《Droplets of Anatolia》


 Erras House by the Water

    Erra lived in an old house by the river. Moss crept over the stones, and no one in the village could remember a time when the house wasn¡¯t there.


    Erra used to say one of her great-great-great-grandmothers had built it with her own hands, and the villagers always believed her.


    The stranger didn¡¯t. He was a city man, too modern for old tales. He laughed in Erra¡¯s face when she explained that the house stood so close to the water because they served the spirits of the river.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    He laughed even harder when she told him that offerings kept them safe. Then he pulled out his phone, recording her as he made her repeat the story. ¡°Make sure to like and subscribe!¡± he mocked, but the villagers offered no likes. No one subscribed.


    By dawn, the stranger and his phone had vanished.


    Later, Erra called Hasan and his sons to help push the stranger¡¯s car into the river. The harvest that year was exceptionally bountiful.

 Loneliness

    The Captain and his brother sat side by side on the deck chairs, watching the horizon until dawn began to break.


    As always, his brother spoke of better days, spinning memories from the past like threads of gold.


    They spoke of their father, their home, and the magnificent woman they had both loved.


    By silent agreement, they never once glanced at the ruined city sprawled along the coastline behind them.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.Nor did they speak of the loved ones buried there.


    When the first light of morning touched the sea, the Captain¡¯s young assistant arrived in his small boat, tying it neatly to the side.


    As he unloaded supplies for breakfast, the boy asked,


    ¡°Captain, don¡¯t you get lonely out here, all by yourself?¡±


    The Captain glanced at the empty deck.


    ¡°No,¡± he said softly. ¡°I¡¯m never lonely.¡±

 The Watchmaker

    Until the young ¨¦migr¨¦ arrived, the Watchmaker was the most respected man in town.


    His skill in repairing timepieces was unmatched, his reputation extending to cities far beyond the sleepy borders of the town. People would wait for weeks, sometimes months, just to have their treasured watches restored by his hands.


    And then the ¨¦migr¨¦ came and ruined everything.


    Late one night, the Watchmaker slipped into his tiny workshop. In the dim light, he saw the young ¨¦migr¨¦ hunched over a workbench, meticulously repairing a silver watch.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Jealousy clawed at him. He watched those steady hands, so sure, so unbothered, and felt his own fists tighten.


    As the knife plunged into the ¨¦migr¨¦¡¯s back, the Watchmaker convinced himself this wasn¡¯t his fault.


    The young man had it coming.


    The next morning, the town awoke to tragedy: the young ¨¦migr¨¦ had been killed while working on a gift for the Watchmaker himself.


    The entire town mourned.

 The Burdened Stone

    On their final morning in the village, just before they left, Kutan¡¯s mother placed a dark green, round stone in his hand.


    ¡°This will protect you where we¡¯re going,¡± she said, but her voice trembled, betraying the lie beneath her words.


    Kutan clutched the stone tightly.


    They walked for days, leaving behind the only home he¡¯d ever known. As the familiar sights disappeared, a heavy silence descended, and the cold seeped into their bones.


    Each day, the villagers grew quieter. The laughter that had once filled their evenings was gone, replaced by an uneasy hush. Their steps slowed, their breaths became shallow, and Kutan felt the weight of the stone in his pocket grow heavier with every mile.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    Finally, they stopped in a shadowed valley between two barren hills.


    Kutan¡¯s mother leaned close, her breath warm against his ear. ¡°This is the place,¡± she whispered.


    Kutan didn¡¯t hesitate. He hurled the stone into the depths of the valley, where it struck the ground with a resounding echo that seemed to ripple through the earth.


    The tribe settled there, building their new village in the shadow of the hills. But the echo of the stone¡¯s fall never truly faded.


    It lingered in the air, a haunting reminder of the home they had lost. And for the rest of his life, Kutan couldn¡¯t escape the feeling that the stone had cursed them, that it had rooted them in the wrong place.


    When he died, alone and weary, Kutan swore he could still hear it¡ªthe sound of the stone, whispering in the dark.

 The Jump

    I don¡¯t know how I ended up here, but I¡¯m standing at the edge of the cliff.


    My right toe hovers over nothing, just a breath away from the drop.


    I don¡¯t want to jump.


    But I think I will.


    There¡¯s a name for this, I remember reading about it once¡ªthose thoughts you can¡¯t shake, the ones that whisper harm, even when you don¡¯t mean to listen.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    When did I study psychology? Did I ever? The memory feels borrowed, like it belongs to someone else.


    I look down, expecting to see waves crashing against jagged rocks. But there¡¯s no ocean.


    Far below, there¡¯s only blurred, grey earth¡ªsilent and endless. And in the emptiness between, I hear them.


    Spirits, calling my name.


    Their voices rise, soft and steady, promising relief. They want to save me¡ªfrom the weight of staying, the ache of surviving.


    So I do the only thing that makes sense.


    I leap.


    Like a stone, I fall into their waiting arms.

 The Red Spider

    For decades, the Red Spider had been a guide, a symbol, and a warning.


    Amara¡¯s shamanhood had begun with its arrival. Long ago, when she was a young woman full of questions and doubts, the Red Spider had come to her in a dream. Back then, it was vibrant and bold, its legs like threads of fire, weaving a web that connected her to the spirits.


    In those early days, Amara was terrified. The call to shamanhood was not a gift¡ªit was a burden. It meant isolation, carrying the grief of others, speaking to ancestors who offered cryptic wisdom but no comfort. Yet, as the seasons passed, she learned to listen, to interpret, to guide.


