How Does A Knock At The Door End?

He knocked once. She opened the door. Nothing has been the same since. Maya has spent the last two years learning how to breathe again. After surviving a violent relationship that shattered her from the inside out, all she wants is silence. Safety. Control. But when a new tenant moves in next door, her carefully rebuilt life begins to unravel. Elias Graves is tall, quiet, and just out of prison. No past. No apologies. No promises. He doesn’t ask for anything. He just watches. And when Maya leaves her door unlocked one night, he walks in. What begins as a collision of need and heat quickly spirals into something darker, something Maya swore she would never want again. He gives her the pain she craves and the pleasure she hates herself for needing. But secrets live between their bodies, and some doors—once opened—won’t ever close again. This is not a love story. It’s a story about addiction. About survival. About surrendering to a man who might just ruin her… or finally teach her how to survive the fire.

Missing the last bus home shouldn’t have mattered. For Daniel Rogers, however, it’s about to matter a lot more. When Daniel is picked up by a stranger, Adrian Williams, while walking home one rainy night, he doesn’t think much of it. Polite, observant, and uncomfortably familiar, Adrian is a man Daniel can’t quite place. It’s supposed to end there, of course. But then Daniel meets Adrian again. And then again. Until Daniel realizes that these meetings aren’t quite so coincidental. Adrian doesn’t just see Daniel, Adrian understands Daniel. Too well, if you ask Daniel. As if Adrian knows Daniel’s deepest, darkest secrets, the ones Daniel keeps locked safely away from prying eyes. Caught up despite himself, Daniel finds himself opening up to Adrian, feeling something he hasn’t felt in years: seen, understood, desired. But Daniel can’t shake off the feeling that something is terribly wrong, that Adrian Williams, while not quite a stranger, is definitely not quite a friend. Is Daniel to walk away from something he doesn’t fully understand, or risk everything for someone who makes him feel like he’s found home? Some people don’t just show up by accident. They show up to stay.

"Who the hell are you?" "What the hell are you doing in my apartment?" A story between two neighbors and an incident that slowly draws them together *Disclaimer* this story has strong language and violence

After years of running from her past, Lissa returns to the one place she never wanted to see again—her childhood home. The town hasn’t changed, but Lissa has. Now a mother, a wife, and a survivor, she’s trying to rebuild a life while standing on the crumbling foundation of her trauma. Just a few months. Just until she finds her footing. But the house doesn’t let go so easily. It smells of mildew and memory. Dust covers more than furniture—it coats every secret Lissa tried to bury. As she navigates motherhood, old friendships, and a strained relationship with her sister, Lissa discovers more than ghosts in the attic. A photograph violently scribbled out. A letter from someone she hoped was lost to time. And a journal that brings her back to the girl she used to be. Her husband, Colt, tries to be her anchor. Her son, Lucas, is her reason to fight. But a single name—just one letter, T—is all it takes to fracture her resolve. The past isn’t dead. It’s waiting in the basement. In a letter tucked behind old receipts. In the quiet corners of her memory where no one else can go. As the days pass, the house begins to feel like a trap.Lissa must decide if she’s strong enough to dig through the wreckage of her past… or if some secrets are better left buried. Told with raw emotion and atmospheric suspense, House of Quiet Screams is a story of trauma, resilience, and the silent strength it takes to confront what once felt un faceable. For Lissa, surviving was never the end of the story—facing what comes after might be the beginning.

After the car accident, one of the Johnson sons was dead and the other gravely injured. When my devout, devoted husband woke up in the hospital, he called out, "Dorothy." He claimed that his body then held the soul of his brother, Elias Johnson. I went mad, calling doctors, priests, anyone I could, desperate to bring my husband back. It was not until that night that I overheard his conversation with our son: "Father, you've loved aunt for years. You even kept yourself chaste in your private prayer room, waiting. Now, finally, you can be with her openly." The man in the bed reached out to stroke our son's hair. "If it weren't to stop your mother from destroying her relationship, I wouldn't have married her." I hid in the shadows, still reeling from their words, when I saw what happened after our son left. The husband I had always known, icy, composed, and ascetic to maintain his devout faith for seven years, was then holding his sister-in-law close on that tiny hospital bed, sharing a warmth meant for lovers. The next day, I applied for Jim Johnson's death certificate and burned our marriage certificate. At his grand wedding, I climbed aboard the helicopter sent to fetch me. However, my once-cold husband went mad, chasing after us down several streets, desperate and unhinged.

After five years of marrying into the Loween City in place of my sister, the Gambling King finally passed away. My son and my ex-husband—at long last—gave me permission to fake my death and return to them. But they laid down three conditions. First: kneel before Vivian Gray, apologize for framing her all those years ago, and surrender my place as Mrs. Hartwell. Second: work as a live-in maid for my own son for five years, and never show up at his school in my former identity as the reigning queen of the nightlife scene—lest I embarrass him. Third: drink an abortifacient to destroy my fertility forever, as recompense for the infertility I once caused Vivian. "My lady, you've endured five whole years just to earn your freedom—how dare they humiliate you like this?" My maid's eyes were red, burning with indignation on my behalf. But I just tipped my head back and swallowed the death-faking pill, letting the servants toss my "corpse" into the overgrown brambles beyond the city limits. Then, from the mud and weeds, I crawled back to the Hartwell mansion—one knee at a time. Day one, I knelt as ordered and signed over custody of my son without a fight. Day three, I locked myself in the storage closet and stopped showing up at school to pick my son up like I used to. I also stopped pestering him to call me "Mom." Even when Vivian—knowing full well I'm terrified of the dark—deliberately trapped me in the basement, I bore it in silence. By the time my ex-husband Nathan Hartwell saw me again, I was barely hanging on. For the first time, a flicker of panic crossed his face as he carried me out of that basement. But my son just sneered. "It's just another stunt to win our sympathy." When he caught the tears welling in Vivian's eyes, Nathan coldly dropped me to the ground. "Always scheming against Vivian with your dirty tricks—aren't you tired of it?" Right then, the system chimed in my ear: [Please proceed to the "disposable ex-wife death node" to complete the story line and return to your original world.] I let out a quiet laugh. "Not tired at all." And with that, I turned and dove straight into the swimming pool beside me.