Psychotic Stories Novels & Stories

Three weeks into October, Dr. Whitmore from the National Institute of Neurological Disorders called with an opportunity that changed everything. "I'm on the review board for the Breakthrough Research Initiative," she explained, her voice crackling over Marcus's office phone. "We're allocating emergency funding for high-impact neuroscience projects, and your name came up in our discussions. Combined with word that you have a visiting researcher from Berkeley—Dr. Vasquez, is it? we're wondering if you'd be interested in submitting a proposal."

The circle was drawn in Himalayan salt and crushed pomegranate seeds, the air thick with the scent of burnt honey and Ava's desperation. She wasn't praying; she was bargaining. Her knife, usually an extension of her will, felt heavy and dull in her hand. The critics' words echoed, derivative, lacking fire, safe, carved deeper wounds than any blade. Michelin stars felt like distant, dying embers. Inspiration had deserted her like a fickle lover. So, she turned to the unconventional section of her grandmother's grimoire, the one bound in suspiciously soft, warm leather. Incubus Minor: For Creative Ignition. Price: Nights of Service.

Avery pauses for dramatic effect, I love this woman but I kind of want to kick her a little right now. “Ever heard of WLS?” we all shake our heads, no “It’s a type of psychosis brought on by the loss of your wolf. As losing your wolf is so rare the psychosis no one has really heard of it. But I remember it from a case I had a few years ago. If we prove that Nova was in the asylum because of her family, we can argue she has WLS which causes bouts of temporary insanity. I am not going to do that, but if they had opened this door we could have walked this argument through”

**Lust's Asylum: Twisted Confessions** **Host’s Introduction** Welcome back to the flames... Obsession is the most dangerous muse. Tonight’s confession is about a brilliant but deeply disturbed artist who found his perfect living canvas online. What started as distant admiration became kidnapping, captivity, and the most intimate, twisted form of artistic possession. This one is dark, psychological, and intensely erotic. Here is the confession of “Stalker’s Muse.” --- **Story 13: Stalker’s Muse**

Alissa turned around, "Hannah, I didn't mean to startle you." "Aron," she replied, her voice barely audible. "It looks like you have seen a ghost." "I am just tired." Alissa could now see a dangerous gleam in his eyes, that she had missed when she was head over heels. "I see. What were you up to yesterday?" Alissa's eyes widened, her brain sent warning bells. Why was he asking? Did he want to eliminate his next victim? "I, I was at my dorm. I wasn't feeling so well."

Ben snaps “She was at her mums house, we thought the break away from sam would help bring her back to herself but it had the opposite effect, she didnt want to see him atol, when she was here she was distant from him, always walking on eggshells and finally i snapped, i asked what was wrong, she exploded and left because honestly i didn't understand. She went back to her mums house, she was having a dinner party so emma got drunk, started to tell delusions to the group and I mean stuff she totally made up in her head” “Psychosis, postnatal psychosis, it’s where you believe stuff that’s not true, its terrifying sometimes” Helen tells the table numbly like she has had first hand experience wit

"You know how bad work stress can be these days." "Yeah, I agree." Emily supports and I look back at her, waiting for her to spice up Becky's theory. "You know, my friend used to obsess over Iron man so much that she started imagining herself to be Pepper. You know, it was close to a kind of erotomania. Then she had to visit a psychiatrist for her treatment." She shrugs and I see Becky listening to her keenly as if she is giving her some kind of life lessons. "It can be worst sometimes, like in Nikki's case. Where people come out with some crazy shitty stories. Oh, my god! Who knows, it can be a case of schizophrenia." She observes me with a weird glance and I roll my eyes. "I knew Nikki had

I’d bought it on a whim at a flea market, thinking it would make a quirky coffee table piece. Curiosity got the better of me. I flipped through the pages, smirking at the archaic language and diagrams of pentagrams. One ritual caught my eye: “Summoning the Spirit of Desire.” It promised to awaken hidden passions, to bring forth a being that could fulfill your deepest cravings. What harm could it do? It was probably just some New Age nonsense. I lit a few candles— vanilla-scented ones from the bathroom— and drew a crude circle on the floor with chalk I found in my art supplies. Chanting the words felt silly at first, my voice echoing awkwardly in the empty room. “Oh spirit of lust and fire, h

Whatever. But I had read it, skulking just inside the park entrance and probably looking like one of the junkies that queued up outside the drop-in centre in town. I'd love to have said it had been a riveting read, but there was nothing in the two-page glossy pamphlet that inspired me. Paranoia. Anxiety attacks. And the plot twist? Full-blown psychosis. The individual can lose touch with reality and experience visual and auditory hallucinations.

The surprise on my face must have been clear because he frowned, “Did he tell you those stories too? The one of me setting him up to be sexually abused, or witnessing our parents drive off the bridge?” Blood left my face as I stared at Dean. “I guess I have my answer,” he chuckled, shaking his head in pity. “I’m sorry to burst your little love bubble, but Colt is mentally unwell. He’s had schizophrenia since his early teens, dreaming up elaborate events that never happened.” “And from the time I tried to get him into a psyche ward, he became convinced that I was his enemy. “ “Liar!” I screamed, and something seemed to soften in Dean’s eyes.