Point Zero

The Room That Must Never Open

A family inherits an old house in Fez with one impossible room — absent from every building plan for over a century. The previous owner left one rule: never open it after sunset. On the seventh night, someone knocks three times from inside.

Point Zero

A telecom engineer starts receiving texts from her own number. Some save her life. Some know far more than they should. With every message, one question grows louder: is this one thing protecting her — or more than one thing, each wanting her for a different reason?

Wing Nineteen

A night-shift hospital cleaner in a Gulf city hears a page for a wing that doesn't exist on any floor plan. The deeper he digs, the more he uncovers a terrifying administrative system that keeps vanished patients "alive" on paper forever — and learns his own name is next on the list. Six episodes of escalating psychological horror. A wholly original work of fiction.

A Text From My Own Number

The Sound That Wouldn't Stop

The Dead Station

The Rule

What Isn't on the Plan

Seven

The Letter

The Real Rule

The Room That Was Here First

The perfect salt line wasn't the end of the test. It was an invitation.

The Real Rule

The real rule was never about salt. The old neighbor finally reveals what the test actually measures.

The Letter

Her grandfather's sealed letter held one answer — but the ink didn't survive long enough to keep all of it.

Seven

The old neighbor finally warns Salma: the door doesn't count her nights. It counts its own. And tonight is the seventh.

What Isn't on the Plan

Four building plans, from four different decades, all agree on one thing: the room Salma is standing in front of does not exist.

The Rule

On the day Salma Idrissi inherited an old house in Fez, she also inherited one strange rule from her grandfather: never open the room after sunset.

Do Not Answer

The phone rings, her number lit across the screen, every warning screaming one word: no. But her hand was already moving.

The Dead Station

An old relay station, still drawing power twenty years after its official closure. And her father's last notebook — one he never got to finish.

The Photograph Not Yet Taken

A photo timestamped three minutes into the future, shot from an angle only a person could stand in. And a final promise: a call, in exactly three days.

My Father's Name

Her mother has known more than she's said for twenty years. And something, in that small kitchen, was listening to them in that exact moment.