    The tribe turned to her for everything: blessings for harvests, protection from sickness, answers to the questions that haunted their dreams. She became the bridge between the living and the dead, her voice an echo of the spirits themselves.


    But now, the Red Spider had returned.


    For four nights in a row, Amara dreamed of it. This time, it was older, its colors faded, its movements slower but no less deliberate. She understood its message immediately.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    It was time.


    At dawn, she walked to the stream. The water was cold, but she welcomed it, scrubbing away the weariness of a lifetime spent in service. She dressed in the ceremonial robes she had worn for countless rituals, their patterns worn but still vibrant.


    She combed her hair until it shone, each stroke a quiet farewell to the woman she had been. Then, she sat at the entrance of her tent, watching the sun rise one last time.


    On the fifth night, the Red Spider appeared.


    It crawled silently into her tent, its legs delicate but purposeful. Amara rose without hesitation. She had carried the tribe¡¯s burdens for years, guided them through storms and famine, comforted them in times of despair. Now, her task was complete.


    She followed the spider into the forest, its glowing body leading her deeper than she had ever ventured before. The trees seemed to bow as she passed, their branches heavy with the weight of her journey.


    Throughout the summer, the tribe heard the faint rhythm of drums coming from the woods. They whispered among themselves, wondering if the spirits had taken her or if she had simply become one of them.


    As the weeks turned to months, even the drums faded into silence.


    But in the stillness, the tribe felt her presence¡ªan unseen force that lingered in the wind, in the rustle of leaves, in the crackle of firelight. Amara was gone, yet she was everywhere, her wisdom woven into the fabric of their lives.


    The Red Spider had not just taken her; it had completed her story.

 The Abandoned

    At dawn, her mother led Maral deep into the forest.


    Far from where the tribe had made their camp, far enough that no one would hear her cries.


    Maral knew this wasn¡¯t a game.


    The shaman had said she was cursed.


    They didn¡¯t want the little girl in the tribe anymore.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    Her mother wept as she walked away, but Maral chased after her.


    She couldn¡¯t keep up.


    Terrified of what was to come, she waited as darkness fell.


    That¡¯s when Azmit came down from the trees, the one who owned the restless spirits.


    He had no face¡ªjust empty hollows where eyes should be.


    Azmit took his beloved daughter Maral¡¯s hand.


    Together, they began the journey back to the tribe.


    This time, the shaman had been right.


    God help them all.

 Ejderha

    One evening, as the valley grew dim with twilight, a beggar approached the tribe.


    The tribe had just arrived after a long and fruitful journey. Their animals were strong and well-fed, their wagons brimming with goods. Their songs of triumph echoed through the valley.


    But they were greedy. Their hearts were as hardened as the iron tools they carried.


    When the beggar humbly asked for a morsel of bread, they mocked him. When he begged for shelter, they drove him away with curses and threats.


    The shaman, sensing danger, warned them. His voice quivered as he pleaded, but no one listened. The tribe laughed and carried on with their feasting.


    Before the beggar left, he stood at the edge of their camp, his shadow long against the dying light. He raised a hand and cursed them in a voice that chilled the air.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    That night, under the cover of darkness, the Ejderha came.


    It was a massive, ancient beast, its scales the color of the earth after a storm, its breath carrying the scent of ash and decay. Its wings didn¡¯t flap like those of a bird¡ªthey groaned like the bending of ancient trees. When it roared, the sound shook the valley and turned the tribe¡¯s triumphant songs into screams of terror.


    The Ejderha swept into their camp, its glowing eyes searching for its prey. It took seven children, its claws delicate but unyielding as it carried them into the shadows.


    The tribe was left broken. The wails of the mothers filled the valley, their sorrow as deep as the earth itself. Fathers stood silent, their faces etched with grief and guilt.


    Year after year, the Ejderha returned. Seven children each time¡ªsometimes sons, sometimes daughters.


    The tribe, desperate to end the curse, searched for the beggar in every corner of the land. Through forests, across rivers, over mountains, they looked. They called his name, begged for forgiveness.


    But the beggar was nowhere to be found.


    And the Ejderha never stopped coming.

 Chloe at the Fairground

    Chloe hadn¡¯t wanted to come to the fairground in the first place. She never really did.


    The place was too crowded, too loud, too full of people, none of whom she knew. But he insisted. ¡°We only have weekends now,¡± he reminded her, a little too brightly. ¡°Let¡¯s make the most of it.¡±


    Chloe went along with it. She knew her father needed this more than she did.


    They rode the Ferris wheel, the bumper cars, all the things she thought he would like. He even shot at the targets, laughing when he missed. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Then, in the midst of lights and noise, his hand slipped out of hers.


    She wasn¡¯t surprised. Not really. They barely spent time together anymore, and somewhere deep down, she¡¯d always expected him to let go. Still, her heart beat faster, a little bird trapped in her chest. She searched everywhere, her small voice lost in the blaring music and the blur of strangers. She asked for help, but no one seemed to see her.


    Hours passed, or maybe it was just a few minutes¡ªtime didn¡¯t feel real here. And then, standing alone in the swirl of lights, Chloe suddenly understood: it wasn¡¯t her father who was missing.


    It was her.

 The Red Hag

    Tamay was sulking by the water¡¯s edge when the old woman approached her.


