Mystery

The Haunted Mansion
The Haunted Mansion The mansion stands at the edge of the lane. Its walls are high and cold, its roof bends with age, and ivy crawls across the stone like veins upon old skin. No birds fly above it. No dogs bark near its gates. The windows are blind. The doors are forever shut. People cross the road rather than walk past, for all know what waits inside.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Fiction
The Lads' Room. Content Warning.
The door in the house had been sealed shut for years. He never really thought about it, but now his parents were gone and the house was his.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
Ditched and Re-Placed
Brad’s heart skipped a beat. He froze in the door frame, looking at Serena and trying to figure out how she got there. He thought she had a sad smile on her face, as if reproaching him.
By Lana V Lynxabout a year ago in Fiction
Edging God Out
By touching the door of the classroom with his hand, Tory Vale felt one life leave and another enter. He wore a black blazer and white t-shirt black jeans and blue loafers. Back in that lecture hall in New Sweden University in Wilmington, Delaware, he had laid down the burden of faith. He walked out a nonbeliever in the theory of God. Although he had aced every exam, there still felt in the wood grain of the door the need to recall that he would never be the same A student. In his twenty-two-year-old mind, he recalled the various texts he consumed like a voracious predator on the hunt. The carnivore in his soul began to cry out in every word that went through his brain. There existed this duality that said “Go with God” and “Edging God Out” (EGO).
By Skyler Saundersabout a year ago in Fiction
A Leeds Shopping Adventure
The rain, a constant, fine drizzle, seemed to be a permanent fixture of the Leeds sky. It was the kind of grey that seeped into your bones and made the promise of a warm, brightly lit interior feel like pure salvation. Amelia clutched her worn tote bag, its contents a testament to her afternoon’s mission: a half-eaten Greggs sausage roll and a flimsy, damp receipt. She was on a quest, a very specific and, so far, entirely fruitless quest.
By MadlynLeeabout a year ago in Fiction
Journey of a lost sock
I was enjoying being together with my partner from the day I was born, talking and flirting as always, when suddenly, we got hurled to a white basket.
By Prashaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Treasurer Of The Future
Knock! Knock! Knock! It was 12:30, Midnight. I wasn't expecting visitors. I just wanted to finish watching the news and go to bed since I had just come home from a night shift at the hospital.
By Carol Ann Townendabout a year ago in Fiction
Progress in Solitude. Content Warning.
March 25, 2025, Arancard, the city of Seiya. 10:00 AM — the time when the sun rose to its peak, illuminating not only the cities but also the hearts of all the people of Arancard.
By Sofia Smiabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers Between Shadows. AI-Generated.
The fog rolled in with the slow certainty of a tide, swallowing the cobblestone alleyways one lantern at a time. The village of Avelwick was quiet at dusk, but for Mara, silence never meant safety. She had always heard things that others dismissed—soft murmurs slipping between walls, strange calls weaving through the darkness. The whispers had begun when she was a child, faint at first, but as she grew, so did their persistence.
By Zubairabout a year ago in Fiction
The Visitor
There came a knock at 11:47, hard and insistent on the oak door. Three distinct knocks that shattered the silence in my apartment like a knife through silk.
By Neli Ivanovaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Last Secret
The town of Ravenshollow had many secrets, but none so enduring as the one kept behind the locked doors of Elias Greaves’ workshop. For forty years, Elias had been the town’s clockmaker. His windows always glowed faintly with lamplight, even at odd hours, as if time itself bowed to him.
By Zubairabout a year ago in Fiction
The Vanishing at Blackthorn Abbey
The rain had been falling over Yorkshire for three straight days, soaking the earth and flooding the narrow lanes. On the fourth night, Detective Eleanor Ward received a call that pulled her from the warmth of her flat into the teeth of the storm. A tourist had gone missing—Karl Meyer, thirty-two, a German national traveling alone. His rucksack and camera were found at the entrance of Blackthorn Abbey, a ruin that clung like a scar to the cliffs above Whitby. His footprints ended at the threshold. No sign of struggle. No sign of retreat. He had simply ceased to exist.
By Wellova about a year ago in Fiction