Mystery

The Kiss Quotient
🌟 Meet Stella Lane Stella Lane is not your typical romance heroine. She’s a brilliant, successful woman who works as an econometrician (someone who uses math and statistics to predict shopping patterns). She loves her job and is very good at it.
By Muhammad Hayat2 years ago in Fiction
Banana pudding before you die
It was Sunday morning. Sandra woke up, went to the kitchen, and prepared breakfast. She was thinking of Jason, her new lover. Sandra didn’t feel guilty. After all, she and Ryan were in an open marriage.
By Susan Fourtané 2 years ago in Fiction
The purple dress
The next morning, Sandra was at work as usual. She was wearing a purple dress and matching Oxford shoes. It was impossible to miss her flirting as Jason came in. Jason was too young and too impressed by an older woman who clearly knew how to manipulate him into doing the dirty work for her.
By Susan Fourtané 2 years ago in Fiction
My First Love ❣️
In the quiet town of Willow Creek, nestled between rolling hills and shimmering lakes, there existed a quaint little bookstore named The Turned Page. It was a haven for bibliophiles, with its wooden shelves groaning under the weight of stories waiting to be told. The air within was rich with the scent of old paper and fresh coffee, inviting patrons to stay a while longer and lose themselves in other worlds.
By AMK_AQIB2 years ago in Fiction
"The Hidden Worlds Of Icy Super-Earths"
Imagine a planet bigger than Earth, wrapped in thick layers of ice, orbiting far from the warmth of its star. Sounds like science fiction, right? But it’s real. In fact, astronomers have found that icy super-Earths—cold, frozen worlds larger than our own—might actually be pretty common in the universe.
By SAKIB AHMMED2 years ago in Fiction
2:47
Cerise couldn’t sleep. The clock on her nightstand screamed 2:47 at her. A.M. She had tried not to look in its direction because knowing exactly how much sleep she’d already missed would be disturbing. Calculating how much more she’d miss if sleep didn’t arrive soon made her anxious. And anxiety always robbed her of sleep.
By Marie McGrath2 years ago in Fiction
In the Basement
Basements are rooms loaded with mysteries of all kinds. What kind of mysteries do you think these steps lead? Down the six or more steps you are not sure what you may find especially when you notice the old door is slightly ajar. Basements are usually where families or whomever keep their washer and dryer and whatever down there to keep the rest of the house clutter-free. But...
By Mark Graham2 years ago in Fiction
Haunting Aura
Bayu was no stranger to the paranormal. As a seasoned ghost investigator, he had visited haunted houses, graveyards, and abandoned hospitals. He had heard screams in the night, felt unseen hands graze his skin, and even caught glimpses of figures darting between shadows. But there was something about the house in the forest that felt different—it didn’t just feel haunted; it felt alive.
By Al Muksin2 years ago in Fiction
What Are the Best Strategies for Promoting Your Self-Published eBook?
What Are the Best Strategies for Promoting Your Self-Published eBook? Chuck Morgan, Crime Fiction Author Over the years, many authors have discovered that writing an eBook is just the beginning of their journey. Once you have completed your manuscript, promoting it effectively is important to reach your target audience and achieve sales. In this post, you'll explore the best strategies to help you promote your self-published eBook and ensure it stands out in a crowded market. Whether you're leveraging social media, email marketing, or engaging with online communities, these tips will empower you to maximize your book's visibility and impact.
By Charles E Morgan2 years ago in Fiction
The Hollow Box (Part-5)
Episode 5: “Sub-Level 6” Lara and Lana sneaked out of the house at around midnight. Clad in black, equipped with gloves, flashlights, and their mother's locket securely in Lana's coat pocket, they slipped through the Arundel General Hospital side entrance. Before the funeral, Lara had taken an old staff ID out of her mother's drawer as a precaution.
By StoryTime2 years ago in Fiction
The Call of the Night Spirit. AI-Generated.
