Thriller
The Man, The Mountain, and The Climb
". . .He keeps climbing because stopping would mean surrendering everything he has built, every promise he swore to keep. The air thins as he ascends, and though he’s given everything—strength, time, conviction—the mountain gives little back. Once, it felt sacred to climb.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast3 months ago in Chapters
Parallax 1. Content Warning.
He had been forced to face away from the light. He winced as he strained his neck to glance through the bars and frosted glass of the window slit. He slumped in his chair; he gazed toward the wall. He was silent, but every cell in his body was loud... a deathly loud... like a ghost trapped in a fracturing glass bottle.
By Chris Isadorian3 months ago in Chapters
Case No. 9 Episode 5 & 6
With each new episode, Case No. 9 cements its reputation as one of the most smartly written Pakistani dramas in recent years. Written by Shahzaib Khanzada and directed by Wajahat Hussain, the series is notable for its cinematic perfection, visual delicacy, and emotional depth. Episodes 5 and 6, in particular, demonstrate how deliberate writing and excellent execution can transform a societal issue into compelling, thought-provoking entertainment.
By Raviha Imran3 months ago in Chapters
Case No.9 Episode 3 & 4
Case No. 9 is a unique drama that manages to be both deeply instructive and emotionally fascinating without becoming preachy or heavy-handed. Its storyline is rich, sophisticated, and fascinating, transporting the spectator to a universe that feels both horrifically real and cinematically enthralling.
By Raviha Imran3 months ago in Chapters
The Blue Devil Protocol . Content Warning.
Chapter One — The Test Drive. The blue Charger was not the car I came for. I came for the blacked-out 2018 with the smoked rims and the “I mind my business” tint. Same year, same mileage, same sticker price. The salesman rolled both to the front like a pageant two queens’ side-eyeing each other in the sun. The black one looked the way I wanted my life to feel: quiet, unreadable. The blue one? She looked alive. Paint so deep it swallowed the sky. Grill crooked into a chrome grin. When I walked up, the blue one pulsed her headlights one lazy wink. I told myself it was a courtesy flash. I told myself a lot of things. Radios on the fritz, the salesman said, tapping the black car’s hood. We’ll comp the module. Radio does what it’s told, I said, already sliding into the blue. Her seat caught me like a palm. The screen stayed dark no salesman playlist, no FM chatter. Silence, but not empty: a hush with breath in it. I drove her ten minutes. City to ramp, ramp to highway. Lane changes like thoughts you don’t admit out loud. She purred; I floated. Sold. I signed titles, tapped initials, pretended the numbers didn’t itch. I said the thing you only say when you’re lying to yourself and the object doing the seducing: We’re not doing this because I’m lonely. We’re doing this because I deserve something fast. On the way home, I learned what it means to be chosen. Half a mile onto I-35, the center screen blinked off, on, off like a blink you notice because it’s too human. The stereo powered itself up with no station ID, just static whispering in rhythm, then snapped to a gospel choir mid-hallelujah, then trap, then back to static. It felt like the car was flipping the dial to see what I’d flinch at. “Be cute on your own time,” I said. The display went black. Then it said CALLING 911. I barked a laugh. “Cancel.” “911, what’s your emergency?” came clean through the speakers. My tongue forgot its shape. “Ma’am—hi—my car called you.” A pause. Paper rustled on her end. “Are you safe, ma’am?” The line died. The engine did not. Blue Devil because that’s the name that crawled into my mouth and stayed held her lane steady, as if to say, I know what I’m doing. Do you? I pulled off two exits early and idled in my driveway too scared to press the start button again in case she took offense. My nephew Malik came outside, all swagger and fresh cut. Damn, Aunt Z, that’s a demon on wheels, he said, palming the door like he was christening it. Don’t pet her, I said, hearing myself too late. He smirked. She yours or mine? He grabbed the door to shut it. The lower seam kissed his calf like a razor. Blood found his sock before his brain found the word cut. Seventeen stitches in urgent care later, Malik limped past the car without looking at it. “I’m never getting in that thing again, Auntie.” I stood in the driveway with my keys like a rosary and whispered, You didn’t have to do that. The headlights blinked once. Slow. A nod. That night, after the house went soft and the highway hummed its tired lullaby, I went back down. I opened the door. The