    ¡°Why so sad, my pretty girl?¡± the woman asked.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to have a baby brother,¡± Tamay muttered.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you want a brother?¡±


    Tamay shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t.¡± Then she added, ¡°I wish he would just disappear.¡±


    The old woman laughed, a strange, raspy sound that made Tamay¡¯s skin crawl.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°Then we must get rid of him for you.¡±


    Something about the way the woman said it made Tamay uneasy. She was ugly, and she smelled awful, like damp earth and something rotting.


    Tamay knew she had made a mistake. Without another word, she turned and ran.


    But as she fled, the woman¡¯s laughter followed her, echoing in the trees.


    The baby was born the next day. And that night, the Red Hag came.


    The Red Hag was a foul spirit, known to prey on newborns and their mothers, slipping into homes under the cover of darkness. It was said she fed on their lungs, leaving nothing but silence and grief in her wake.


    She came for Tamay¡¯s family, just as the old woman had promised. The Red Hag devoured both the baby and the mother.


    Tamay¡¯s father wept for days.


    And Tamay never spoke again.

 Brother

    Ah, how could we have known, child? How could we have known?


    Even on the day of the funeral, he¡¯d told his mother.


    ¡°My twin is calling me,¡± he said.


    ¡°He¡¯s lonely down there, all alone in the earth,¡± he said.


    We thought it was just his grief.


    ¡°He misses his brother,¡± we told ourselves.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Then he stopped eating, stopped drinking. His face grew pale and hollow, thin as a spoon.


    One morning, we woke to the sound of his mother¡¯s screams. His bed was empty.


    We found him at the cemetery.


    He had dug up his brother¡¯s fresh grave with his bare hands,


    wrapped himself around the shrouded body,


    and left his last breath there, in the dirt.


    We buried them together, side by side.


    And sealed the grave again.

 The Rite of Adolescence

    When Devin turned fourteen, they left her in the forest.


    They handed her a small flask of water and a knife¡ªnothing more.


    ¡°Walk until you find what you¡¯re looking for,¡± her mother had said.


    ¡°What am I looking for?¡± Devin had asked.


    Her mother didn¡¯t answer.


    Devin walked for hours, her steps crunching over fallen leaves, her breath sharp in the cold air.


    When fatigue overtook her, she collapsed under an ancient oak and drifted into a restless sleep.


    In her dreams, her grandfather, the old Shaman, appeared before her.


    ¡°You¡¯re afraid,¡± he said, his voice low and steady.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she whispered, her chest tight.


    ¡°Good. Fear is your teacher. It prepares you to grow.¡±


    When Devin awoke, the forest was shrouded in mist.


    The world around her felt alive in a way it hadn¡¯t before. She could hear whispers carried on the breeze, voices calling her name from the shadows.


    Shapes began to form in the fog¡ªdark faces and shifting bodies that moved like smoke but felt solid.


    They circled her slowly, their presence both threatening and familiar. Devin¡¯s hand tightened on the knife, but she didn¡¯t raise it.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    The figures whispered things she couldn¡¯t fully understand: fragments of stories, warnings, promises. Their voices sank into her skin like cold rain.


    One of them stepped out of the mist, moving closer.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Devin asked, her voice trembling.


    The figure stopped, and the mist fell away to reveal a woman impossibly old. Her hair was white as bone, her skin lined with the weight of ages.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Devin repeated.


    The woman¡¯s hollow eyes met hers. ¡°I am you,¡± she said, her voice quiet but certain.


    ¡°I am what you become after a thousand mistakes and a thousand lessons.¡±


    Devin felt the air shift. The woman¡¯s eyes were like mirrors, and in them, Devin saw herself¡ªher life unfolding in flashes.


    She saw her failures, her triumphs, the moments she would fall and the times she would rise again. She saw love and loss, anger and peace. It was all there, stretching endlessly into the distance.


    The old woman raised a hand, her fingers trembling. ¡°Step forward,¡± she said.


    Devin hesitated. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because to grow, you must embrace what you will become. Even the parts that frighten you.¡±


    With trembling steps, Devin moved closer. As she reached for the old woman¡¯s hand, the mist around them began to spin, faster and faster, until it swallowed them both whole.


    When Devin awoke again, the forest was still and bright with morning light.


    The flask of water lay untouched beside her. The knife rested at her side, forgotten.


    But in her chest, where fear had once taken root, there was now something else: a seed of strength.


    She rose, dusted the leaves from her clothes, and began the long walk back.


    She didn¡¯t need her mother to tell her what she¡¯d been looking for. Devin knew.


    Herself.

 Cem’s Friend

    The woman woke in the dead of night, jolted from sleep by an eerie sense of unease.


    ¡°There are noises coming from Cem¡¯s room again,¡± she whispered.


    ¡°Just ignore it,¡± her husband mumbled, barely stirring.


    ¡°He¡¯s doing it on purpose to get attention. He wants to sleep with us.¡±


    Her husband drifted back into slumber, but the woman lay still in the dark, listening.


    From the next room came faint giggles, followed by low whispers.


    The next morning, as they sat at breakfast, she questioned her son carefully.


    ¡°Are you getting used to your room, Cem?¡± she asked.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.¡°If you want, you can sleep with us again.¡±


    But Cem shook his head, smiling.


    ¡°I like my room,¡± he said. ¡°And so does my friend.¡±


    A chill ran through her. She didn¡¯t ask anything more.


    For a few nights, she relied on sleeping pills, hoping to silence her growing unease.


    But even the pills couldn¡¯t drown out the sound of those muffled whispers, the quiet bursts of laughter seeping through the walls.


    Finally, one night, she couldn¡¯t bear it any longer.


