thriller
The One's Who Come Back
The Therapist’s Room: The Ones Who Come Back Everyone knew the old story. When someone dies badly, they linger. That was the version passed around in whispers and television specials and badly printed paperbacks sold beside incense and dreamcatchers. A spirit with unfinished business. A presence in the hallway. Cold spots, flickering lights, footsteps overhead. The dead, apparently, became poets the moment their heart stopped. They floated about in old houses wearing sorrow and purpose, waiting to deliver messages in riddles to whichever woman in a linen blouse happened to be spiritually available.
By Teena Quinn about 5 hours ago in Fiction
Quiet Armageddon
“The price of oil has now reached over one hundred dollars a barrel. The highest it has been since twenty twenty-two.” Sylvia half-listened to the voice on the radio as she turned into the Tesco car park. She was more concerned with remembering what she actually needed: cat litter, milk, and probably bread.
By J.B. Millerabout 8 hours ago in Fiction
The Midnight Alley: The Boy Who Called His Killer “Dad”
Lightning cracked overhead as Detective Lena Carter’s boots splashed through the rain-slicked alley. The call had come just moments ago—a child was hurt, and the storm didn’t care. Narrow walls of brick reflected the flickering light from a struggling streetlamp, puddles trembling under each flash. On the wet ground lay a boy, twelve years old, eyes wide in final surprise, blood glimmering in crimson streams across the cracks beneath him. Clutched in his small, trembling fingers was a soaked scrap of paper. Carter leaned close, throat tight: the letters D_A_ smeared by rain.
By imtiazalamabout 10 hours ago in Fiction
Contillian Rubustus the III
Contillian counted the seconds before the beast was to be released. His bare shoulders were flexed. Already, his sweat drenched his body in the heat of the baking sun. He had wrestled lions and bears dozens of times. Whatever type of beast was behind the gate, it couldn’t be worse than the animals that he’d strangled to death before. The spear in his hand was sharp.
By Rowan Finley 2 days ago in Fiction
The City That Sleeps for One Hour
Nerath was a city of contradictions. A jewel in the desert, its towers gleamed like glass spears piercing the sky, its streets pulsed with neon veins, and its people thrived in a rhythm of commerce and culture. Yet beneath its brilliance lay a rule whispered from cradle to grave:
By Salman Writes2 days ago in Fiction
The Mountain That Echoed the Future
High in the northern mountains stood a place locals called The Listening Peak. It wasn’t famous. There were no tourist signs or maps marking its location. Only the villagers who lived in the valley below spoke about it, and even they rarely went near it.
By Salman Writes2 days ago in Fiction
Space and Time. Content Warning.
Time I just wanted to explore the world. See its beauty, relish the experience of discovery; at least, a discovery new to me. But even that seemed to be a tall order. As soon as I received my apprenticeship honors from the village leader, my dear mother was bewitched as she ventured to the mountains. They told me not a single person has ever awakened from a bewitchment, that after twelve years, the souls of those bewitched will be snuffed as tribute to the gods. They told me this was divine retribution. That this was fate, and if not for her going up to the mountains to pray to her false deities, she would still be alive. But she was alive…
By bemnet zelalem3 days ago in Fiction
The Man Who Survived 76 Days Lost at Sea: A True Story of Survival. AI-Generated.
The Man Who Survived 76 Days Lost at Sea: A True Story of Survival The ocean can be beautiful, peaceful, and endless. But when you are lost in it—completely alone—it becomes something else entirely.
By Baseer Shaheen 3 days ago in Fiction
Echoes of Resistance
The streets of Bristol were alive that day, though not with the usual hum of buses and chatter, but with the heavy pulse of voices that demanded to be heard. I had not intended to join the protest—I came to observe, to write, to bear witness—but once I stepped into the swell of people, the energy was impossible to ignore. The banners waved above heads, each one a story, a demand, a prayer. The scent of rain-soaked asphalt mixed with the faint tang of chalk from hastily scrawled messages, leaving the air electric.
By imtiazalam3 days ago in Fiction
Group-think, However Sanctimonious... . Content Warning.
Excerpt from Iceman Xavier Rickles Today, I found, at the moonshiners’ old place, something glowing in the muddy ashes where the still once sat. It had been harshly secured as my first sight of That Brochure. I let Gwen know where I was and took the ladder down to the moonshine shrine, a couple of cots, and a workstation. Amongst it was a cash stash of $234,650, 3 crates of shine, a change of clothes per cot, wallet of the deceased. Plus 500 more dollars. Behind the cot, which was the first thing to your left, I found a dart. Maybe the board was once near the large metal cylinder inside a steel tub, shedding rust into the dark dirt. The tip of the dart had been caked in clay, or like I said, that rusted equipment, but also matched that of the D.C.S. Atrium. I searched the wall for the former target spread, spotting a darkness in there that made my flashlight fail like a whimpering torch, feeding off the fresh batteries to an aggravation level almost making my legs wobble. Could have been the unseeable depth and the absence of reference of where the light was truly halting. Stopped five or so feet ahead, but there's more to go...again? The dark makes this hovel feel physically unknowable. I caught a glimpse, however, above the workbench. I moved it for a closer look to find what I thought was bothering me so much, and kept looking even after the motivation in me left. It was trail.
By Willem Indigo3 days ago in Fiction