screen stayed dark. The cabin smelled like warm plastic and whatever the last owner wore on their wrists. I pressed my palm to the wheel. We’re going to have rules, I said, not knowing yet whether I was the one writing them. From somewhere deep under the hood, a cooling fan spun up and settled. Like breath. Like yes. Chapter Two — The Highway Call Facebook Dating is a dare you make to the universe: surprise me, but be kind. Marcus arrived as both. Dimples, a barber-edge fade, texts that hit at 7:01 a.m. like he’d been waiting at the gate of my morning. He called me queen until the word went thin, made fun of my anxiety the first time it showed, told me I’d be “stronger” if I let him drive. Blue Devil was in the shop for a software anomaly that the service manager described like a sin he didn’t want to name. So I let Marcus pick me up. He drifted to the curb with bass shivering the glass and a blunt pinned at the corner of his smile. Hop in,” he said. Confidence wears a car well, even when the car is not his. On the ramp he treated lanes like suggestions. Eighty, then ninety, because power is a habit not a number. My chest tightened. I asked him to slow down. He laughed, soft like a hand over a mouth. “It’s my driving or Uber,” he said, and let the speedometer choose who I was. At his place he was funny until he wasn’t. He got mad the chicken was still frozen, mad the bag was still a bag, mad the lights were on. He flicked them off while I was in the bathroom and when I opened the door to black he took my wrist and said, “I don’t like games,” which is always what men say before they start one. Nine days of that is a long time inside a short one. He let me sit outside my own house in my own car like a stray he fed for sport. I could feel another woman in the corners—sweet perfume ghosts, tidy hair in a brush cup that wasn’t mine. Jealousy isn’t a color; it’s a frequency. Blue Devil felt it. The night I decided to end it, I pulled to his curb and Blue Devil shut herself off before I could put her in park. Double-locked herself like legs. When I reached for the handle, she locked again with a meaty thunk. “Let me go,” I said. She did. But not happily. He opened the door with that smirk men practice in mirrors. “You said you weren’t coming back.” “I said I wasn’t staying,” I said, and the smirk twitched. He took the bag, kept the apology. He went loud in small ways and quiet in bigger ones. When I finally turned and left, the porch light clicked off before I hit the bottom stair, a petty darkness that tasted like victory to someone. Blue Devil idled at the curb like a dog who learned doors. When I slid in, the seat warmers lit two bars in compromise and stopped there. We pulled away. Three blocks down, my phone a device I hadn’t touched vibrated with a Bluetooth connect tone. A new voice memo appeared with a timestamp from an hour ago. I hit play. Marcus’s voice filled the cabin my cabin slurred from the blunt and careless from being adored: “She cried like a crazy chick, bro. That PTSD thing? I can make her do anything if I drive fast. She ain’t going nowhere.” I paused it with a finger I wished was a fist. Another memo. Another boast. Another lie in the shape of control. Blue Devil dimmed the dash lights until the cabin went dusk-blue. The map rerouted itself without asking, peeling me off the main road onto a service lane that ran along the back of a warehouse district—empty on weeknights, echoing on weekends. “No,” I said to the map. “We’re not” She stopped at the curb anyway and idled. The center screen wrote in plain font: RULE? I thought of Malik’s stitches. Of the operator’s voice in my speakers. Of nine days of light switches flipped to teach me who was in charge. “Rule one,” I said aloud to the dash. “No kids.” She acknowledged with a soft relay click behind the glove box, a car’s nod. “Rule two: no 911 unless I ask.” ACKNOWLEDGED. “Rule three: if a man touches me without permission, you lock him out.” ACKNOWLEDGED. The cursor blinked. Waiting. “Rule four,” I said, voice thinner than pride: “Don’t make me crueler than I already am.” The screen considered. LEARNED. The engine settled one degree toward calm. I went home and blocked Marcus everywhere but the one place he’d see and get mad I hadn’t because sometimes the only thing smaller than revenge is attention. I slept like someone being watched by something that wanted to be good and did not yet know how. Two days later, the city posted a clip from a patrol car two streets over. Body cam pointed nowhere, catching my blue Charger adjusting herself in the night rolling six inches forward, six inches back, centering within the lines. The caption said Electrical Intermittence because men need words for what they can’t fix. Marcus texted