Short Story

The Library of Unread Books
Wren Harbor was a town that clung to the edge of the world, its cliffs battered by salt and storm. The kind of place where the sea told stories and the townsfolk pretended not to listen. Tucked behind the main street, where fishermen swapped lies and tourists bought overpriced lobster rolls, stood the Wren Harbor Library. It wasn’t on any map, and most locals swore it didn’t exist. But Nora Caldwell, a bookseller with a nose for trouble, had heard the whispers.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
Solstice
“You think they ever…you know…here?” Marcus made a stabbing motion from atop the viewing platform. ”Probably,” Joe laughed, walking below along the ridges of the Great Serpent Mound. It really was spectacular, way more impressive in person than his new friends told him it was.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bond Beyond the Jungle
The Bond Beyond the Jungle Deep within the jungle’s heart so wild, Where sunlight weaves through leaves, beguiled, A little monkey swung with grace,
By Liora Fenwynabout a year ago in Fiction
Sons of Quintaether
In an ancient equilibrium of power, born from the ashes of a forgotten time, rested the Royal Guilds of Arcanum. Weaving their secrets with cybernetic marvels, they hoarded their wealth and enhanced themselves in palatial fortresses that pierced the sky, towering thousands of meters over the commons—the monstrous reliquaries of the means to their inexorable might. Their dance of power was as inescapable to them as it was to their subjects, and the brooding feuds of royalty rarely descended into bloodshed—events significant not even by the measure of those sacrificed in pursuit of futile ambition.
By Benjamin Riceabout a year ago in Fiction
13 steps into the attic . Content Warning.
They say never count the steps to the attic. But I did. Thirteen. Thirteen creaking wooden steps, each one groaning under a weight that didn’t always feel like mine. The first twelve were ordinary, dusty, old. But the thirteenth? It never made a sound. Never creaked. Never shifted. As if it weren’t a step at all. Just... a threshold. When my sister Liz vanished, it wasn’t from a parking lot, or a school, or a gas station. She vanished from our grandmother’s attic. The police said she must’ve run away. No signs of a break-in. No struggle. Just a single sandal left on the top step. And the attic door locked from the inside. --- I came back to the house a year later, just after Granny passed. She’d left it to me—maybe guilt, maybe pity. But I knew it wasn’t just a house. Not anymore. Something in there had taken Liz. And I was going to find it. I moved in on a rain-heavy Thursday. By Sunday, the whispers started. Late at night, from above my room, I’d hear footsteps. Not rats, not raccoons— footsteps. Slow. Dragging. And the soft thump of something moving across the attic floor. When I tried to record it, the audio came back silent. so, was it all just in my head? Every single time. --- The attic door was at the end of the upstairs hall, locked with a rusted bolt and a smaller, strange lock I didn’t recognize— old but sturdy . I pried it open on the fourth night. The air changed instantly. It wasn’t musty or warm. It was... still. Like a grave. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and began counting as I stepped up. One. Two. Three. The steps groaned, as they should, coated in dust and something sticky beneath it. Something like syrup or old blood. Seven. Eight. Nine. I felt watched. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Then silence. Step thirteen made no sound under my foot. My breath caught. My light flickered. I turned it back toward the attic. And the attic wasn’t empty. --- There was furniture that didn’t belong—an antique chair, a broken crib, a mirror that hadn’t been there before. None of it was Granny’s. I knew this house. This room had changed. The mirror caught me. Not my reflection. Just me, staring back—no phone in hand, no light. And in the reflection behind me stood a girl with one eye sewn shut. I turned around. Nothing there. --- I came down shaking, locked the door, and told myself it was grief. Insomnia. Trauma. Until I looked at the photos on the hallway wall. All the family portraits had changed. In every one, Liz was missing. Not blurred. Erased. And in her place, further in the background than before, was the one-eyed girl. Closer. Clearer. Watching. --- I started sleeping downstairs. I nailed the attic door shut. I drank. I left lights on. But each morning, the door was unsealed. The nails untouched. And the thirteenth step always clean—free of dust, blood, anything. It wanted me back. --- On the seventh night, I found my phone sitting on the kitchen table, playing a video I never recorded. It showed me, climbing the attic steps. But