thriller

The Last Door in the Dark Hallway
There was a hallway in the old ancestral house where I grew up, a narrow corridor that always felt colder than the rest of the building. Even as a child, I sensed something uneasy about it, though no one ever warned me away from it. I would pass by with a book or a cup of tea, distracted by life, yet my eyes always wandered to the very end of that dimly lit passage. There, half lost in shadow, stood a door that looked as though it belonged to another century. Dust coated it so thickly that it seemed carved from the wall itself.
By Anas Khanabout a month ago in Fiction
The Door I Didn’t Mean to Open
I had only been back in my mother’s house for two days when the quiet started getting under my skin. Old houses always have sounds: settling beams, groaning pipes, the occasional thud you try to rationalize as “probably nothing.” I grew up with those sounds. I should’ve felt comforted by them. But grief changes the meaning of familiar things. Suddenly, everything feels like it’s trying to tell you something you’re not ready to hear.
By Maziku Shabaniabout a month ago in Fiction
Where the Smoke Falls
The morning was quieter than usual. Looking towards the window, a muddy, grey sky with a faint yellowish hue was framed into the sight—one could barely feel the warmth.
By Une Femmeabout a month ago in Fiction
To Dust
The world ended on a Wednesday. Not with fire or thunder or a sudden vanishing—just a quiet, almost polite collapse. The sun rose pale. The air tasted metallic. And the dust, fine as ash and soft as winter breath, drifted from the horizon like a slow-moving tide.
By Alexander Mindabout a month ago in Fiction
The Night I Realized I Wasn’t Alone in My Own Mind
There are moments in life when reality doesn’t split cleanly down the middle—when the normal and the impossible blur together, and you’re left standing somewhere in the fog between them. That night, I didn’t just step into the fog. I drowned in it.
By Muhammad Reyazabout a month ago in Fiction
The Last Light in Room 217
I wasn’t supposed to notice the light in Room 217. The hallway of the old boarding house was usually a tunnel of darkness after midnight, lit only by a dying bulb that buzzed like an insect trapped behind glass. I’d lived there for eight months—long enough to memorize the limits of its shadows, the way the wallpaper peeled in places like tired skin, and the sighs the wooden floorboards made under my steps.
By tosarkastikomouegw about a month ago in Fiction
The Fissure in the Frost: Beneath the Snowline. AI-Generated.
They had not escaped Brumewood at all. They were sleeping inside its family photo. Mara stared at the frame on the wall until the edges of the picture blurred. Clara, Michael, little Jonas. The same woman she had seen on the train, unchanged by ten years. The same child who’d sat on that empty lap. The same knitted hat. The same winter-blue eyes.
By DARK TALE CO. 2 months ago in Fiction
The Fissure in the Frost: A Town That Pretends Not to See
They both knew, with chilling certainty, that going back home now was definitely not an option. London meant distance, yes. But it also meant walking away. From the pouch. From the child-shaped shadow in the trees. From the hands that had buckled Emilia’s knees at the edge of the platform.
By DARK TALE CO. 2 months ago in Fiction
SEASON 8 - Whispers from the Lantern: The Keeper's Lament
Chapter 15 The silence was a palpable thing, a heavy blanket that settled over the entire coast. Aris and his team stood in the now-calm lantern room, a profound sense of exhaustion washing over them. The Keeper was gone. The drowned were gone. The mournful lament was gone.
By Tales That Breathe at Night2 months ago in Fiction
The Fissure in the Frost: A Psychological Winter Mystery
Mara told herself this was a break. The cabin was perfect—a sleek, modern box of cedar and glass tucked into the quiet mouth of a snow-dense forest. It was Emilia’s idea, of course. Emilia, hyperactive and relentlessly optimistic, believed a few lungfuls of fresh mountain air, far from the city’s grime and the memory of the difficult case Mara had just closed, would act as a psychic disinfectant.
By DARK TALE CO. 2 months ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Room. Content Warning.
There's a room at the end of the hall that hasn't been open for almost 80 years. There was a time that this was the most used room. Now it goes unused. This was the most favoured room at one point. But now you don't even notice the door when you walk by.
By Jen Phillips2 months ago in Fiction
Going Undercover. Content Warning.
By 2019, I had been writing cartel stories for a dozen years yet I still wasn’t ready for what I heard. Marcos Reyes, a half-Dominican gun merchant out of Chicago, told me about it. He appeared at gun shows all over America as Marcos, but almost every narco in Mexico calls him El Fríto. What almost nobody knows is that he is actually Marcus Reed, a 38-year-old ATF agent who was living undercover for forty-five months.
By Scott Christenson🌴2 months ago in Fiction