thriller

Alaina
Grief. Is that what this is? That feeling in your gut that something is missing, something that should’ve been there but just isn’t.
By Belle7 months ago in Fiction
The Room With a Locked Window
I never believed in hauntings—until the house at 88 Halberd Street tried to teach me otherwise. When I first stepped inside, it was the smell I noticed. Not must or mold, like you'd expect from a house empty for ten years. But lavender. Sharp, sweet, cloying. Like someone had sprayed it moments before I arrived.
By Izazkhan7 months ago in Fiction
A Farm
We stood there for a moment, and the door was still open and all of a sudden the door closed, but not with a slam but with a kind of welcoming feeling. We both spoke up. "Who's here?" In the cold fireplace a fire was started, so we both walked over to warm up a bit. There was not much to this house, but this one room. We looked around. We felt a presence around us. We heard a whispering voice. "Can you help me? I want to go home." "Who are you? We will not hurt you." Please tell.
By Mark Graham7 months ago in Fiction
The Devils Church
“We are all going to die,” Ty Williamson whispered, his voice cool and even-toned. “Some of us just have a better go at things than others.”
By K.H. Obergfoll7 months ago in Fiction
A Farm
Out in the middle of nowhere there was a farm that seemed to be deserted, but it was wintertime and the chores were completed. We stood and watched to see if anyone came out of the house by the road. We heard something. It could have been a bird or an animal scurrying away. Then we saw the curtain move, we stood awhile longer and yes, we saw something in the window. We waved and it waved back. We walked to the door it slowly creaked open. One thing no one was there. What should we do now we thought.
By Mark Graham7 months ago in Fiction
My Grandmother’s Mirror Only Reflects the Dead
The Mirror’s First Secret I almost sold the mirror the day after Grandma Lillian’s funeral. It was an ugly thing—a heavy oak frame carved with twisting vines, the glass smoky with age. But Mom insisted: "She wanted you to have it. Said it was special."
By MUHAMMAD Abbas7 months ago in Fiction
Three Minutes Past the End
At 8:41 a.m., the sirens stopped. Clara counted to sixty, like the radio had told her. Then another sixty. Then one more, just in case.
By Shafi ulhaq7 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker's Silence.
The Clockmaker’s Silence In the heart of a quiet, mist-covered village stood a little shop that never closed, yet no one ever saw it open.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
Signed, Your Ghost
The first letter arrived on a Tuesday. Mara found it tucked neatly into her mailbox, nestled between bills and a coupon booklet. There was no return address—only her name handwritten in a script that looked strangely familiar. The envelope was pale gray, sealed with an old-fashioned wax stamp bearing the impression of a feather.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
The Gym Rat Trap
When I met Chad, I thought I’d finally cracked the dating algorithm. He was funny, ambitious, and had biceps that could probably cradle a small cow. A real gym rat — not just one of those guys who “occasionally hikes” and thinks whey protein is a type of shampoo. He had the full package: personal trainer certification, veins that mapped his forearms like Google Earth, and a way of saying “macronutrients” like it was a poem.
By Muhammad Abdullah7 months ago in Fiction
The Last Voice Message
The first one came on a cold October morning. Maya had just turned 28. She was standing in her kitchen with a mug of bitter coffee, watching the steam rise like it was trying to escape. The phone buzzed. No caller ID. Just a voicemail.
By Muhammad Ahmad7 months ago in Fiction
Borrowed Dreams
In the city of Lysoria, dreams were currency. Not just metaphors for ambition—but real, vivid dreams you could rent, download, and live in like a midnight theater. Wealthy clients paid thousands to relive the perfect kiss, the thrill of flying, or the comfort of a lost loved one’s voice. Those who couldn’t afford the high price of hope? They rented secondhand dreams—cheap, blurry, and half-wilted.
By Muhammad Ahmad7 months ago in Fiction