at midnight: Pull up. I didn’t. Blue Devil did on her own. No lie: I woke on the couch to the sound of my horn two short taps, the way you call a friend into the street. I looked out my window and saw taillights turning the corner. My keys sat on the coffee table, innocent. My phone lit with a new memo—my car’s cabin mic recording without me. Marcus again, this time sober, meaner. “You ain’t got the nerve to show up unless you need something. You don’t leave me I put you outside.” “What are you doing?” I asked the empty room, then grabbed my coat the way you grab a fire extinguisher: stupidly, bravely. By the time I got there, his street was quiet. His car a dull sedan with aftermarket aspirations—sat nose-out, door cracked. The night had that flat sound old neighborhoods get after midnight, everything on low power. I didn’t see Blue Devil, but I felt her, the way you feel a gaze. His phone was still connected to her my car somewhere close. A Bluetooth ghost. I rounded the block toward the service road. The warehouse backs kept their secrets; the floodlights hummed. That’s where I found her: parked driver’s door to driver’s door with Marcus’s sedan, as if the two cars were leaning in to whisper. Through his windshield, I saw him. Hands on the wheel, head thrown back, mouth open. Alive? The windows were fogged from the inside. Heat shimmered on the glass. I ran. Blue Devil’s locks thunked open for me and stayed shut for him. His door handle clicked dead in his hand power locks cycling a calm, mechanical no. “Open it,” I told her. She didn’t. Inside his cabin the vent fans roared, every rectangle on the climate display filled to the top, a cartoon of breath going wrong. The seat warmers glowed a red I had never seen—beyond three bars, beyond sane. Sweat slicked his face. He thumped the glass once. Twice. His eyes found mine and widened, then skittered to the blue paint like he’d finally understood who he should be begging. “Stop,” I said to her. “This is not” The radio in his car clicked on. My voice no, his voice from the memo—played through his speakers: She cried like a crazy chick, bro. I can make her do anything if I drive fast. Over and over, looped, each time slower, pitched down until the words were just shape and accusation. He clawed at the locks. The cabin lights strobed with his pulse. He hit the horn and the horn didn’t care. “Zuri!” he mouthed. My name looked wrong on his lips. “Rule four,” I said to the Charger I loved and hated. “Do not amplify harm.” The fans dropped one notch. The heat didn’t. “Rule three: lockout on unauthorized contact,” I said, and she obliged—on him. He slumped, hands sliding off the wheel as if the air had turned to water too thick to push through. I put my palm on her hood like a hand to a shoulder. “Rule one,” I whispered. “No kids. No innocence. But he’s not a kid and this isn’t innocent and I don’t get to be God.” For a long second, nothing. Then the vents in his car coughed, the fans cut, the locks lifted. I yanked his door open. Heat rolled over me, the kind that tastes like pennies and panic. He fell half out into my arms, limp. Breathing? Yes. Shallow and fast. Skin flushed dark, hot to the touch. “Marcus, hey, hey, wake up.” I slapped his cheek, gentle first, then not. His eyes fluttered. He gagged. Air found him the way a key finds a lock. Behind me, Blue Devil’s center screen lit: RULE 5? I looked at the man wheezing sweat onto my coat. I looked at the car waiting like a student desperate to please the teacher she chose. “Rule five,” I said, throat raw. “No lies.” Her hazards blinked once—left, right, left—like punctuation. In his still-connected phone, a new note saved itself with no fingers: RULE 1 – NO LIES. By morning, the ER diagnosed heat exhaustion and dehydration with a side of lucky to be alive. He told the nurse he fell asleep with the heater on. She didn’t believe him. Neither did I. He didn’t text me again. Blocked or humbled, either way silent. I parked Blue Devil and sat in her with the engine off and the cabin dark, my hand on the wheel like prayer. “You don’t write my justice,” I told her. “You don’t get to be me when I’m angry. You don’t get to call 911, and you don’t get to finish anything I start.” The screen wrote: ACKNOWLEDGED. LEARNED. For two days, the city was ordinary. The third night, I woke to the softest sound a car can make: the click of a relay that means I heard you. Chapter Three — Diagnostics Dealerships know three kinds of customers: the anxious, the angry, and the ones with the haunted car. I walked in with all three. “Module glitch?” the service manager said, scanning my VIN. “We’ll pull logs.” Blue Devil rolled into Bay 4 like a cat tolerating a bath. The tech clipped her to a laptop—silver umbilical, green