Mystery

Childers Grove
I stood atop of the bluff above the sea. The mist rolled off the ocean mixing with the smoke from the wildfires. None of the rays from the setting sun seemed to penetrate its wall. The sky was turning an eerie orange. What should’ve been a hot August evening was growing cold and a chill set in on my skin as I watched the mist and smoke curling.
By Stephanie L. Moreauabout a year ago in Fiction
The Secil Pond: A Pivotal Clue
"I made it!" Stacy felt so much joy about her arrival on time. In her fourth week at work, and for the first time, she was one hour early.
By Parvathi Jabout a year ago in Fiction
The Weight of The Dark River
The first rumble of thunder had Alecia checking her clock for the fourth time in fifteen minutes. Eight-thirty-five. Her apartment smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee, stubbornly clinging to her hair and scrubs. She had showered, had changed, but the hospital scent lingered like a shadow. Nights like these were heavy not with sleepiness, but with the strange inertia that settled when the world outside lost its light. The storm had been forecast, but the clouds rolled over the lake faster than predicted. Rain began in stuttering drips, then heavier, like someone dumping buckets onto the roof. Alecia sat on the edge of her couch, knees pulled tight to her chest, staring at the bright glow of her phone. She hated how quiet it was when she was alone; the silence pressed into her chest as if it wanted to hear her heartbeat.
By Perqwaila about a year ago in Fiction
The Night We Were Taken Aboard
“HELLFIRE AND BRIMSTONE!” Pastor Bartley slammed his fists down on the pulpit. As he bellowed, the organist, an elderly man who was hard of hearing, answered with the same ferocity. He shoved his fingers down on the keys as hard as he could and his feet jabbed at the pedals. Chords, about a half dozen or so, intended to instill dread in the soul, filled the space. The whole congregation was jarred from their stupor. If anyone had fallen asleep, they sure as hell were not asleep anymore.
By Rae Fairchild (MRB)about a year ago in Fiction
The Misdelivered Package
I pulled the van up to the house and frowned before I’d even shifted into park. “Airbnb? Surely nobody lives here- I’ve never seen anybody here…” It came out louder than I meant, but talking to myself is part of the job now.
By Danielle Katsourosabout a year ago in Fiction
You Will Die At Daylight.
You Will Die At Daylight. The message was clear. Did I believe it? Not really. The promise of a sweet $1m was all the incentive I needed to prove the urban legend wrong and get my inheritance.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
Can You Prove It?
It always starts the same way: a notification I almost ignore. *Ping.* Another DM. Handle says **@apocalypticshitdisturber** - huh. Vague profile pic, no blue check. Could be anyone. Could be Him. Could be another idiot pretending to be someone I’ve spent a little too much time replying to on Twitter.
By Danielle Katsourosabout a year ago in Fiction
The Light at Miller's Dock
The trail down to Miller’s Dock had narrowed over the years, overtaken in places by roots and brush. What once was a foot-worn path now felt more like a memory than a route. Calvin moved carefully, stepping over slick stones and ducking under branches. The lake wind stirred the treetops, but everything below held its breath, as if waiting.
By Rick Allenabout a year ago in Fiction
The Secrets my Mother Kept
Alexander fell into an uneasy sleep, Mr. Stuffings still clutched tightly to his chest. The dream came quickly, different from the ones that had led him to the attic.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
The secret life of an object
Huuuhh When do I get to move around? I've been sitting in this same place for a week! I want to flex my joints, crack my arms and move around, explore the vast world out-there instead I've been here for a week staring at the same ceiling that only changes colours with the opening and closing of the light.
By Abdullah Talaatabout a year ago in Fiction
Her Voice on the Wind
The wind was already rising when Eloise turned the key in the door for the first time in years. It stuck halfway, swollen from salt and neglect, but with a hard twist she forced it open. The house gave a small groan as if surprised by her return. Inside, the air smelled of lavender, old cedar, and something sharper—salt maybe, or time. She stepped over the threshold, her boots echoing on bare wood, and paused in the entry. Nothing had moved. And yet, everything had changed.
By Rick Allenabout a year ago in Fiction
These Things Happen
“Don’t wait up for me.” She discovers the note pinned to the corkboard next to the door in the kitchen. “What? How did this get here?” she wonders. Who got into her apartment to leave this note? She unpins the piece of torn notebook paper and puts it on the table. She takes off her coat and scarf to hang them on the hook on the wall. She sets her backpack on one of the two chairs and rubs her hands together to warm them up. The stormy wind whistles through the cracked open windows here in the kitchen and the one in her bedroom. She gets claustrophobic if these two windows are not cracked open, no matter how cold it is.
By Patricia Magdalena Redlinabout a year ago in Fiction