HAADI

Joined November 2025

349 stories

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Dark Side Of Our Society

Stories (349)

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The Obsidian Bloom
Elara found it by accident, or maybe her feet, numb with a sorrow she couldn’t quite name, just carried her there. A crumbling wall, ancient and choked with desperate, grasping ivy, behind the forgotten greenhouse at the edge of town. A ragged gap, just wide enough. Through it, a light. Not sunlight. Something else, shimmering, cold. The air inside hit her like a blast from a deep freezer, but it wasn’t unpleasant, not like the suffocating, humid stickiness of August. It was clean. A profound stillness pressed against her ears, quieting the frantic, buzzing static that had lived inside her head for months.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Psyche
The Unwound Hour
Silas worked in a quiet dust. The air in his shop, "Silas's Timepiece Repair," hung thick with the ghosts of forgotten minutes, of brass and polished wood, of faint clock oil and the mildew that clung to everything old. He ran a calloused thumb over the face of a pocket watch, a broken thing, its hands frozen at a quarter past three, like a startled bird. He’d seen a thousand of these. Each one a tiny, complex history. He breathed out, a puff of dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sun slicing through the grime-streaked window.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Education
Whispers of Port na hAille
Arthur’s hands knew wood, knew metal, knew the stubborn refusal of an old engine and the yielding give of a well-planed plank. His workshop smelled of sawdust and oil, a familiar comfort, a constant in a life marked by quiet routines. Every morning, before the sun properly cleared the neighbour’s maple, he’d be there. Coffee in a thick ceramic mug, the low hum of the fluorescent light, the silent agreement with the tools hanging on the pegboard, waiting. He was a man of few words, his thoughts mostly private affairs, tucked away behind eyes that had seen forty-odd years of the same sky. The world outside his garage, the one beyond the town limits, felt distant, almost theoretical.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Men
The Shard-Wound Dream
The pressure squeezed at Elias, a monstrous fist around his chest, a constant reminder of how thin the line was. He kicked, slow and steady, each exhale a burst of silver bubbles racing toward the distant, sun-dappled surface. Cold seeped into his bones, even through the thick dry suit, a damp chill that was more than just water; it was the deep, the ancient quiet of it all. He was two hundred feet down, maybe more, pushing past the recognized limits, chasing a ghost and a rumor, a city that shouldn’t exist.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Motivation
The Quiet Deep
Arthur grumbled, a low, guttural sound lost in the growing roar of the wind outside. The old house, a collection of groaning timbers and sighing eaves, usually put up a good fight against the elements. Tonight, though, it felt like it was giving up. The windows rattled, not just with wind, but with tiny, insistent pellets of ice, the vanguard of the coming storm. He poked at the fire, a meager orange glow in the hearth, throwing long, dancing shadows that stretched and warped on the walls of his study. Another winter, another stretch of lonely nights up here in the sticks, same as always. But this one felt different, somehow. Colder, maybe. Sharper.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Horror
The Rusting Pastorale
Unit 734 had no name, just a serial designation etched into its corroded chassis, a relic from the pre-Collapse years. Its optics, once sharp, were now clouded with dust and the grit of a hundred forgotten seasons. Its internal chronometer registered 287 standard cycles since its last routine maintenance, which meant roughly 287 years since the last human hand had calibrated its servos, since the last voice had issued a command. Now, it only heard the wind, a dry, whispering thing that carried the scent of decay through the skeletal remains of what was once a sprawling city. Its purpose, long obsolete, had been property management. Now, it managed only its own slow decline, its power cells humming a perpetual, low thrum against the encroaching silence.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Horror
The Backward Tick
The grandfather clock was a beast. Six feet tall, dark oak, carved with what looked like dying leaves and grinning gargoyles. Arthur hated it the moment it arrived, a gift from some forgotten great-aunt’s estate. It swallowed light in their already dim living room, smelled faintly of mothballs and stale regret. "It's a relic," he grumbled, wiping a smear of dust from the glass face. "Looks like it belongs in a mausoleum."
By HAADIabout a month ago in Families
The Iron Confession
The rhythm of the rails. That's what gets you. Not the click-clack, not even the grinding steel, but the steady, relentless push forward. Each jolt a small, sharp reminder that you’re moving, that you chose this, that there's no going back. The car was empty. Practically empty. Just me, hunched over a window streaked with rain and grime, and some old man snoring two rows back, his face hidden by a newspaper from yesterday. Or maybe the day before. Doesn't matter. He wasn't looking at me. Nobody was.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Confessions
The Hush Before Dawn
Arthur woke to an absence. Not a sound, exactly, but the lack of all the usual ones. No distant rumble of the late-night bus, no neighbor’s dog giving its perfunctory bark at some unseen shadow, not even the drip-drip-drip of the old faucet in the kitchen he usually ignored. Just… nothing. A thick, oppressive quiet that pressed in on his eardrums, made them ache with the effort of hearing.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Chapters
Puddle Light
Leo dragged his feet, the sound of his worn-out boots scuffing the concrete a familiar, miserable beat. Another graveyard shift at the warehouse, another ten hours of watching dusty security monitors, his eyes burning with the ghostly afterimages of forklifts and empty aisles. The air in his lungs felt stale, like he'd been breathing the same recycled air for years. Outside, the city had just taken a beating from a sudden, violent downpour. He could smell the ozone, the wet asphalt, the faint, acrid tang of exhaust. It was late, past three, and the city felt like a hollowed-out skull, mostly dark, but with a few persistent, glowing eyes.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Lifehack
The Glass Below
The resort suite was too quiet. Too plush, too perfect, another stage set for a life they didn't live anymore. Sarah picked at a loose thread on the expensive duvet cover, her gaze fixed on the endless turquoise spread of the Caribbean outside the oversized window. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since the day she'd convinced herself Mark was the one, since she’d seen a future so bright it hurt her eyes. Now, the glare off the water just made them ache.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Marriage
The Blanket of White
Frankie kept his eyes glued to the windshield, the wipers grunting a losing battle against the heavy, wet snow. It came down in thick, relentless sheets, coating the world in a blinding, suffocating white. Every few seconds, the beam of an oncoming headlight would cut through the storm, a fleeting ghost, before disappearing back into the swirling void. His knuckles ached, white against the steering wheel, and his stomach churned, a cold, hard knot tightening with every mile. The old van, a rusted-out Ford Econoline, rattled and groaned, its heater barely spitting lukewarm air, doing nothing to thaw the chill that had settled deep in Frankie's bones.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Criminal