Mystery

Echoes of the Ninth Signal
The city that pulsed under neon lights, restless and alive. Steam hissing from subway grates, twisting in the glow of flickering advertisements like ghostly fingers. At 2:03 a.m., the Ninth Signal cracked across the network which was sharp, impossible, and undeniably present. Mara, who felt it before she heard it, a vibration that rattled her chest and settled into her bones. Her screen exploded into static, then stilled, revealing nothing but a black void..
By AFCabout a year ago in Fiction
MARVEL/DC COMICS PRESENTS #9
Dr. Strange/Dr. Fate Baltimore, Maryland 1968 Doctor Stephen Strange, master of the mystic arts, woke groggily and found himself on the hardwood floor. He was for a moment unsure of his surroundings, but a sharp pain to his head and back reminded him. The room had flashing waves of energy that flickered about. It resembled the psychedelic art of the times. There was no mistaking the vast mystical forces at play before him. He saw the back of Doctor Fate. His golden cape flowing with the winds that were swirling about the room. His arms were outstretched and his golden gauntlets were crackling with golden mystic energy. There appeared to be a faint outline of an Egyptian ankh shaped by the mystic energy around them. Dr. Fate was engaged in mystic combat.
By Derrick Billups about a year ago in Fiction
MARVEL/DC COMICS PRESENTS #8
Dr. Strange/Dr. Fate Baltimore, Maryland 1968 Dr. Stephen Strange and Kent Nelson entered the oddly cold apartment. They stepped through calm but alert. Slowly and carefully they walked through the hallway towards the stairs at the far end.
By Derrick Billups about a year ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Atlas — Part 10: The Shoreline That Breathes
The world ended quietly—without fire, without judgment—only silence. By the winter of 2026, every map server in the world began returning errors.
By Wellova about a year ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Atlas — Part 9: The Cartographer’s Echo
The night over Torrento was unnaturally silent. After the Gate 12 incident, the airport had been sealed for investigation. But rumors spread faster than official silence ever could — travelers spoke of lights moving beneath the runway, of whispers that came through the PA system in a language that wasn’t recorded in any archive.
By Wellova about a year ago in Fiction
The House That Laughed Last
Chapter 1: The Moving Van The Jensen family had just moved into 13 Hawthorn Lane, a crooked, peeling house with a lawn that seemed allergic to life. Dad was excited, Mom was wary, and Timmy, nine and already plotting to become the neighborhood mischief legend was suspicious of everything. The first night, the creaks started. Not the normal “old house settling” creaks. These were rhythmic, like someone tiptoeing… in clown shoes. Timmy, armed with a flashlight and a bowl of cereal, tiptoed into the hallway. The beam landed on… nothing. The cereal bowl was gone. A tiny, giggling voice echoed from the kitchen:
By AFCabout a year ago in Fiction
The Moon That Chased the Sun
For eons, their dance was the clockwork of the universe. The Sun was a king of fierce, glorious light, painting the world in bold strokes of gold and blue. The Moon was his quiet queen, softening his harsh edges with her gentle silver, weaving dreams into the night. But they were never together. The cosmos, in its infinite wisdom, had decreed they must forever be apart, their love a constant, heartbreaking near-miss.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
creep show
Sometimes, one does stupid things. Out of nowhere, I took the liberty to look through the peephole. I mean, it was there for all to get the Goldilocks vibes and help oneself to the peepshow that was on offer. No one was around and I thought, what the hell?
By Jerome Smith-Pulaabout a year ago in Fiction
Some Things Should Not Be Seen
Laura put her eye to the keyhole. The room was dimly lit with only a small lamp. She could not make anything out. She was sure this was where the wailing had come from. She heard the floorboards creaking as someone walked across the room. A shadow passed the keyhole. She pulled her eye away.
By Calvin Londonabout a year ago in Fiction
Unforgotten
Zeelen transmitted from the kitchen: “‘Mysteries abound where most we seek for answers.’ You know who wrote that? It was Ray Bradbury. Think he may have been onto something.” She picked up an apple, ruby-red, unmarred, and hesitated, before biting. It was juicy, and delicious. A new theory was required.
