Mystery

Last Bus
Rain falls. The plaza shines under sodium lamps, and the air smells like wet metal as I hurry toward the idling bus whose display stutters, then holds on one word: LAST.
By Milan Milicabout a year ago in Fiction
DON'T BLINK
I don’t know when it started. Maybe it was the rain from that afternoon. Heavy, rhythmic, drumming a cold insistence against the office windows. Maybe it was that blink I didn’t notice until afterward, when the world had quietly shifted a fraction of a second ahead of me.
By Pamela Dirrabout a year ago in Fiction
Journey to Hope. AI-Generated.
The year was 3857, Earth had fallen silent. Once blue and alive, it now hung in space like a rusted coin dry oceans, burned skies, cities swallowed by dust. Humanity had taken everything it could from its cradle and left behind a lifeless shell. For centuries, people drifted through the dark in giant space stations, praying for another home. And then they found one. Four hundred seventeen years away, hidden behind a dying red star, astronomers detected a planet. Its atmosphere shimmered with oxygen, its surface glowed faintly with oceans and clouds. The data was impossible to ignore. Humanity called it Hope.
By Emma Fischerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Iron
One day, an old woman bought a cheap but working iron from a junk dealer at a flea market. She needed it to press her favourite old dresses and tablecloths. Her pension barely covered her living expenses — she couldn’t afford more.
By VaadMystabout a year ago in Fiction
What Charlie Said
Standing before the entry point to the past, I knew Charlie was right. She always was. Staring at the plain white door at the end of the long doorway, there was a sense of eerie foreboding in the air, that I could taste like acridity on my tongue. It felt as I imagine it felt for Danny in The Shining when he sees blood flow down the corridor of the Overlook towards him. There was no blood. My overactive imagination was firmly kept in check.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Crimson Glacier Mystery
In the heart of Antarctica, where the sun barely rises and the wind sculpts the ice into ghostly shapes, an anomaly had puzzled explorers for decades: a river of crimson water cutting through the blinding white. For years, local expedition teams whispered about the “Blood Glacier,” claiming that the flowing red beneath the ice was inexplicable, almost supernatural. Tourists who glimpsed it spoke of ancient curses, while scientists dismissed it as folklore.
By Wellova about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Library on EarthThe Last Library on Earth
The year was 2197, and the world no longer read books. Words no longer lived on paper, bound between covers that smelled faintly of dust and time. They lived in data streams cold, sterile, and owned by one corporation: Infinitum. Every idea, every story, every scrap of recorded knowledge flowed through its servers. What people read, what they learned, even what they remembered all filtered, approved, and sold back to them in digital form.
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
Borrowed Time
The clockmaker’s shop was the kind of place you didn’t notice until you needed it. It sat between a bakery and a pawn shop, its dusty windows filled with broken watches and rusted gears.
By Ghanni malikabout a year ago in Fiction
The Shelter of Urban Decay?
You know the address. You know where "that" area is. What do you call it? The ghetto? The bad neighborhood? Gangsta's Paradise? Was it you who said, "I wouldn't be caught dead there?" Yeah. I was morbidly curious, but that's not how I got there.
By Shanon Angermeyer Normanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Secret
The Town That Forgot Time In the small town of Harrowfield, time moved differently. Clocks ticked but hands never quite aligned. People missed appointments, not because they were careless, but because every clock seemed to tell a slightly different story.
By Hassan Janabout a year ago in Fiction
Reunion with the French Flower
The Case Minister was quite right: something had to be done about “the Paris situation” — a masterpiece of euphemistic language, Ellis thought. Speaking plainly, it would be more accurate to refer to the “imminent disaster in Paris”, but that wasn’t how the upper brass delineated their views. The Time Bureau did not promote alarmists to the upper brass, reasoning that if something had already happened, it could no longer constitute an imminent anything.
By Eric Wolfabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Hour at Saint Verena’s
They say Saint Verena’s bell never stopped ringing. Even after the fire, even after the walls fell and the roof caved in, those who live near the ruins claim they still hear it — a low, mournful toll that echoes through the fog at exactly 3:17 a.m.
By MUHAMMAD SAIFabout a year ago in Fiction