    She crept into Cem¡¯s room, her heart pounding as she pushed the door open. The darkness seemed heavier here, thicker.


    Carefully, she reached out to touch his bed. Her fingers brushed against something cold¡ªsomething that felt like a hand.


    ¡°Cem?¡± she whispered.


    Her son¡¯s voice came from behind her, soft and calm.


    ¡°My friend doesn¡¯t like you.¡±

 The White Bus

    Seda had been waiting at the bus stop for what felt like a long time.


    She wasn¡¯t sure when she had arrived or how much time had passed. Buses came and went¡ªgreen ones, yellow ones, crowded ones with people pressed against the windows. But none of them were the one she was waiting for.


    The bench beside her filled and emptied in waves.


    An old couple sat there for a while, their hands clasped tightly, staring into nothing. Teenagers came next, laughing, their music a tinny hum escaping through their headphones. Schoolchildren with backpacks dragged their feet. Workers slumped against the signpost, their faces lined with exhaustion.


    Seda watched it all unfold like a play, distant and unreal.


    The sun had been shining when she first sat down. Warm air brushed against her bare arms, the kind of heavy heat that clings to the end of summer.


    But then the light shifted. She couldn¡¯t say exactly when. The golden warmth drained from the sky, replaced by something pale and colorless. Clouds rolled in, thick and silent.


    When the snow began to fall, Seda hardly noticed.


    The world around her softened under a layer of white. The bench beside her was empty now. The laughter, the hum of the music, the shuffle of footsteps¡ªall of it was gone.


    She didn¡¯t feel the cold, though she could see her breath misting faintly in the air.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    At last, a bus appeared in the distance, its headlights cutting through the falling snow. It pulled up to the stop without a sound, its wheels leaving no tracks behind.


    It was white, completely white¡ªlike the snow, like the sky.


    The doors hissed open, and the driver leaned toward her. He was an older man, his uniform crisp, his smile warm.


    ¡°Come on,¡± he said gently.


    Seda hesitated. ¡°This isn¡¯t my bus.¡±


    The driver¡¯s smile didn¡¯t falter. ¡°Everyone says that at first,¡± he said.


    ¡°But they¡¯re always wrong.¡±


    Seda turned her head and looked through the bus¡¯s fogged-up windows.


    Faces peered back at her¡ªcalm, expectant faces.


    And then she saw them. Her father sat near the front, his hat perched at the same angle he used to wear it. Further back, her grandmother smiled faintly, her hands resting in her lap the way they always had when she told stories by the fire.


    Seda¡¯s heart tightened.


    The driver watched her patiently, as though he had all the time in the world.


    Seda rose from the bench, her movements slow and uncertain. She climbed the steps of the bus and stood there for a moment, her fingers trailing along the edge of the door.


    She looked back once. The stop was empty, the bench covered in a thin layer of snow. The world seemed frozen, silent.


    With a sigh, Seda moved deeper into the bus. She slid into an empty seat and looked out the window.


    The driver closed the doors, and the bus pulled away, its wheels gliding soundlessly over the snow.


    Seda didn¡¯t see where they were headed. It didn¡¯t seem to matter.


    This had been her bus all along.

 Swallowed Whole

    The city is swallowing me alive.


    The towering buildings lean in like silent predators, their shadows stretching across the endless grid of roads, parking lots, and parks that never were. People rush past me, their faces blank, their eyes fixed on some invisible destination. They always seem to come from the wrong direction, as if I¡¯m moving against a tide I can¡¯t see.


    Even when the sun breaks through the clouds, the air carries an unnatural chill. Even when the sky is clear, the rain falls, cold and relentless.


    The beggar children know this city as I do. They dart through the streets, their bare feet splashing through puddles that never dry. Their eyes are hollow, their laughter brittle, but they keep moving, unbothered by the rain, the cold, the weight of this place.


    One of them¡ªa small boy, his eyes crusted and red¡ªcrashes into my stomach and stops. He doesn¡¯t run, doesn¡¯t apologize.


    His gaze locks onto mine, and for a moment, I feel something shift inside me. A strange fear rises, sharp and unfamiliar. ¡°Move aside,¡± I say, my voice trembling.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    ¡°We can¡¯t,¡± he replies, his tone calm, almost detached. ¡°We¡¯ve always been here. And so have you.¡±


    The words settle like stones in my chest. I turn away, forcing my feet to move. I have to get away.


    I run, my footsteps echoing in the narrow streets. The slope is steep, and the cracked pavement threatens to trip me with every step. The voices of the beggar children fade, swallowed by the growing silence of the city.


    The buildings loom higher, their dark facades pressing closer. Windows gape like empty sockets, lifeless and cold. The streets narrow, funneling me toward something unseen.


    Out of breath, I stop, my chest heaving. Before me stands a massive concrete wall, its surface rough and unyielding. I feel its presence more than I see it, a solid, unmovable thing that demands my attention.


    In its surface, I see my own reflection.


    But it¡¯s not me¡ªnot exactly.


    The face staring back is pale, its edges blurred, as if the wall is absorbing me piece by piece. My features are distorted, stretched into something unrecognizable. My eyes meet my reflection¡¯s, and I realize with a cold certainty that I am trapped.


    The city has taken me, claimed me as its own.


    I reach out to touch the wall, and it feels warm, alive. My reflection shifts, its lips curling into a faint smile.


    I turn to run, but there¡¯s nowhere to go. The streets are gone, the buildings dissolving into shadows. The only thing left is the wall¡ªand me.


    The city isn¡¯t just swallowing me.


    I am becoming the city.