in the video, I never turned back. I reached the thirteenth step... and vanished. I don’t remember doing it. I don’t remember leaving my phone. But the video was dated tomorrow. --- I should’ve left. I didn’t. At 11:47 p.m., I climbed the stairs again. One. Two. Three. I was shaking. Six. Seven. Eight. The walls felt tighter. The shadows deeper. The air still, pressing against my chest. Twelve. Thirteen. Silence. --- The attic was darker now. The crib was gone. The mirror cracked. And in the corner sat Liz. She hadn’t aged. Not a day. Same striped hoodie, same scuffed knees, same bitten nails. Time hadn’t passed for her—it had paused, like a broken clock caught between ticks. While I’d grown older, grayer, heavier with guilt, Liz remained exactly seven. Trapped not just in space, but in the second she disappeared. She looked up. One eye sewn. The other crying. She stared at me like I was a stranger. Her one good eye wide, unsure. “Are you... the new babysitter?” she whispered, voice trembling like it hadn't been used in years. My heart broke in places I didn’t know were still intact. “Liz,” I said, kneeling down, “it’s me. Your sister.” She shook her head slowly. “No... my sister’s thirteen. You’re... you’re old.” The words didn’t hurt. Not like the way she flinched when I reached for her—like I was something dead pretending to be alive. “Don’t look in the mirror,” she whispered. But I already had. It didn’t show me this time. It showed stairs—thirteen steps, descending. And from the top, the one-eyed girl was crawling down. Toward me. --- I grabbed Liz. She screamed. The room buckled, twisting like a stage set on wires. Wood split. The mirror shattered into dust. The attic door slammed behind us. And I ran. I didn’t look back. --- We tumbled down the stairs together. My hands bled. Liz was sobbing, shaking, half-real, half-gone. I held her until morning. When the sun rose, the attic door was gone. The hallway wall was smooth, painted over. No hinges. No knob. As if it had never existed. But Liz remained. --- A month later, we live in a different house. We don’t talk about the thirteenth step. We told the world she was my daughter.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Unbreakable
They called him a lost cause. A street kid with nothing but rage in his fists and scars on his soul. No family. No home. No future. Just a pair of secondhand gloves, a rusted gym in the back alleys of Detroit, and a fire in his eyes that never seemed to die.
By Rohullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Velvet Graves. Content Warning.
The first body was discovered behind the old Marrow Theater—propped up like a forgotten prop, red velvet ribbon stuffed down her throat, eyes wide and glassy with terror. Her lips had been sewn shut, delicate threadwork pulled tight with surgical precision. Detective Lorne Vale crouched beside the corpse, gloved fingers grazing the ribbon. He'd seen overdoses, gang killings, domestic horrors—but this? This was something else. The velvet was clean. No blood soaked it until the throat turned it dark. And in the woman’s palm was a note written in fountain pen: >“To die beautifully is an art. –S.” The press dubbed the killer “The Seamstress.” Vale hated it. Not because it was inaccurate—but because it fit too well. --- Three days later, another body. Male, mid-thirties, left slumped in a theater seat in the Marrow’s derelict balcony. Same velvet down the throat. Same stitched lips. Same note. The theater had been closed for decades—ever since the Hollis fire in '82. The blaze claimed nearly the entire family, including Eliza Hollis, the town’s last true aristocrat. Only her daughter survived. Clara Hollis. Seven years old. Disappeared for thirty years. Then last month, she came back. Clara bought the theater. Quietly. Paid in cash. “I want to restore it,” she told the city council, gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. “The town has forgotten its elegance. Its drama.” Vale remembered her vividly. A porcelain girl in funeral black, even at the age of seven. Now grown, she looked untouched by time—pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and those same lifeless eyes. --- Vale pushed past caution tape and stepped into the Marrow Theater for the third time that week. The air inside was heavy with mildew and something sweeter—cloying, like decaying roses. The lights didn’t work, but the old stage lights flickered to life as he moved down the center aisle. Someone was watching. Backstage, he found her. Clara Hollis stood in front of the old mirror wall, gazing at her reflection. She didn’t flinch when Vale entered. “You returned quickly, detective,” she said. Her voice was smooth as smoke. Vale motioned to the velvet curtain. “Odd hobby, restoring a place where half your family died.” “I find ruins comforting,” she