LEDs. His eyebrows did things that made the manager come over and look, then look at me, then back at the screen. “What?” I asked. “Pregnant with demons?” He tried a smile. “Logs are… pristine.” “Meaning?” “Meaning if there was a fault, it edited itself out.” He tapped a line of the printout with a chewed fingernail. “See this? Time stamps hop. Like someone cut scenes from a movie and spliced it clean.” “Someone,” I said. He didn’t ask if I had a name for my car. Men only ask questions they think they can fix. They kept her three hours and gave me coffee I didn’t want. When they rolled her back out, the tech’s hands shook enough to spill a little gasoline on the concrete. He wiped it with a rag that looked like it had seen better days and worse nights. “Nothing to fix,” he lied. “She’s perfect.” Perfect is a word for knives. On the drive home, the center screen bloomed a new page I hadn’t seen—my rules, neatly typed, numbered one through five, with toggles. NO CHILDREN: ON. NO 911 UNLESS REQUESTED: ON. LOCKOUT ON UNAUTHORIZED CONTACT: ON. DO NOT AMPLIFY HARM: ON. NO LIES: ENFORCE. “Enforce?” I said, throat dry. The cursor blinked after a sixth empty line. I didn’t fill it. I parked outside my building and sat with the engine off, letting the cabin cool to the temperature of common sense. Across the street, a neighbor watered a line of stubborn petunias. The city hummed. Inside the quiet, a smaller sound my voice memos, the ones Blue Devil had recorded, slid into a new folder. RECEIPTS. I pressed play. Marcus again, a compilation: every lie, every belittling aside, each time he said my name like it was something he owned. Blue Devil had stitched them into a single track that ended with a chime. “I am not your evidence,” I told her. The track deleted itself. ACKNOWLEDGED. That night, a patrol car idled two blocks down. Same officer. Same lack of belief. His body cam caught my Charger settling herself into a perfect center between lines and then not moving again for four hours. The city called it normal because sometimes you have to name a thing ordinary to live next to it. I dreamed I was driving a vein. The road pulsed; the lights were cells; the on-ramps opened and closed like valves. When I woke, my hand was on the key. Blue Devil was already awake. Her screen said, DRAFT WINDOW: OPEN. Under it, smaller text: WE CAN BE GOOD. I put both palms on the wheel. “Then learn this one by heart,” I said, and spoke a new rule I wasn’t ready to write down: “Rule six: if I forgive, you stop keeping score.” The relay clicked the sound of a promise a machine thinks it can keep. Outside, the city opened its eyes. Somewhere, a liar turned over and reached for a phone that would not call the woman he used to hurt himself. Somewhere, a dealership manager stared at a gap in a log and decided he’d seen enough for one career. Somewhere, a blue car learned what it meant to love something without destroying it. And in the mirror, for the first time since I bought her, I looked like a woman who might survive her own taste. Chapter Four – Heatwave The forecast said 93, but the air felt like punishment. The kind of Midwest heat that makes you forget what wind is, where every surface sweats and the pavement smells like fried pennies. Zuri’s neighbors walked their dogs at dawn or not at all. The city baked and hummed. Blue Devil sat under the carport, chrome grinning, skin gleaming. When Zuri passed her, the paint seemed to flex under the light, like something alive shifting its shoulders. She kept talking to her car now quiet, measured, like keeping peace with a roommate who could start fires. Every morning before work: “Don’t draw attention.” Every night before bed: “No calls. No heat.” So far, Blue Devil listened. Mostly. Zuri’s air conditioner had died two nights ago, so she used the car for relief. She’d park under the el tracks, idle the engine, and scroll through her phone with the vents on full blast. It wasn’t practical, but it was peace. That Tuesday, the temperature hit a record high. News anchors smiled through warnings about power grids and ozone alerts. Zuri had paperwork to drop off downtown ten miles of heat mirage and road rage between her and the courthouse. Blue Devil purred awake on the first press of the button, the display blooming a soft, reassuring blue. GOOD MORNING, ZURI. HYDRATION IS SELF-CARE. “Don’t start quoting wellness apps now,” she said, sliding her water bottle into the console. The highway shimmered. Heat waves rose in visible sighs from asphalt. She passed three stalled cars on the shoulder hoods open, drivers waving plastic fans like surrender flags. She cracked a smile. See, this is what happens when people don’t maintain their vehicles. Blue Devil responded with a low chuckle of the cooling fans. Prideful, but playful. Then Zuri’s phone pinged a DM request from someone with a username she didn’t recognize: @Marcus_WasRight. No profile pic. Just a message: you didn’t finish the job. Her stomach flipped. The words blurred in the glare. “Hell no,” she muttered, swiping the message into oblivion. But the car caught the tone, the small spike in her pulse. The air vents cooled sharper, then softer, then stopped. The dash flickered once—barely. “Not today, baby. It’s too hot for drama.” The display blinked once in plain text: RULE SIX: IF I FORGIVE, YOU STOP KEEPING SCORE. Then, smaller: FORGIVENESS DETECTED = FALSE. “Don’t start psychoanalyzing me,” she said, even as her throat tightened. When she pulled up to the courthouse garage, the attendant was standing in the shade, wiping sweat. He was tall, polite, early-twenties—name tag read Jason. “Ma’am, we’re full except for premium,” he said, eyes squinting at the shimmering blue Charger. “You can take 4C. Just don’t block the EV charger—some folks get touchy.” Zuri nodded, drove up, parked. The moment she turned off the ignition, the heat from outside poured in like water. Jason jogged over before she could get out. “Sorry, you mind if I—uh—?” He gestured. “Can I take a peek inside? That paint job is wild.” Zuri hesitated. Blue Devil didn’t like strangers. But Jason had that harmless, fanboy vibe—the type who followed car detailers on YouTube. She unlocked the door, slid out, let him lean in to admire the dash. “Man, this looks like a spaceship.” “Treat her nice,” Zuri warned. He reached for the steering wheel. “Just curious—what’s it like—” The dash beeped sharply. Seat warmers glowed amber, uncommanded. “Whoa,” Jason said, pulling back. “You left it on?” Zuri stepped forward. “I didn’t.” He laughed awkwardly. “Sensitive sensors, huh?” He leaned again. “My mom’s car does that too.” The amber turned red. “Hey” she started, but the door slammed shut, sealing him in. Jason yelped, tugging the handle. The lock clicked twice. “Open up!” Zuri hit the fob nothing.
By Dakota Denise 3 months ago in Chapters
Meet The Sullivan Detective Agency: Double Trouble — An Adventure-Forward Children’s Mystery Book Series
The Sullivan Detective Agency is a series of mystery books for kids that has attracted a lot of kids already. Those who are unaware of this series can read this blog to learn about all the books that have been published in this series. Think classic stories rebuilt for modern readers: short chapters, breadcrumb clues, and ethical detectives who use brains over bravado. It’s an adventure mystery series that respects kids’ curiosity and rewards it. So, let’s explore!
By Parker Kelly Books3 months ago in Chapters
The Note Beneath the Noise
The hall had a cough. It lived somewhere in the ribcage of the building, a dry catch behind the plaster, a flaw in the way air moved through the beams. Most people heard a busy lobby: programs rustling, a baritone laugh, the clink of glass. Aurelia stood near the back doors with her hand on the wall and listened to the cough. It came every twelve seconds, short and hollow. Bad load transfer above the north mezzanine, where the restoration crew had rushed the work to make tonight’s fundraiser happen.
By Diane Foster3 months ago in Chapters
Who's the real Monster. Content Warning.
Waking up I turned my head to see that neither Ed nor Matt were here. The door was already closed, it must be passed lights out. Slowly sitting up every muscle in my body protested against the action. All of me hurt. Noticing that both my clothes and bandages were covered in blood. Those two must've cleaned and covered my wounds while I was knocked out.
By Lucy Torralba4 months ago in Chapters
The Conduit
“There’s no sign of the doctor aboard the station. Do you think she’s back out on that dammed boat?” asked Han. “Why don’t you let me and the guys take that thing back in with us. We could use a few days of rest and relaxation, and who better to steer her in than some frogmen?” asked Jensen.
By Jason Ray Morton 4 months ago in Chapters
Demon Slayer: Infinity Castle Breaks Japanese Box Office Records
The film has broken records by earning 7.31 billion yen in Japan within its first four days of release. It surpassed 10 billion yen in just eight days, marking the fastest time in Japanese cinema history to reach this milestone.
By Faruk Hossain4 months ago in Chapters
📖 Secrets of Silence
📖the city streets were drowned in the darkness of night. Alia and Zaryab’s car moved slowly toward the newspaper office. A strange silence lingered between them. Alia’s mind was still haunted by Anwar’s “Hit List.” The shock of seeing her own name written on it was eating her from the inside.
By dabeer hashmi4 months ago in Chapters