 Benice Hatun

    After a long negotiation, the Trader and the Shaman sat together outside the tent.


    The Trader was pleased. These nomads were simple folk, easy to deceive.


    He had sold his goods for far more than they were worth.


    As they sat, a woman passed by.


    ¡°What a beauty,¡± the Trader said, admiration in his voice. ¡°She¡¯s like a drink of fresh water.¡±


    ¡°Sometimes,¡± the Shaman replied. ¡°But not always.¡±The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The Trader frowned. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s full now,¡± the Shaman explained. ¡°Her hunger is sated, so she¡¯s beautiful.


    But later, she¡¯ll grow hungry again. And when she does, she will change.¡±


    The Trader barely listened. His eyes were fixed on the woman.


    He rose and followed her.


    No one stopped him.


    The nomads may have been simple, but they weren¡¯t foolish.


    No one took food from Benice Hatun.


    Benice Hatun fed herself with the Trader that night.


    She grew beautiful again, calm and radiant.


    The Trader didn¡¯t know, couldn¡¯t know, what her name truly meant.


    But it meant eternity.

 The Mirror

    Tarkan first saw the mirror when he was fourteen.


    His father had taken him to the tribe¡¯s annual trading trip.


    The town¡¯s shops were dazzling¡ªrows of trinkets and treasures glittering under the sun.


    ¡°This one¡¯s special,¡± the merchant said, holding up the mirror. ¡°I¡¯ll give you a good deal.¡±


    The Blind Shaman shook his head, his voice firm. ¡°We cannot bring this back to the tribe.¡±


    But Tarkan¡¯s pleas were relentless. His father, worn down by his son¡¯s desperation, gave in.


    And so, the mirror came back with them.


    Tarkan hung his precious treasure at the entrance of their tent. It gleamed, catching the light, drawing every eye.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    The tribe gathered there, morning and evening, drawn to its reflection.


    They couldn¡¯t get enough of watching themselves, of seeing their own faces, their movements mirrored back at them.


    They stared, and stared, and stared.


    With every glance, the mirror took a piece of them.


    The tribe¡¯s joy, their spirit, their prosperity¡ªall of it flowed into the mirror.


    Laughter became rare. The children stopped playing. The animals grew thinner, their milk sour.


    The Blind Shaman warned them, but no one listened. They couldn¡¯t pull themselves away.


    One night, under a moonless sky, the Blind Shaman crept into Tarkan¡¯s tent.


    He took the mirror from where it hung, its surface still glowing faintly with stolen light.


    Without hesitation, he carried it to the river.


    The current was cold and swift, but the Shaman didn¡¯t falter. Holding the mirror tightly, he stepped into the water.


    As he sank into the depths, the mirror went with him, its glow fading into the dark.


    By dawn, the mirror was gone.


    And the tribe, though shaken, began to remember what it felt like to laugh.

 The Rivals

    Hakan and Kemal spent their childhoods fighting each other.


    Their fathers had been enemies. Their grandfathers, too.


    Their mothers gossiped about each other at every opportunity.


    When they became young men, they chased after the same girls, each trying to outdo the other.


    Later, they opened shops across the street from one another, determined to prove who was better.


    Hakan hadn¡¯t even planned on opening a shop, but he couldn¡¯t let Kemal have the upper hand.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    The rivalry extended to everything. They married in the same week, forcing the villagers to choose which wedding to attend and what gifts to bring.


    Kemal wasn¡¯t ready to settle down, not really. But let Hakan get married first? Never.


    Their children were born within days of each other. Even their baby celebrations clashed, and as the kids grew older, they fought in the streets, just like their fathers had.


    Then Kemal fell ill.


    He stopped coming to his shop, his absence casting a shadow over the street.


    When the news of Kemal¡¯s death reached him, Hakan scoffed, ¡°Good riddance to the bastard.¡±


    That same night, Hakan suffered a heart attack.


    The next day, the villagers buried them side by side.

 The Town’s New Seamstress

    After years of gathering dust, the old tailor¡¯s shop reopened.


    The new seamstress was a quiet woman, her face calm, her words measured.


    She was skilled, her hands steady and precise. It wasn¡¯t long before the townsfolk grew comfortable with her presence.


    They brought her their mended coats, their torn skirts, their worn trousers. Her small shop buzzed with the rhythm of her sewing machine, a sound that soon became as familiar as the tolling of the church bell.


    When the townsfolk began to fall ill, no one thought to blame the seamstress.


    When the first deaths came, they turned to her for the shrouds. She sewed their funeral clothes with the same meticulous care she had given their everyday garments.


    As the weeks passed, the town emptied.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Homes stood silent, shutters drawn. Streets echoed with the cries of mourning.


    The seamstress never left her machine. Her needle danced through black and white fabric, stitching grief into every thread.


    She sat and watched them grieve, the mourners in their dark garments¡ªgarments she had made.


    Her mind wandered to another time, another place.


    She remembered her mother, bent over a sewing machine much like this one, her fingers trembling with exhaustion.


    She remembered her baby brother, his cries growing weaker as hunger hollowed him out.


    And she remembered the day the townsfolk had come, how they¡¯d driven them out with curses and stones, her mother clutching her sewing machine as if it could shield them.


    They had wandered the roads, starving and shivering, until her mother collapsed. Until her brother stopped crying.


    The seamstress blinked, her focus returning to the present. She picked up her scissors and cut another length of fabric.


    The sewing machine hummed again as she began stitching a new dress.


    Outside, the town was silent, its streets empty.


