Mystery

“The Library of Lost Stories”
The Library of Lost Stories By [Ali Rehman] In the heart of the oldest part of town, hidden behind a veil of ivy and shadowed by towering ancient oaks, there was a place few knew existed — the Library of Lost Stories. It wasn’t marked on any map, nor was it whispered about in common conversation. It was a secret sanctuary for forgotten memories, a magical refuge where stories that had slipped through time’s cracks came alive once more.
By Ali Rehman12 months ago in Fiction
The Last Look
It started with a flicker. Just a small glitch on one of the security feeds, nothing unusual for a night shift. But something about that motion caught my eye. Camera 12. The east hallway.
By Kismat M12 months ago in Fiction
Doorway Dreaming
The door was the size of a cathedral wall, and it had no business being under the ice. At first the archaeologists thought it was a seam in the glacier—a trick of pressure and light. But when Dr. Keene brushed away the frost with the back of his glove, the pattern beneath was too precise. Iron, or something that only pretended to be iron. Lines inlaid with gold. A lattice of circles and symbols older than language but unfortunately for him, they seemed intentional. They called it a door because that was easier than admitting it looked like one.
By Thadeus 12 months ago in Fiction
The Sand Clock That Stopped On Thursday. AI-Generated.
"First, let's agree on one rule: there is no time. What you are reading now might have happened yesterday, or will happen tomorrow, or perhaps it is happening the moment you close your eyes. The story does not follow a straight path; rather, it breathes and twists like blue smoke."
By elhacene benmami12 months ago in Fiction
Festival of Shadows: The Lost Truth of Halloween
The wind crawled through the hollow streets of Ravenshollow, a forgotten village in Northern England. Every year, as October bled into its final night, the townsfolk lit carved pumpkins, wore masks, and spoke the ancient words—“Trick or Treat.”
By Wellova 12 months ago in Fiction
The Door That Wasn't a Door
The key to the thirteenth floor was heavier than the others. It was an old, skeleton-key thing, iron and tarnished, attached to my janitorial ring with a separate, sturdy chain. My boss, a man named Mr. Henderson who smelled of stale coffee and resignation, had handed it to me on my first night with one instruction: “Sweep the hall. Do not, under any circumstances, open any of the doors. Especially not 13A. The locksmith is coming next week to change the lot.”
By Habibullah12 months ago in Fiction
Blue Peepshow. Runner-Up in Through the Keyhole Challenge. Content Warning.
His name is nothing. Perhaps it matters, or maybe it doesn't. In this hybridized instance, this laid-bare world has granted him a crack of light, and he's come to accept labeling opportunities as a right of reason. He finds a fissure in the plastered wall of suite 16A, the peeping source? Animalistic reactions hold his fingers by their tips as they graze past a hairline fracture in this all-seeing (no denying) window into her frame.
By Edward Swafford12 months ago in Fiction
The Light of the Desert: The Story of Bilal ibn Rabah (RA)
Heavy with the sun, with its rays scorching the desert into an oven of light and heat, the sun stood over Mecca. In a small corner near the Kaaba, a man was lying on the ground chained to the burning sand, his back raw from the whip, his lips dry and cracked. Each inhalation was punctuated by pain but from his shaking lips was uttered a word that would not die.
By Nusuki12 months ago in Fiction
THE LAST HARVEST
The crypt door slammed shut behind him, echoing like the closing of a tomb, and Liam’s heart hammered against his ribs. Darkness pressed in from every side, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint, sickly green glow emanating from Eleanor Kincaid’s eyes. She stood over Chloe, who lay motionless on the cold stone floor, her breathing shallow, her face pale as wax. In Eleanor’s hand, a ritual knife gleamed, as if thirsting for more than blood.
By Wellova 12 months ago in Fiction
The Market of Beauty — A Woman, A Society, and an Unforgiving Truth
In every era, literature has held up a mirror to its time. Some stories don’t simply entertain; they expose the soul of a society. Among them stands “Bazaar-e-Husn” (The Market of Beauty), a masterpiece by Munshi Premchand — one of the greatest voices in Urdu and Hindi literature.
By hamad khan12 months ago in Fiction
THE WORLD BEYOND
The hallway light was out. Again. Nora’s slippers made no sound as she padded down the narrow corridor toward the guest room, using her phone as a flashlight. The house was half asleep, breathing its old wood creaks and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
By Pamela Dirr12 months ago in Fiction
The Silence Between Thoughts
They say writers hear voices in their heads. But what if one of those voices starts hearing you? My name is Arham. I’ve been a writer for nine years — crime novels, mostly.
By Naimat ullah12 months ago in Fiction