty living room, clutching a stack of photo albums. The brass lamp glowed softly beside her, its light warm and steady.

She’d gotten some things back, but not everything. And somehow, she knew that warehouse still existed, waiting for the next person who trusted the wrong hands.

But Margaret would tell her story. And maybe next time, someone would listen.