    The seamstress smiled faintly. It had taken years, but she had finally finished her mother¡¯s work.

 Evechi

    The City Dweller strode into the village coffeehouse, his presence as sharp and out of place as the suit he wore.


    ¡°You the mayor around here?¡± he asked brusquely, scanning the room with thinly veiled disdain.


    ¡°I¡¯m not the mayor,¡± the old man replied, his voice low and steady. ¡°I¡¯m the shaman of this village.¡±


    The City Dweller barely acknowledged him. ¡°Right, whatever,¡± he said, waving a dismissive hand.


    ¡°There¡¯s a girl wandering in my garden. We can¡¯t catch her. Tell your people¡ªwhoever¡¯s child she is¡ªto come and take her home.¡±


    The shaman sighed, the weight of countless warnings ignored pressing on his shoulders.


    ¡°It¡¯s not a child,¡± he said softly. ¡°What you¡¯re seeing is an Evechi.¡±


    The City Dweller frowned, his expression halfway between irritation and confusion. ¡°An Evechi?¡±


    ¡°The house you bought is old. Older than this village, older than you can imagine. And the Evechi¡ªshe¡¯s not a girl. She¡¯s the spirit of that house. She protects it. She belongs there.¡±A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    The shaman¡¯s voice dropped lower, carrying a warning as cold as the wind in winter. ¡°But she does not want you there. You need to leave.¡±


    The City Dweller snorted. ¡°Old superstitions,¡± he muttered, shaking his head. ¡°This is the twenty-first century.¡± He downed the rest of his coffee and left without another word.


    Back at the house, the little girl still lingered at the edge of the garden, her figure just visible in the fading twilight. The City Dweller shouted at her, his frustration boiling over.


    He chased her through the garden, his feet crunching on overgrown gravel paths, his breath coming in short, angry bursts. But the girl always stayed just out of reach, her small frame darting like a shadow between the trees.


    ¡°Enough of this!¡± he bellowed, storming toward the old well in the center of the garden. The wooden cover, warped and cracked, lay half-broken over the gaping maw.


    And then, for the briefest moment, she stood still.


    The little girl, pale and silent, turned to face him. Her eyes gleamed like wet stones, dark and unblinking.


    ¡°You don¡¯t belong here,¡± she whispered.


    The words were barely audible, but they echoed in his chest like a drumbeat.


    Before he could respond, the ground gave way beneath him. He plunged into the well, his scream cut short by the cold embrace of the dark water below.


    The house fell silent again.


    Days later, the property was listed for sale once more. The description highlighted its ¡°charming rustic appeal¡± and ¡°historical character.¡±


    The Evechi waited, patient and unchanging, for the next unwelcome guest.

 Karakura

    ¡°Take my wagon and my goods,¡± the Nomad pleaded.


    ¡°But spare my son.¡±


    They always begged in their final moments. Bargaining was a reflex, a futile attempt to cling to hope.


    The bandits took the wagon and the goods.


    Then they shot the Nomad and his son.


    As the Nomad lay dying, blood pooling beneath him, he looked at their leader with hollow, unwavering eyes.


    ¡°Karakura will come for you,¡± he rasped.


    The bandit leader laughed, dismissing the words as the desperate curse of a dying man. For days, he didn¡¯t think of the Nomad or his son at all.


    But the dreams came.


    Each night, he saw the boy. The child¡¯s face was pale, streaked with tears, his voice trembling with terror.


    ¡°Baba¡­¡± the boy sobbed, reaching for someone who would never come.


    Then the Nomad appeared. Always the same. His bloodied hands reached out, his broken voice pleading. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you spare him?¡±


    Each night, the bandit awoke with a scream lodged in his throat, his heart pounding as if trying to escape his chest. He told himself it was just guilt, nothing more. But the shadows in his room seemed to stretch farther, linger longer.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    He began to fear sleep, but the body always surrenders. The more he fought it, the harder it came for him.


    And then, one night, he saw it.


    A shape hovered in the corner of his room, just beyond the reach of the flickering candlelight. A shadow darker than darkness itself, curling and twisting like smoke trapped in a jar.


    Its presence pressed against him, suffocating and cold.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his own fear.


    The shape stirred, and a voice, guttural and echoing, filled the room.


    ¡°Karakuraaaa¡­¡±


    It stretched the name like a dirge, like the groan of wood splintering under strain.


    ¡°Karakuraaaa¡­¡±


    The shadow moved closer, its form shifting and stretching, its shape unclear but undeniably menacing.


    ¡°Karakuraaaa¡­¡±


    The bandit couldn¡¯t breathe. The walls of the room seemed to close in, the air thick with dread. He reached for his knife, but his hand trembled too much to hold it.


    The shadow loomed over him now, a formless entity that felt ancient, vengeful.


    ¡°Karakura¡­¡± it whispered one last time, the word dripping with finality.


    The bandit opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.


    By dawn, the room was silent. When his men found him, his eyes were wide open, fixed on the ceiling, his face frozen in a mask of terror.


    And in the shadows, just for a moment, something shifted.


    Karakura had claimed him.

 The Witch

    Handan didn¡¯t know which she noticed first.


    The strange accidents in the house, the way everything kept breaking?


    Or the fact that Asya was always playing with that old doll?


    "Where did you find this filthy thing?" she asked her daughter.


    "Mizra gave it to me before she left," Asya said.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    So Mizra had given it to her.


    Handan should never have hired that cursed-looking woman.


    She was hardworking, polite, and quiet¡ªbut her eyes...


