Mystery

He Knocked on My Door Claiming to Be My Brother
The knock came at 9:42 p.m. I remember the time because I’d been half-asleep on the couch, the kind of sleep where you’re aware of the television but not the plot. Rain was falling in the slow, steady way that makes you think of nothing in particular.
By Jawad Aliabout a year ago in Fiction
American Geisha
Chapter 1: When the Phone Rang When the phone rang, I imagined a job less explicit. The voice on the other end was gentle. Amicable. It introduced me to the world I was about to enter as if it were something simple. It wasn’t. The instructions were vague but well understood—and I agreed without hesitation.
By Cadmaabout a year ago in Fiction
Gold in the Backyard: Real Stories of Accidental Treasure Hunters
Most of us dream about striking it rich someday—maybe winning the lottery or stumbling across a rare collectible. But for a lucky few, wealth didn’t come from Wall Street or hard work. It came from dirt, dust, and dumb luck… right in their own backyards.
By Shoaib Afridiabout a year ago in Fiction
Big Horns, Bigger Lesson
Farmer Fred had just made an exciting new purchase for his farm — a young, strong, and remarkably large bull. He proudly named him Bill. With powerful legs, a broad chest, and two magnificent horns that curled gracefully from his head, Bill was an impressive sight.
By Junaid Shahid about a year ago in Fiction
Secrets Buried In The Snow. Content Warning.
Red and blue lights spattered against the fresh, quiet snow that blanketed our normally boring neighborhood. These lights were different- harsh, urgent, and nothing like the twinkling Christmas lights that had promised a wonderful holiday. Cop cars were parked in front of the house across the street. My best friend’s house. Samantha’s house.
By Chyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Forgetful City
It began with a cafe. One morning, I walked the usual route to work. Past the iron fence, across the cracked intersection, left at the place that always smelled like burnt coffee. Only, the café wasn’t there.
By Olivier Remy-Zephirabout a year ago in Fiction
The Nights at the Library
Usually, I do not get called out to work at this particular library too often. But this night I am to report to the university Curriculum library (is where education majors can sign out old textbooks to complete various course projects using old schoolbooks) and start their yearly perpetual inventory. For those you do not know a perpetual inventory is where librarians and if there are assistants count all the books in said library to make sure all the books were returned. This is one tedious job duty, but if one really loves books no matter the content the job is not that bad, and it gives one a sense of accomplishment.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Perfect Night. Content Warning.
Today was the day. The night couldn't come quickly enough. John Kane sat at his desk almost stuck in time, watching clock hands on the wall click in their usual clockwise motion. Although he could swear they were going anti-clockwise at a couple of points.
By Ethan about a year ago in Fiction
Midnight Sun and Moonlight Hearts
In the farthest reaches of the world, beyond towering mountains and endless forests, lay a village unlike any other. This village was unique because it existed at the very edge of the Arctic Circle, where the sun never fully set in summer and never fully rose in winter. Here, the people lived by the rhythms of the midnight sun and the haunting glow of the moonlight hearts.
By Haris Raheemabout a year ago in Fiction
Love in the Time of Dial-Up
In the fall of 1999, when the world was still bracing for Y2K and everyone saved their documents on floppy disks, love bloomed slowly—pixel by pixel, word by word, across the shaky lines of dial-up internet. Back then, the web was not yet a stream but a sputter. Connections were noisy, unreliable, and precious. It was in this static-laced symphony that Adam met Eliza.
By Haris Raheemabout a year ago in Fiction
In Love With a Stranger on the Train
It started on a Tuesday—ordinary, gray, unremarkable. The kind of morning when the sky forgets to rise with conviction and people shrink into their coats, blending into the city’s shuffle. Mia boarded the 7:45 a.m. commuter train from Willow Creek to downtown like she did every day, earbuds in, coffee in hand, mind already halfway through her to-do list.
By Haris Raheemabout a year ago in Fiction
Rain Fell, and So Did I
The sky was a heavy, bruised gray when I stepped outside that afternoon. I hadn’t noticed the weather report—probably because I didn’t want to. Sometimes, ignorance feels like protection. But as the first cold drops began to fall, I knew I was caught unprepared. The rain had come sudden and relentless, as if the heavens themselves were weeping for reasons I could only guess at.
By Haris Raheemabout a year ago in Fiction