Mystery

The Clockmaker’s Debt
In the quiet town of Windale, where the rooftops gleamed with dew and cobblestone paths echoed with the sound of morning footsteps, all the clocks had stopped ticking. No matter how much people wound them, no matter how new the batteries were—time stood still. It had been this way for twelve years.
By Waqar Ahmad2 years ago in Fiction
The Light in the Attic
It arrived on a Tuesday, folded once and slipped into an envelope with no return address. The paper was yellowed and smelled faintly of lavender and dust. My name was written in perfect cursive on the front: Eleanor Wren. No title. No address. Just my name, as if the sender knew I'd find it regardless of where it landed.
By Sen Sab2 years ago in Fiction
The Kingdom Beneath the Sand
The Zeharan Desert was a place of silence and secrets. No birds flew over its heart, no wind dared to howl. Locals called it Al-Ruhm al-Da’imah—the Eternal Grave. They told stories of a buried kingdom swallowed by the sands in a single night, cursed by the gods for reaching too far. Most dismissed it as a bedtime story, something to scare children. But Aria Dareth believed otherwise. She had spent ten years searching for the truth behind the legend of Thar’Kesh. Her late father, a renowned historian, had disappeared chasing the same myth. The rest of the academic world had laughed her out of conferences and journals. Still, she searched. When she finally acquired the serpent-skin map—a relic pulled from the ashes of a private collection fire—it marked a turning point. It depicted the Hollow Dune, a stretch of desert where no storm had passed in hundreds of years. Now, standing at the edge of that dune, Aria’s heart pounded. With her were Kael, her protective younger brother, and Rafiq, a desert guide whose silence was as deep as the sand itself. “We shouldn’t be here,” Kael muttered for the tenth time, squinting at the shimmering horizon. “This place feels… wrong.” “All great discoveries feel wrong before they feel right,” Aria replied, brushing sweat from her brow. “Help me set up the scanners.” By nightfall, the sensors pinged—an underground anomaly, vast and hollow. The next day, they began to dig. It took them five days to reach stone. A staircase spiraled down into blackness, its steps untouched by time. Torchlight flickered off walls etched with obsidian inlays and ancient glyphs. Aria’s hands trembled as she ran her fingers over one of the murals: it depicted a city of towers and floating bridges, of men in star-marked robes holding orbs of light. Another showed a massive serpent coiled around the sun, its fangs sunk deep into the earth. A third mural chilled her: a circle, sealed with a blood-red sigil, cracked down the middle. Figures around it burned, turned to dust. “Looks like they locked something in,” Kael said. “Or tried to,” Aria whispered. They pressed deeper into the ruins, entering vast chambers lit by crystals still faintly glowing. Gold dust coated every surface. Statues lined the halls—warriors with faceless helmets, swords taller than a man. At the heart of the city stood a temple shaped like a crown, its spires reaching toward the cavern roof like pleading hands. Then Rafiq vanished. They had just entered the temple when he stepped away to scout a side passage and never returned. Kael wanted to go back. Aria refused. “Not now. We’re too close.” Inside the temple, atop a raised dais, they found it: the seal. A disc of silver and onyx embedded in the floor, etched with the same blood-red sigil from the mural. Her map had shown it. Her father’s journal had described it. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. “This is it,” she breathed. “The source.” Kael grabbed her arm. “You saw the mural, Aria. Whatever this is, they didn’t want it opened.” Aria’s eyes locked on the seal. “And yet they left a key.” She pulled her sleeve back to reveal a birthmark on her wrist—a faint shape that mirrored the sigil. Her father had always said it was a sign, proof they were connected to Thar’Kesh. She had never believed him. Until now. The moment her skin touched the seal, the temple rumbled. Dust cascaded from the ceiling. A low hum filled the air, rising like a thousand voices whispering all at once. Then, silence. The seal split open. From the chasm below rose a golden throne. Upon it sat a figure draped in decayed robes, its face hidden by a bronze mask. The King of Thar’Kesh. The air grew thick. The statues in the hall shuddered—and moved. Stone feet echoed. Eyes of onyx flared to life. Kael drew his knife. “Aria…” But the king raised a hand—and they stopped. “You carry the mark,” the king said, voice like rust on stone. “The blood of the Starbound flows in you still.” Aria took a breath. “What are the Starbound?” “The guardians of Thar’Kesh. We were chosen by the stars to wield the gifts of heaven. But our pride led to ruin. We sealed ourselves beneath the sand to wait—for a descendant with the power to undo what was done.” “Why me?” “Because you were always meant to return.” The ground shook again. The city stirred. Outside, sand began to sink, revealing the tops of towers. The kingdom was rising. “You may seal us again,” the king said. “Or restore Thar’Kesh to the world. But know this—awakening us awakens all that sleeps with us.” Kael looked at her, pleading. “We should go. Please.” But Aria stepped forward. “No,” she said. “The world has forgotten wonders. It needs them again.” She touched the throne. And beneath the sands of Zehara, Thar’Kesh breathed again.
By M.SUDAIS 2 years ago in Fiction
Beneath the Tide and Throne
Long ago, when kingdoms rose like tides and fell like whispers, there reigned a king whose heart was colder than the steel of his sword. King Aldric of Varenthia ruled not with justice, but with fear. Gold was his god, and the people were little more than the dirt beneath his velvet-cloaked feet.
