Muhammad Abdullah
Bio
Crafting stories that ignite minds, stir souls, and challenge the ordinary. From timeless morals to chilling horror—every word has a purpose. Follow for tales that stay with you long after the last line.
Stories (104)
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The House of Vampires
No man ever forgets the moment he realizes that what he feared in dreams may walk beside him in waking life. I was not a child when it began. I was thirty-seven. A cynic, a divorcee, a doctor with trembling hands and a heart bruised by the ethics I once cherished. The weight of humanity, once sacred, had become negotiable—a prescription here, a withheld treatment there. It wasn’t money I craved, but silence. Silence from the screams that lived in my conscience.
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Horror
🩸 The Crimson Cure
The town of Gorehollow had long been forgotten by maps, satellites, and even God Himself. Tucked beneath the shadow of the Western Ridge, surrounded by the forests that hissed secrets at night, it breathed the suffocating silence of a place left behind. There were no roads in, no roads out—only a rusted train track that hadn't rattled in thirty years and a sign that read:
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Horror
The Girl in Ward 19
There are hospitals that heal, and there are hospitals that remember. St. Elora’s Asylum, built in the 1800s on the edge of a forgotten town in Murree’s chilling highlands, belonged to the latter. Now decrepit, its walls still breathed the whispers of those who had screamed, wept, and begged behind them.
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Horror
The King’s Garden of Shadows
Once upon a time, in a kingdom surrounded by seven rivers and veiled in the perfume of eternal jasmine, there reigned a King known by the title "Raheem the Wise." His rule was not forged in blood but in books, not sustained by swords but by silence and soul-searching. His palace had no iron gates, only whispering wind-chimes and vines of lilies climbing its golden pillars.
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Fiction
The Slave Who Knew the Stars
Once upon a time, in the ancient kingdom of Zaheerabad, nestled between black mountains and golden deserts, lived a Prince named Kamraan, son of the mighty King Ubaid. The Prince was fair in face and feared in sword, taught in the philosophies of men but untouched by the lives of those beneath him. The palace was carved from marble, adorned with silk and mirrors, but behind its glistening curtains brewed storms invisible to the blind.
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Fiction
The Garden of Mirrors: A Tale of Two Thrones
Part I: The Echoes of the Orchard In an ancient land where rivers whispered secrets and mountains bore silent witness to time, there existed two mighty kingdoms, separated by a sea of sand and centuries of silence. One was Zahran, a land veiled in mist, where the people believed that dreams were fragments of lost truths. The other was Elburz, whose people trusted only what the eye could see and the hand could hold.
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Fiction
The Boy Who Refused to Blink
I. The Child: Born Guilty The boy was born on a Tuesday—a day his village called Damnation’s Dawn. His mother bled silence, and the doctor wore no gloves. The hospital bed was cold; the window open in winter. They say he didn’t cry when he was born. They say he blinked once, then never again.
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Humans
The Four Faces of Ishaaq
I. The Child: Born in a House of Silence Ishaaq was born on a Monday—a day neither holy nor cursed—into a house made of mud, secrets, and silence. His mother’s scream was the only sound in the room when he arrived. Not a wail from Ishaaq, not a word from his father. A midwife muttered “He looks like a thinking boy”, as if that were a curse in a town that worshipped ignorance.
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Humans
The Agreement of the Dead
I was not always dead. No, death came much later—like a belated apology, or a kindly word after the firing squad. My name, though unimportant now, once sat proudly on university plaques and inked letters of recommendation. Now, I am only remembered in whispers. And worse still: in documents signed in bloodless ink by breathless men.
By Muhammad Abdullah8 months ago in Horror