    Even when she was dismissed, her face remained expressionless.


    When Handan¡¯s beloved angel figurine was shattered, she threw the doll in the trash.


    Asya screamed and cried until she was too exhausted to go on.


    The next morning, the doll was back in Asya¡¯s bed.


    Handan, however, never woke up again.

 Erlik: The Lord of the Underworld

    One morning, when they woke up, Alp¡¯s sister was lifeless in her bed.


    His mother wept and wailed for days.


    Alp went to the Shaman and asked, ¡°How can I ease my mother¡¯s pain?¡±


    ¡°Nothing can ease your mother¡¯s pain,¡± the Shaman said.


    ¡°Erlik has taken your sister¡¯s soul.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    Alp begged the Shaman for a long time.


    At last, the Shaman led him to the underworld, to Erlik himself.


    Seated on his golden throne, Erlik asked, ¡°What do you want?¡±


    ¡°You took my sister¡¯s soul. I want you to give her back.¡±


    Erlik laughed.


    ¡°Do you know why I took her?¡±


    ¡°Your father once begged me for a son.¡±


    ¡°I promised him a son¡ªbut in return, I would take his second child.¡±


    Upon hearing this, Alp gave Erlik his own soul.


    And his sister returned to their mother.

 Azm?t: The Keeper of Restless Souls

    The two lovers had lost their way hours ago.


    When they finally spotted a town, they were overjoyed.


    They were exhausted and starving.


    But they had plenty of money to spend.


    ¡°This place looks charming,¡± the woman said.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    The man liked it too.


    ¡°Let¡¯s find a restaurant and a hotel.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll stay the night and continue our journey tomorrow.¡±


    The people they saw in the streets did not speak to them.


    Nor did they let them enter any place.


    They only pointed in the same direction.


    The lovers arrived at a building with a sign that read Azm?t¡¯s Place.


    Inside, a faceless creature awaited them.


    ¡°I am Azm?t, keeper of restless souls,¡± it said.


    It gestured toward a pale shadow beside it.


    ¡°This is your brother, whom you murdered for his fortune.¡±


    ¡°From now on, we will all live here together.¡±


    ¡°Forever.¡±

 Seda is Getting Older

    The last Thursday of October.


    Around six in the evening¡­


    Seda had started aging.


    She stood by the window, watching the rain.


    A cup of tea rested in her hands.


    At first, she didn¡¯t notice it.


    The dark clouds outside had turned the glass into a mirror.


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    She glanced at her reflection, at the neckline of her sweater.


    Her neck¡ªlong and slender¡ªhad always been admired.


    Then, suddenly, she leaned in, startled.


    There it was. A fine line.


    On her beautiful neck.


    Frowning, she examined it closely.


    That night, before bed, she applied her vitamin C cream.


    She dreamed of her old lover.


    He was still twenty.


    But she¡­ she was as she is now.


    She woke up in the middle of the night.


    And that was when she knew.


    She was getting older.


    Then, she went back to sleep.


    Because really¡­ what else is there to do?

 The Stain

    When her husband left, that stain wasn¡¯t there.


    Yonca was sure of it.


    She knew because she hadn¡¯t left the house in days.


    She had spent hours staring at the walls, crying.


    So when had the stain appeared?


    That, she couldn¡¯t say.


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    She kept taking sedatives. Kept crying.


    And the stain kept growing.


    Through her tears, Yonca tried to scrub the wall.


    Nothing could erase it.


    Even though she had told her sister not to come, she showed up anyway.


    Yonca tried to show her the stain, but her sister wouldn¡¯t listen.


    Instead, she dragged her to the bathroom.


    Then took her by the arm and pulled her outside.


    They sat in Yonca¡¯s favorite caf¨¦.


    They talked.


    They laughed.


    When she returned home, the stain had shrunk.

 The Return

    She stepped off the bus at the entrance of her hometown.


    Her soul sagged under the weight of regret.


    Why had she come back?


    As she walked through the empty streets, memories of her childhood surfaced.


    Not once had she ever felt like she belonged here.


    She finally noticed the unsettling silence around her and stopped.


    Shops were closed, streets deserted, houses eerily quiet.


    A growing unease took hold of her as she ran toward her childhood home.


    The door was open, but the house was empty.


    She wandered through the desolate rooms, calling out her siblings'' names.


    Dust-covered furniture...


    Torn clothes...


    Spoiled food...


    Everything was so cold.


    She rushed outside to find help.


    She ran through the vacant streets until darkness fell.


    Yet she found no one...


    And no way out of the town.


    Her childhood had trapped her.

 The One Who Vanishes in Three Steps

    Only two shaman candidates remained.


    The old shaman looked at them, uncertain.


    Both were respected and admired in the tribe.


    Both had fought spirits and emerged victorious.


    At last, the shaman spoke.


    "Tonight, go to the mountain," he said.


    "Meet the One Who Vanishes in Three Steps. Let him decide."


    The two candidates set off.


    The bolder one reached the peak first.


    As it had been for centuries, the ancient spirit was waiting.


    The candidate stepped forward.


    The old spirit took three steps back¡ªand vanished.


    The second candidate approached the peak but stopped.


    He crouched down, keeping his distance from the old spirit.


    They sat in silence until dawn.


    As the sun rose, the One Who Vanishes in Three Steps smiled.


    "Sometimes, the fast one wins," he said.


    "And sometimes, the patient one does."


    He placed his precious staff before the young shaman.


    Then he took three steps¡ªand vanished.