By Sheheryar Khan2 years ago in Fiction
Died 17 Times—But That Wasn’t the Shocking Part: Inside "Mickey 17", the Sci-Fi Thriller That Warps Reality
When you hear the words sci-fi clone thriller, your mind might dart to familiar dystopian or futuristic tech-tangled messes. But Bong Joon-ho’s Mickey 17 doesn’t just dabble in science fiction—it mutates it, tears it open, and asks: What makes you YOU… if someone else remembers being you too?
By E. hasan2 years ago in Fiction
The Great Umbrella Uprising
It started, as most strange things do, on a perfectly normal Thursday. Ten-year-old Theo Blinker was walking to school under the bright blue sky, swinging his closed umbrella like a sword, even though there wasn’t a cloud in sight.
By Ashikur Rahman Bipul2 years ago in Fiction
The Outhouse
Would you use this outhouse? It seems to be in good shape as these buildings go, but looking around what else could be using this building as the season shows? Dare to go and check. You never can tell what one may find in such an establishment as this one may look like.
By Mark Graham2 years ago in Fiction
Faceless Night [Part 1].. Content Warning.
The color was a gleaming black, as dark as the night. He walked among the wet branches of the trees that had been soaked by the rain. He could only carry two pearl-like orbs with him, the pearls that had grown on his face since birth, his eyeballs. Among the bushes, his body emerged once again, looking up at the cloudy sky, hoping that the full moon would never appear. Hoping that this time, the rain would truly be on his side, on the side of the curse that had befallen him. Hoping that he could continue to watch over his lover's body in the form of a black cat... *** The two children ran to the front porch, looking at the grumbling rain. Their mother had left them to hang the laundry that had been left unattended since the afternoon. Rows of clothes hung on ropes. With a little tiptoeing, the twins, Gadis and Gilang, reached for some of the clothes that had already dried, though dampened by the night dew. The twin children knew exactly which clothes to take down and which ones to leave on the clothesline, without being allowed to be taken down. Left there until late at night, then late at night it was replaced by morning, morning turned into noon, and the clothes were left to dry and torn by the afternoon wind. Until the sky was fed up, and the rain came back to fulfill its promise to the earth. The rain continued until the night, and the clothes were wet again, but still left unattended. If not, their mother would punish the twin children by making them sleep on the front porch until morning, using the clothes they were not allowed to take down as their pillows. A pair of clothes with black cotton pants and a white t-shirt with a crescent moon painting motif. The crescent moon drawing occupied by two lovers making love. Once upon a time, on a rainy season night, when not a single star could be seen in the sky, leaving only the full moon peeking through the gaps of the cloudy sky. Gadis and Gilang couldn't sleep that night. The dew slowly crept on the glass walls, entered through the gaps of the bedroom window, and reached their backs. It was cold, they said. Gadis opened the bedroom window, and the raindrops tapped her small cheeks like the fingers of an angel, while Gilang curled up even more under the blanket. "Sis, why did you open the window, aren't you cold? And aren't you afraid, Mom hasn't come home yet?!" (it was already past quarter past midnight) "Broth, do you miss Dad?" Gadis stared straight ahead at the front yard of her house, filled with clotheslines and neon lights that illuminated the gate, occasionally overshadowed by lightning flashes, then silence. Again, the girl stared at the clothes swaying in the rain. "Miss him? How can I miss him, we never even knew who he was?" The wind was too strong, making the rainwater even more torrential, tearing apart the clothes there. The girl reflexively closed the window and hurriedly ran out of the room. "Where are you going?" "The clothes fell, I want to pick them up, wait a minute..." "But...hey...don't...Mom will..."
By Shafa Ichwanus2 years ago in Fiction
Literary Souls: Episode 3
“Clary! Clary, where are you?” I turn towards the library door as the local town gossip, Niles, comes crashing through the door. “Oh, there you are! I need all the books you have on finance. Have you heard the newest news?”
By Kristen Barenthaler2 years ago in Fiction
Literary Souls: Episode 2
This time when I come to, it’s with a young man leaning over me. “Oh god, are you one of them too? You’re way too young to be dead.”
By Kristen Barenthaler2 years ago in Fiction
Literary Souls: Episode 1
I’ve worked as the librarian in Sunshine, Massachusetts for about eight hours now and I’m not quite sure why all the patrons have been giving me such a hard time. While reshelving some books by Ernest Hemingway, a grumpy, old man told me to “keep it down” while his wife was trying to sleep. But I never found either of them when I went to check the front lobby chairs. And now, I’m being stared at across my desk by a woman whose only answer to my attempts at helping her is a strange choking noise. But when I asked another patron to get her a glass of water, they looked at me like I’d grown an extra head.
By Kristen Barenthaler2 years ago in Fiction
After The Stars Fell By Hridya Sharma
I often wondered what love is. Is it truly the warm, fuzzy emotions that ooze out of true mirth of care and adore, or is it a product of prevalent capitalism that exists within our world? That makes it easy for the consumeristic and hyperagile construct to sell products to the humans as a marketing tactic, to slip in through the psyche of innocent minds, to create a buzz, to find their weaklings and exploit them for company profits and expansions. I still find myself wondering what love is, pondering over that thought. I searched on Chatgpt What do you think love is, What does love truly mean? Is there any premise in the age-old tales of true eternal love, or are they just some flipping pages of history that are known to mankind through the legends of time, through the sands of ripple effects that last through time? Does happily ever after truly exist? I scrambledly typed and asked the language model, aka AI genius.
By Hridya Sharma2 years ago in Fiction