thriller

Only Open on Tuesdays
"The past isn't dead," Mrs. Latch often said. "It's just catalogued." Bellwether Museum was not on any map, now did it have an address. It sat politely between a bakery and an abandoned tax office, in a town that didn't remember building it. No one questioned its existence, some said it had always been there, others insisteed it appeared sometime after to flood of '53. Regardless, everyone agreed on one thing: it was only open on Tuesdays.
By Shay Pelfrey 8 months ago in Fiction
Beneath the Dust
The wind was a constant sculptor in the Grey, a patient artist carving canyons from ruins and smoothing skyscrapers into tombstones. Kael knew its language—the high, thin whistle that presaged a glass storm, the low moan that carried the scent of Scrabblers on the hunt. He was a creature of this desolate wasteland, a reclusive scavenger defined by the silence of the spaces he inhabited. His lean frame was a testament to a life of scarcity, his eyes, the color of rust and watchfulness, missed nothing. He was cunning, a master of survival, but bravery was a currency he couldn't afford and didn't possess. His world was one of solitary, calculated movements, a life of evading conflict by being less than a ghost.
By Shane D. Spear8 months ago in Fiction
WORLD WAR 3
In recent days, the term “World War III imminent” has resurfaced across media platforms, prompting serious concerns among political analysts, defence scholars, and global strategists. While such warnings may initially evoke dramatic online headlines, today's discourse reflects underlying real-world risks, including nuclear brinkmanship, alliance fractures, and the rise of hybrid warfare. This comprehensive overview examines why top experts are sounding the alarm—and what it could mean for global stability.
By Mehtab Ahmad8 months ago in Fiction
Your Friend Mohammad
Light cast a glow on the Hadith. Then the shadow came and all was dark. Mohammad Abbas collected the ancient text. He walked out of the mosque.
By Skyler Saunders8 months ago in Fiction
The Keeper of Forgotten Colors
The world had forgotten color when Elara was a child, the Fade stealing hues like a thief in the night. Skies turned to ash, forests to charcoal, and eyes saw only gray. Paintings crumbled, flowers withered, and the word “blue” became a myth. Elders spoke of a time when rainbows arced and sunsets burned, but to Elara’s generation, it was folklore. Yet Elara, now twenty-three, was different. She remembered. In a crumbling lighthouse on a jagged cliff, she became the Keeper, weaving colors from memories in a world that had none.Each night, Elara climbed the lighthouse’s rusted spiral stairs, her hands stained with impossible shades. In a room of shattered mirrors, her loom—a relic of bone and wire—hummed with power. She wove blue from her mother’s shawl, its sapphire folds swaying as she sang lullabies. Red came from the apple she’d stolen at seven, its juice sharp on her tongue. Gold flared from sunsets she’d chased across cliffs, their warmth lingering in her chest. Every thread cost a memory, erased forever. Her mother’s voice faded, then the apple’s taste, then those sunsets’ glow. Elara gave them willingly. The world needed color more than she needed her past.Below, the town of Graysill scoffed. “Colors?” fishermen muttered, kicking gray pebbles. “Delusions.” But children left offerings at the lighthouse—pebbles smeared with charcoal, chalk, anything resembling hue. Elara collected them, her heart aching for their hope. One stormy night, a girl slipped inside. Kiv, ten years old, with slate-gray eyes, stared at Elara’s glowing threads. “You’re real,” she whispered. “Can you make green?”Elara’s breath caught. Green was her last untouched memory: her father’s laugh, fishing on a lake under emerald pines. “It costs me,” she said, voice like sea fog. Kiv stepped closer, her small hand brushing Elara’s. “Then let me help.”No one had offered before. Elara hesitated, then taught Kiv to weave—not with threads, but stories. Kiv spoke of a kite she’d flown, its tail a ghost of green in her mind. The loom sparked, green shimmering, but Kiv’s eyes stayed gray—she couldn’t see it. “Keep telling,” Elara urged. Kiv’s voice grew bold: meadows where she’d run, limes she’d tasted, a jade pendant her mother once wore. The green thread thickened, vibrant, alive, curling like vines in the air.Rumors spread. Children crept to the lighthouse, then adults, each carrying fragments—memories of crimson roses, violet storms, amber dawns.
By TrueVocal8 months ago in Fiction
Residue . Content Warning.
When Leona Bray first walked into the abandoned pathology lab beneath St. Jericho Hospital, she swore she heard something breathing.
By E. hasan8 months ago in Fiction
All Debts Forgiven
My father died with thirty-two dollars in his wallet and a ledge hidden beneath the floorboards. There was no obituary, no funeral. Just a voicemail from the county office letting me know the body had been claimed, processed, and cremated, and that I was still listed as next of kin. The voice was soft and detached, as if it were telling me a library book was overdue. They offered me a cardboard box with his effects, and I said no.
By Shay Pelfrey 8 months ago in Fiction
Sunday Night Arena. Content Warning.
“A brilliant maneuver by Mr. James dispatches Mr. Marne, once of Kansas. He’s now all alone at Agromarch Castle’s main arsenal.”
By Matthew J. Fromm8 months ago in Fiction
Welcome Home, Forever
The key slid into the lock like it never left. Claire hesitated, fingers trembling against the cold brass. This was supposed to be a fresh start—a return, not a retreat. She exhaled and pushed the door open.
By E. hasan8 months ago in Fiction
The Underground.
This happened back when I was working as an investigative journalist. I was assigned on a project, but the site we were supposed to investigate was far from where I lived. Like, really far. A village way out in the hills. Isolated. No cameras, no networks. Just people and land.
By Ruth Girma 8 months ago in Fiction
Table Six
Every Sunday morning, I sit across from a man I do not know and pretend I am in love with him. I call him Ezra. That may not be his name. I made it up the first time and he didn't correct me. I leaned into the booth at table six, smoothed my dress like I'd just come back from the restroom, and said, "Sorry I'm late." He didn't flinch. He looked up from the menu, smiled politely, and said, "You always are."
By Shay Pelfrey 8 months ago in Fiction
When Time Turned Back
Sometimes, a headline isn’t just news—it becomes the sound of a heart skipping a beat. On December 28, 1998, Miami International Airport's control tower received a strange signal—an unidentified aircraft entering their airspace. No contact, no voice, just a silent approach to the runway. It wasn’t just any plane. It was a DC-3 aircraft… one that had disappeared half a century earlier.
By Mian Nazir Shah8 months ago in Fiction