By Eric Wolfabout a year ago in Fiction
A Nightmare
Introduction A short tale inspired by an image from 'Flitting Ghosts Leading Time and Death', illustrated by John Leech, that I found on The Enchanted Booklet here:
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
Through the Keyhole
The old keyhole was small, almost invisible to an untrained eye. But to Lina, it was a window into a world she was never meant to see. Every night, when the moonlight slid through the cracks of her grandmother’s house, she’d kneel before that ancient wooden door—the one everyone said led to nothing. A room sealed for fifty years. Her grandmother warned her, “Never look through the keyhole, child. Some memories are locked away for a reason.” But curiosity is louder than fear. And that night, as the clock struck midnight, Lina pressed her eye against the cold brass circle. At first, she saw nothing. Only darkness, dust, and silence thick as sleep. Then—a flicker. A candle. And beside it, a figure in a long white dress. Lina froze. The figure wasn’t still—it was moving, swaying, as if caught in a dance. A slow waltz. To no music. She wanted to scream, but her throat tightened. Her breath fogged the metal. She blinked—and the candlelight vanished. The next morning, Lina asked her grandmother, “What’s inside that room?” Her grandmother’s hands trembled. “Ghosts of the past,” she whispered, her voice distant. “And one that wears a white dress.” Lina’s stomach turned. She wanted to ask more, but the old woman’s eyes had drifted to the window—lost somewhere far beyond time. Days passed, but the door kept calling to her. Like a heartbeat behind the wood. Like whispers in her dreams. Then one stormy night, lightning flashed—and the door creaked open. Just a little. Enough for Lina to slip inside. The room smelled of wilted roses and rain. Dust floated like snowflakes in the candlelight. And there, in the corner, stood a mirror. Not just any mirror—this one was draped in lace, the fabric yellowed with age. Lina lifted it. And gasped. Inside the mirror, she didn’t see her reflection. She saw her grandmother. Younger. Laughing. Spinning in a white dress. A man’s hands held hers. A man with sharp eyes and a tender smile. Then, suddenly, the man turned—and his expression shifted to something darker. He whispered something Lina couldn’t hear. Her grandmother in the reflection began to cry. The image flickered. The man disappeared. The grandmother fell to the floor, clutching her chest. And the mirror cracked. Lina stumbled back, heart pounding. Then, from behind her, came a soft voice: “You looked through the keyhole… didn’t you?” Lina turned slowly. Her grandmother stood at the doorway. Pale. Shaking. Eyes filled with tears. “I told you never to open that room,” she said. “I—Grandma, I saw you! I saw him! Who was—” Her grandmother raised a trembling hand. “He was the reason I locked this room. The reason I kept the key hidden for fifty years.” Lina swallowed. “What happened to him?” For a long moment, the old woman said nothing. Then she whispered, “He was the man I loved… and the man who left me the night before our wedding.” Her voice broke. “I locked everything away. The dress. The memories. The mirror. I thought if I sealed it, he’d vanish from my heart. But pain,” she looked up, “doesn’t disappear through a keyhole. It waits for someone to open the door again.” Lina’s eyes filled. “I didn’t mean to—” “I know,” her grandmother said softly. “But perhaps it’s time I opened it myself.” She walked slowly to the mirror, running her fingers over the crack. “Do you see this?” she whispered. “This is what happens when love breaks before time does.” Then she smiled faintly. “But maybe you helped me remember the good, not just the grief.” Lina stepped closer. “You can let it go now, Grandma.” Her grandmother nodded. “Yes. And when I do, promise me something.” “What?” “Never be afraid to look through the keyhole of your own heart. What’s hidden is often what heals you.” That night, Lina watched her grandmother take the white dress from the closet and hang it by the window. The moonlight kissed the silk, making it glow. By morning, the old woman was gone—peacefully, in her sleep. The door stood open. The keyhole, empty. Lina placed the cracked mirror beside her grandmother’s photograph and whispered, “I looked through the keyhole, and I found your story.” She smiled through her tears. “Now it’s mine to tell.”
By Fazal wahid about a year ago in Fiction