Short Story
The Halloween Murders
The Halloween Murders Halloween was never quiet in our town. The night carried a mix of smoke, laughter, and shouts of children running through the streets with masks too big for their faces. Pumpkins glowed on windowsills, some carved with smiles, some with crooked teeth. The air smelled of damp leaves and the faint sweetness of toffee apples. People joked that our town was cursed on Halloween. Most laughed, others whispered it as if it were truth.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Fiction
5 Minute Romance: The Ski Lift
Anita skated forward clumsily towards the dip in the snow. She heard the grind of the ski lift’s overhead gears and watched anxiously as the chair in front whumped against the skiers before her. This was it, her first time taking the lift by herself. Memories of her first attempt last season resurfaced, warming her skin with embarrassment. She hadn’t been prepared for the lift’s speed and how it knocked her feet out from underneath her. Her skis had gone flying. Everything had to be stopped for several minutes.
By Valerie Taylorabout a year ago in Fiction
The Whispering Trail
Lena tugged her jacket tighter against the crisp autumn breeze as she stepped onto the old forest trail. The leaves beneath her boots crackled like tiny secrets, and shafts of gold light filtered through the boughs overhead. She paused, closing her eyes, listening — there was a faint murmur in the hush, as though the woods themselves breathed.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Message I Never Replied To
It was almost midnight when my phone buzzed. I was lying in bed, scrolling absentmindedly through social media, half-asleep. At first, I thought it was just another notification from some random app, but when I glanced at the screen, I froze. It was a text message. From an unknown number. And it read: “Don’t forget what we planned. Time is running out.” My heart raced. For a second, I thought maybe it was spam or a wrong number. But something about the message didn’t feel random. It was personal—like the sender knew me. --- The Uneasy Curiosity I sat up in bed, wide awake now, staring at the glowing screen. Who could it be? My first instinct was to text back: “Sorry, who is this?” But something stopped me. A strange mix of fear and curiosity kept my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Instead, I decided to wait. Maybe they’d text again. Minutes passed. Nothing. I finally gave in and typed a cautious reply: “Who are you? What plan?” But just as I was about to hit send, the message vanished. Literally. The text bubble disappeared from my phone as if it had never been there. I blinked. Rubbed my eyes. Checked again. Nothing. My inbox was empty. --- The Investigation The next day, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. At work, my mind drifted. Over lunch, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts. Could it have been a prank? A friend messing with me? I asked a couple of close friends if they had sent me a weird message last night. They all denied it, laughing at my paranoia. That evening, I dialed the number. My heart pounded as the line rang. Once. Twice. Then: “This number is not in service.” Impossible. How could I have received a text from a dead number? --- The Connection Days turned into a week, but the memory of that text haunted me. I kept replaying the words in my mind: “Don’t forget what we planned. Time is running out.” Then it hit me. A year ago, I had made plans with my best friend, Daniel. We had grown up together, inseparable since childhood. But after high school, life pulled us in different directions. I got busy with college. He got tangled in his own struggles. We had promised each other we’d meet up one summer, just the two of us, to relive the old days. But I never followed through. And then—last year—Daniel passed away in a car accident. A cold shiver ran down my spine. Could the message have been from him? A glitch, a recycled number, or… something else? --- The Unanswered Truth I’ll never know for sure. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe a technical error. Or maybe—just maybe—it was Daniel’s way of reminding me not to waste time, not to take promises lightly. I never got another message from that number. I never had the chance to reply. But those words—“Time is running out”—stayed with me. They changed the way I lived. Now, I call my parents more often. I reconnect with old friends. I don’t put off plans, thinking there will always be another tomorrow. Because sometimes, tomorrow doesn’t come. --- Closing Reflection We all have messages we never replied to. Calls we ignored. Plans we postponed. Words left unsaid. But life is fragile, and time moves faster than we realize. That night, a single mysterious text taught me something no lecture or book ever could: Never wait too long to say what you need to say. Because one day, the message might vanish—and so might the chance.
By Shahab Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Coming or Going?
I was taking my usual morning walk—early, so as to be alone. I never was good with people, and you don’t cross footpaths with many at 5 in the morning. This is why my usual social anxiety disorder senses began to tingle when I saw the man in the distance. He was so far that I couldn’t make out any features—just that he was walking, too, in the opposite direction; that is, heading right for me.
By Gerard DiLeoabout a year ago in Fiction
The Fracturer and the Weaver
Movement I: The Arrival of Truths Before the shaping of the world, there was a chamber where speech itself was gathered. Here the air was restless, filled with syllables unmoored, falling like rain before they had names. A ground of shifting light stretched outward, and from that mist rose the Elemental Figures, each bearing a portion of what mortals would one day inherit.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Fiction
Two Lives in Rain and Silence
Prologue - The Table The day my world changed is still today. I lie face down on the surgical table, my back bared to the lamps that glare like interrogators. The monitors click and stutter, not as machines but as scribes, recording my heart in crooked ink. A needle presses into me and the sound it makes is a vow, sharp, and final.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Fiction