replied, turning. “And ghosts rarely bother me. They’re quieter than the living.” He stared at her hands—black lace gloves, tight. Always the gloves. “You knew them,” he said. “The victims.” “I auditioned them,” she answered without hesitation. “They weren’t very good.” Vale blinked. “Excuse me?” “I posted ads for actors. I offered roles. They came, they auditioned... and they died.” Her smile was paper-thin. “You’re confessing?” “No,” she said, “I’m curating.” --- He left, heart pounding. No warrant. No proof. But his gut howled. That night, Clara hosted an invite-only “dress rehearsal” for what she called Velvet Graves: A Tragedy in Three Acts. Vale went in with a wire and backup waiting outside. The theater was candlelit. Half a dozen guests, dressed in black, sat silently in the first row. On stage, a velvet coffin. Clara emerged from the wings in a blood-red gown, her gloves gone. Her hands were hideously scarred—burns running from fingertips to wrists. A legacy from the fire. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they were earned later. She began to speak. “Welcome to the closing of the curtain. Tonight’s performance is for the final role.” Vale stood. “You’re under arrest—” But before he could finish, the stage trapdoor opened beneath the coffin. A body tumbled out—fresh, mutilated, stitched with loving detail. And the crowd applauded. They weren’t guests. They were disciples. Clara turned to Vale, smile widening. “Detective,” she said sweetly, “I saved the last act for you.” --- They lunged. He shot two. Ran. Blood sprayed across velvet seats. Screams rang out, rehearsed and real. Vale reached the exit— —but the door was sealed. Trapped. Backstage. Hallways like veins. The walls pulsed with heat. He staggered into the prop room and found them: Photos. Names. Measurements. All the victims. All labeled as cast. On a pinned board was his photo. > Role: The Interrogator. Final Scene. --- Vale kicked down the side exit just as backup arrived. SWAT stormed the theater. They found bodies. Costumes. Blood. But Clara was gone. No trace. Only a note pinned to the coffin lid: > “Every tragedy must end in silence. Curtain falls. –S.” ---They searched for Clara Hollis for weeks. The theater gave no more answers—only echoes. Forensics found nothing of value. The disciples refused to speak. Every surviving member had stitched their lips shut literally, just like the victims. Some died from infection. The rest were committed. The Marrow Theater was condemned, locked behind iron bars and legal red tape. But even from the outside, some claimed they could hear muffled sobs behind its velvet curtains. And Detective Vale? A month later, Vale quit the force. He doesn’t sleep much. He doesn’t talk much. But sometimes, in dreams, he hears the velvet rustling. Sometimes, in the mirror, he sees thread pulling at his lips. Sometimes, when the curtains flutter, he swears he hears applause. --- END.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Where Are You?
The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked window as Mia sat curled up on the worn-out couch in her tiny apartment. Her phone lay silent beside her, the screen dark and empty. For the hundredth time that day, she glanced at it, hoping for a message, a call—anything that would tell her Lucas was still out there, somewhere. But there was nothing.
By Mian Nazir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The seagull
One day, I was enjoying some chips whilst watching the sea. A seagull landed beside me, eyeing the snack. “Planning on stealing one?” I asked.
By Susan Fourtané about a year ago in Fiction
Death or Love. Content Warning.
Under the burning twilight of a kingdom falling into chaos, a lone warrior named Ean strode through a scarred battlefield. His eyes, filled with fierce resolve, mirrored the raw intensity of his spirit—a spirit that had chosen the honorable death of fighting for a dream over the lingering pain of love.
By Edge Alexanderabout a year ago in Fiction
Strike a Deal
How could a dead person be so casual? And reasonable? Not to mention persistent. Not being a believer, myself, I am not sure how this works. I wonder if I'd somehow made it worse by talking to him. Had I helped anchor him here, in some strange way? Was it like feeding a stray cat, and then not being able to get rid of the creature? I try ignoring him. Pretending I don't see or hear him. Gritting my teeth, tucking my head down and trudging on.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Happy Birthday!. Top Story - June 2025.
“Happy birthday, buddy!” My dad says, bringing out the excessively decorated cake into the living room with the rest of my family. They wear those goofy smiles on their faces as they cheer. It’s just another year that I survived, it’s not special.
By AJabout a year ago in Fiction