 The Red Hag - 2

    Two weeks after the baby was born, Leyla heard the whisper.


    At first, she wasn¡¯t sure.


    When was the last time she had slept?


    During the day, her other two children wouldn¡¯t let her rest.


    At night, her newborn wouldn¡¯t.


    The whisper seeped through the walls of the house.


    From the baby¡¯s bottles¡­


    From the unmade beds¡­


    From the soiled diapers¡­


    She confided in her mother.


    "I hear strange sounds at night."


    "Oh, my dear," her mother said. "That must be the Red Hag."


    "She¡¯s come for the newborn."


    As if she had been waiting for her name to be spoken¡­


    That night, the Red Hag appeared to Leyla.


    And she never left.


    She stayed by her ear.


    She told Leyla terrible things.


    Leyla wanted to protect her baby.


    She hid him beneath the blankets.


    And beneath another¡­


    And another pillow¡­


    And another¡­


    Shhh¡­ Shhh¡­


    Sleep, my baby.


    Mama is here.

 Arzuva - The Spirit of Water

    Sungur had made a habit of going down to the river at night.


    He didn¡¯t like wandering among people in the daylight.


    Because he was ugly.


    They had taught him that well.


    And on one of those nights, Arzuva appeared before him.


    Everyone in the tribe knew of Arzuva, the spirit of the water.


    ¡°What are you doing here, human?¡± she asked.


    She lay stretched across the rocks, her scaled body glistening.


    ¡°I am unhappy,¡± Sungur replied.


    ¡°I am alone.¡±


    ¡°Come to me,¡± said Arzuva.


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t want me,¡± Sungur said. ¡°I am too ugly.¡±


    ¡°Where others see earth, I see water.¡±


    ¡°Where others see hunger, I see fish.¡±


    ¡°Where others see ugliness, I find love.¡±


    She reached out her hand and pulled Sungur into the water.


    Moonlight shimmered on the river¡¯s surface.


    The ripples faded after a while.

 The Lost in Mind

    It was her husband''s idea to invite the new neighbors for dinner.


    Sema thought they were pleasant and polite.


    But the dinner seemed endless.


    She was bored, struggling to follow the conversation.


    The new neighbor said, "My dear Sema, no one makes this dessert as well as you do."


    "You made it for my birthday too, and everyone loved it."


    Who were these people?


    They spoke of movies Sema had never seen¡­


    Cities she had never visited¡­


    Mutual friends she had never met.


    She retreated to the kitchen to be alone.


    But someone had tampered with everything, throwing her order into chaos.


    Strange photographs on the walls¡­


    Clothes belonging to others in the cupboards¡­


    She was terrified.


    She wanted to run into her husband¡¯s arms.


    But when she reached the living room door,


    She saw four people at the dinner table.


    The new neighbor and a man¡­


    Sema and her husband.


    Sema and her husband¡­

 The Mountain Spirit

    Every seven years, seven children¡ªsuch was the agreement.


    The families gathered in the village square.


    ¡°We don¡¯t want to give up our children anymore,¡± they said.


    The head of the elders shook his head in sorrow.


    ¡°We cannot go against the Mountain Spirit,¡± he said.


    ¡°If we refuse, it will destroy our village.¡±


    And then, as it had been every seven years, it happened again.


    They wept, they moaned, they rebelled.


    After great suffering and conflict, seven children were chosen.


    The elders and the seven children set off for the mountain.


    When they reached the cave, the Mountain Spirit was waiting.


    ¡°Is our agreement still in place?¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± they said.


    ¡°Will you give me seven elders or seven children?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± they said, lowering their heads.


    ¡°What have you decided?¡±


    ¡°Seven children,¡± they said. ¡°We will give you seven children.¡±


    They descended from the mountain.


    No one spoke on the way back.

 First Love

    Yasemin had fallen in love.


    What could be more natural than a 15-year-old girl falling in love, right?


    But for Yasemin, it was a miracle.


    She was a quiet and shy girl.


    She wasn¡¯t beautiful.


    She had no friends at school.


    Her teachers never remembered her name.


    Only one person had ever noticed her.


    The boy in the window.


    Every day, on her way to school, she passed by a house.


    A young man sat by the upstairs window.


    In the mornings, he smiled at Yasemin as she walked by.


    In the afternoons, he watched her as she left.


    In spring and winter, on rainy and sunny days¡­


    They exchanged glances, smiles, secret waves.


    But the boy never came down.


    He never stood before her.


    At last, Yasemin gathered her courage.


    She knocked on the door.


    ¡°Don¡¯t waste your time,¡± said the neighbor next door.


    ¡°Their only son died. They locked up the house and left.¡±


    Yasemin looked up.


    The boy waved at her.


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 Evechi – The Guardian Spirit of Houses and Their Inhabitants

    Esma was only able to return to the old house two months after her grandfather''s death.


    If it were up to her, she would have never gone back.


    The house was in a remote place, crumbling with age.


    She walked through the rooms one by one, gathering a few personal belongings.


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    The real estate agent handling the sale would take care of the rest.


    "Don''t leave me alone," a voice said.


    Esma froze in fear, but she followed the voice.


    By the time she reached the attic, cold sweat covered her skin.


    "Don''t leave me alone¡­"


    She saw earthen bowls, their edges covered in ash.


    She remembered the incense her grandfather had burned all around the house.


    "Even if everyone leaves, I cannot," her grandfather had once said.


    "Evechi will never let me go."


    Overcome with terror, Esma ran downstairs.


    But the front door was gone.


    "Don''t leave me alone¡­"