Mystery

The Precipice Calls
My outstretched arms felt like failing vines as I held on for dear life. I tried to avoid looking down, but the pull of the descent was too much. I could hear it talking to me, telling me in grotesque detail of the various victims of death by misadventure it had caused.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
In The Name Of Our God Of Love And Peace. Content Warning.
The Faithful We have faith and we believe. We are the chosen ones and our God tells us one we have to do. He speacks through our holy men, and we do his bidding.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
Kira Volkanova: Shadows of the Eternal Dream
Twenty years. Two decades since the rain-swept temple had stolen her mother and marked Kira Volkanova with a knowledge too heavy for a child.
By Stefano D'angelloabout a year ago in Fiction
Kira Volkanova: Shadows of the Eternal Dream
Prologue: Time, the Unforgiving The rain was relentless, a sorrowful sigh against the ancient wood of the temple. Seven-year-old Kira knew she was dreaming—the air was too heavy with cedar and ozone, the reflections in the countless mirrors too sharp, too infinite. Barefoot, in a white yukata that smelled faintly of her mother’s lavender soap, she wandered the labyrinth of polished corridors.
By Stefano D'angelloabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Hunger. Content Warning.
Devonne Kincaid had never known thirst like this. Water slid down his throat by the gallon, yet his mouth stayed dry, his tongue raw. Coffee, wine, juice—nothing quenched it. At night he lay awake, jaw aching, grinding against a hunger that felt older than he was. The doctor said dehydration. Work stress. Maybe insomnia. But Devonne knew the truth in his bones. This wasn’t stress. This was something feeding on him from the inside. --- The first crack showed on the subway. The carriage swayed, packed shoulder to shoulder. Devonne leaned against a pole, eyes half-closed, when the smell hit him. Metallic. Sharp. A boy across the car had a wrist wrapped in gauze. The bandage was slipping. A red thread gleamed where it bled through. Devonne’s heart kicked hard. His throat closed. His mouth watered so suddenly he nearly gagged. He couldn’t stop staring. The boy shifted under his gaze. Devonne bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste his own blood, forcing himself back into his skin. When the train screeched to a stop, he bolted into the night air, lungs shuddering, hunger screaming. --- The dreams began after that. Dark alleys. Footsteps echoing. Shapes moving ahead of him. He reached for them with shaking hands, nails digging into phantom skin, the air thick with copper sweetness. He always woke with his pillow torn and his teeth aching as if he’d been gnawing stone. Food tasted like dust. Heartbeats became an unbearable noise. He stopped eating lunch with coworkers, stopped making eye contact, stopped riding the train. But silence only made the hunger louder. The hunger was not meant to be suppressed. --- One morning, Devonne woke with dirt packed beneath his nails. His tongue was coated in iron. His reflection in the mirror looked wrong—skin ghost-pale, pupils blown wide, teeth catching the light in ways they shouldn’t. On the news: "The body of a man was found drained of blood in an alley off Crescent Street. No wounds were visible on the victim." Devonne’s coffee mug slipped from his hand. It shattered across the tile. He looked down towards his shoes laid by the entrance door. Muddy, Thick, wet, black with rain. He couldn’t remember leaving his apartment nor coming back. --- Fear gripped him harder than hunger ever had. He kept his blinds shut. He stopped answering calls. He didn’t dare sleep. But hunger doesn’t care about fear. Hunger grows. --- It was the stairwell that broke him. He was dragging himself upstairs when his neighbor appeared—a woman, groceries in her arms, a polite smile on her face. Then she tripped. The bag split. Apples clattered, a wine bottle shattered, and her hand slid across broken glass. Blood welled instantly. Bright. Hot. Alive. A beautiful hue.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Nothing is Ever Exactly as It Seems
Nothing is Ever Exactly as It Seems. The hillside looked like a painting. A soft sweep of green rolling down into the valley, cottages scattered below, smoke curling from chimneys though the day was warm. The sky carried no blemish, only the clear blue of a summer morning. I stood on the balcony of the house, the one that was supposed to feel like home. It was her house, not mine, and I was here because everyone said it was time I met her. The mother of the man I had chosen. The old dear, that was the name whispered with fondness, as if she were nothing more than lace curtains and tea cups.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Fiction
'Return to Silent Hill' is Giving Me Mixed Feelings
We were finally given a teaser trailer for the third Silent Hill film, and I'm not sure whether I should feel excited or not over the sneak peek we got from the film. Return to Silent Hill is based on a videogame from the horror franchise, known as Silent Hill 2.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Fiction
2 Margaritas. Honorable Mention in Everything Looks Better From Far Away Challenge.
My list was simple: vacation in Florida, meet a cute girl, order my first legal drink. The funny thing is I accomplished everything, just not in the way I imagined.
By Danielle Eckhartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Broadcast. AI-Generated.
The Last Broadcast The night shift was the loneliest shift in the city. By the time the clock struck midnight, the streets outside were empty, save for the hum of streetlamps and the distant moan of the wind. Inside Station WPRX, only one light burned: the studio booth of Midnight Letters, a radio show hosted by a man who called himself Solomon Grey.
By Rashid khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library That Eats Memories. AI-Generated.
The Library That Eats Memories The storm had driven her off course. Amelia was not supposed to be here—half-drenched, her umbrella useless, trudging through an alley that felt older than the city itself. She was searching for shelter when she noticed it: a crooked wooden door wedged between two forgotten brick buildings. Above it, the faded sign read: The Library of Echoes.
By Rashid khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Balcony That Watched Back
Liam had always loved mornings. The kind of mornings where the first sunlight crept lazily over the horizon, painting the city in pale gold, and the distant hum of traffic was gentle enough to be comforting rather than annoying. From his apartment on the 16th floor, the skyline looked like a painting, a perfect vista that made him feel both small and infinitely expansive at the same time.
By AngelFaceabout a year ago in Fiction
Abyss Gaze
Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. – Friedrich Nietzsche
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction