thriller
The King's Night of Revelation**
**The King and the Woodcutter: A Lesson in Humility** In a quaint, serene kingdom, nestled amidst rolling hills and lush forests, there reigned a benevolent king. He was a monarch of many virtues, but among his deepest passions was the thrill of the hunt. It was a sport that allowed him to escape the confines of his opulent palace and connect with the raw, untamed beauty of his land.
By Muhammad Saeedabout a year ago in Fiction
Blood Drop Sun
Atop the Ebright Azimuth, the highest point in Delaware, the same place where the lightning bugs hung in the air, Crane Curren and his girlfriend Melanie Biscoff sat with certainty. He wore a Kente cloth t-shirt, black jeans and sneakers. Melanie donned an orange summer dress that looked like marmalade and blue flats. As the sun set, they just knew that something felt unsettling in their bones. They could look down the road and see what it was.
By Skyler Saundersabout a year ago in Fiction
The Nun in the Dark
It was Ava’s first week in Willow Creek, a quiet, fog-covered town buried deep in Indiana. She had moved there for a fresh start, a slower life, and a clean break from the noise of the city. Her aunt had left her a small cottage near the edge of town, close to the woods. The place felt old and forgotten, like time moved differently there. Ava kept to herself, but curiosity pulled her out one Friday evening. At the gas station, a group of local teens stood around smoking and daring each other to do stupid things. When they saw her, they called her over. “You just moved here, right?” one of them asked. She nodded. “You know the old church on the hill?” They all turned to look at the dark silhouette of a building just beyond the treeline. St. Agatha’s Church. Its spire leaned like it was trying to fall. The windows were black. The trees around it were twisted and bare, even in summer. “It’s haunted,” said another. “They say something crawls inside it at night.” Ava laughed, trying to play along. “Bet you won’t go in,” one of them challenged. “I will,” she said. She should have walked away. That night, around 10:30, Ava stood at the foot of the hill, alone. The wind howled through the trees. Her phone battery was dying, so she brought a flashlight. The climb to the church was steep. Every step forward made her stomach sink deeper. The front doors creaked as she pushed them open. Inside, it smelled like wet wood and rotting fabric. Dust filled the air. Pews were broken and scattered. Torn Bibles lay open on the floor. The ceiling had caved in at the center, and vines hung like ropes from the rafters. She stepped carefully, her flashlight beam flickering. Then she heard it. Crawling. It wasn’t footsteps. It was something soft, fast, and too smooth to be human. It came from behind her. She froze. The sound grew louder. A wet scraping across the floor. She turned. And saw her. A woman in a shredded nun’s habit. Her limbs were too long, bending backward like an insect’s. She moved on four thin legs, her body jerking like a puppet on invisible strings. Her face was pale, stretched, and wrong. Two glowing eyes stared straight into Ava’s. The thing didn’t speak. It just kept crawling forward. Ava couldn’t move. Then the nun opened her mouth, and a sound like wind through broken glass whispered, “You shouldn’t have come alone.” Ava dropped her flashlight and ran. She didn’t scream. She didn’t look back. She reached the church doors and burst into the night. And that was the last time anyone ever saw her. When the teens returned the next morning to prove she hadn’t gone, they found the church door wide open. Her flashlight lay just inside, cracked. Her phone was never found. The police searched the hill and the forest for days. Nothing. No footprints. No signs of a struggle. No body. The case went cold. But the townspeople still whisper about the girl who disappeared. Some say if you stand near the church at night, you can hear crawling just behind you. Some say you’ll see a pale woman in a nun’s dress watching from the broken window, her eyes glowing like fireflies in the dark. No one dares to go in anymore. Not even on a dare. To Be Continued......
By CreepVille Horror Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lion Who Lost His Roar
Once upon a time, in the heart of a dense, emerald-green jungle teeming with life, a hunter, known for his cunning and keen eyesight, managed to capture a lion cub. The cub was incredibly young, barely a few weeks old, and still entirely dependent on its mother's nourishing milk for survival. The hunter, envisioning a unique addition to his humble home, carefully brought the tiny, bewildered creature back with him. His own children, a playful and curious bunch, were utterly delighted to see the miniature king of the jungle. Their faces lit up with joy, and they immediately began to interact with the cub, giggling as it tentatively pawed at their fingers. They spent a considerable amount of time captivated by its innocent antics, their youthful energy mirroring the cub's own nascent liveliness.
By Muhammad Saeedabout a year ago in Fiction
We All Drank Tea While The Cannibals Came
So everyone was drinking tea. That’s how it started. The lights were warm, the kitchen smelled like cinnamon and mother’s milk, and the apartment (floor seventeen of a twenty-five-story building in the only neighborhood in Seattle where the rats had unionized) felt perfectly safe. There was a baby. There was a father. There was a mother. There were still walls and power and hot water. And then the TV screamed.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
A Spooky Siege
At only 20 years of age, Sylvie Hanson didn't expect to be the owner of a castle. It happened via tragic circumstances; it was passed down by her father, Sebastian Hanson, who passed on two months prior. The castle was known as Gladstone Manor, a quaint yet spooky domicile, but it was Sylvie's--lock, stock, and barrel.
By Clyde E. Dawkinsabout a year ago in Fiction