The Call of the Night Spirit: It was past 1 a.m. Silence wrapped the village like a thick fog. Only the occasional howl of a jackal pierced the night. Through that stillness, a shadow of a woman in a black saree slowly glided past the old banyan tree.
By bd writer2 years ago in Fiction
cold lick. Content Warning.
⚠️Trigger Warning: This story contains disturbing imagery involving children, ice cream trucks, and elements of horror. Reader discretion is advised. The ice cream truck came at dusk. Its chimes were broken—notes out of tune, like a lullaby hummed by something that had never been a child. The truck itself looked ancient, something pulled from a dream no one wanted to remember. Rust flaked from its sides like dead skin, its pastel colors faded to a funeral blush, and the windows were too dark to see inside. But the kids of Harlow Street ran for it every time. Every time… except for Claire. She hadn’t eaten ice cream since last summer. Not since her sister Lily vanished. One moment, Lily had been skipping down the sidewalk, a purple popsicle in hand, her laughter trailing in sunbeams. The next—gone. No scream. No sign of struggle. Just the empty stick, still wet, lying on the concrete like an offering. Everyone said she ran away. Claire knew better. The ice cream truck had come that evening, too. No one believed her—not the cops, not her parents, not even the therapist who scribbled in his leather notebook like he could trap her grief with ink. “Trauma does strange things,” they said, mouths too soft to speak the truth. But Claire remembered. The way the truck had idled at the edge of the street like it was waiting. The way Lily had stared into the window, smiling—not scared, not confused, just… drawn. She’d walked forward like she was sleepwalking. Tonight, the truck rolled in again. Claire stood on her porch barefoot, arms folded tight against the cool breeze, heart rattling in her chest like a bird desperate to fly. The other kids swarmed it—laughing, waving wrinkled bills, calling out for rocket pops and fudge bars. The chimes played their broken song, skipping notes like cracked porcelain teeth. Then the truck stopped. Right in front of Claire’s house. The laughter dulled. Kids turned. Still chewing, still grinning—but too still. The serving window creaked open. No driver. Just a void behind the glass. Then a hand emerged—long and pale as bone, the skin translucent, almost wet-looking. It held a cone. One scoop. Swirled in black and bruised-purple, mist rising in tendrils that didn’t evaporate but clung to the air. The ice cream shimmered like oil in a puddle. “Claire,” it said. Not the man. The cone. She froze. The voice came from inside the scoop. Warped and distant, like a memory trapped under ice. “Claire, I’m cold…” Her breath caught. Lily. Without knowing why, Claire stepped off the porch. Her feet kissed the pavement, still warm from the day but growing colder with every step. The other kids stood motionless now. Popsicles halfway to their mouths, eyes wide and unblinking. They looked like mannequins left in a forgotten store window. No breath. No sound. The cone extended further. “Come with me. I miss you.” It was Lily. That soft lilt warped by frost, by something unspeakable. Claire’s throat tightened. Her hand reached out, fingers trembling, aching to touch, to believe. Then the scoop blinked. A milky eye opened just beneath the surface. Childlike. Wrong. And then a mouth split across the side of the cone, toothless and smiling. “Don’t keep her waiting,” it gurgled. Claire jerked back. The door behind the window creaked open and a wave of rot spilled out—sweet and rancid, like melted candy over corpses. Inside, the air shimmered with cold. She saw flashes—tiny shoes, pink hair ties, fingernails frozen into metal walls. Something stirred within. A silhouette with too many joints. Its breath was a hiss, its teeth clicked like hailstones skittering across a coffin lid. Claire turned and ran. She didn’t scream. Didn’t look back. The truck didn’t follow. It didn’t need to. That night, her sleep was broken by twisted dreams—ice cream melting into soil, cones with hollow voices, and Lily’s face behind glass, mouth frozen open in silent pleading. “Hurry,” her sister whispered, her tongue stuck to a frosted wall. “It’s getting colder.” Claire woke with a gasp. A knock came at her window. She turned. There it was. The cone. Sitting on her sill. Dripping. Smiling.
By E. hasan2 years ago in Fiction