thriller

The 2099 Reset: How NASA's Secret Files Changed Everything. AI-Generated.
Legal Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, organizations, or events is purely coincidental. The author does not claim the truthfulness of any statements within.
By Myths Of Bouhiaabout a year ago in Fiction
lucid. Content Warning.
There once was a family that had been struggling to reconnect. Arguments, silence, resentment—they had drifted apart, each locked in their own little world of pain. Hoping to mend their fractured bond, they decided to go away on a short holiday. A chance to reset. To be a family again.
By Sabrina Verweyabout a year ago in Fiction
You’re the New Night-Shift Worker at a Remote Roadside Diner — And Something is Watching
--- The Job Seemed Perfect - Until the Rules Came You're twenty-three, broke, and stranded in a nowhere town off Route 46. So when the Sunset Grille offers a night-shift position, you take it without blinking.
By Ridhima Gandhiabout a year ago in Fiction
ATale of Friendship, Jealousy, and Justice--
‎Once upon a time, in a forest, lived a mynah and a sparrow. They were very good friends. They played and worked together. One day, the sparrow flew far away. When she felt thirsty, she drank cold water from a spring flowing from a mountain. A few drops from the mountain fell on her beak. She felt her beak getting heavy. She shook her head here and there, but the weight on her beak wouldn't lessen. She asked the mountain, "Oh Mountain, why is there so much weight on my beak?" The mountain replied, "Little sparrow, I cry once a year. My tears are made of gold. When you drank the water, by chance, a few drops of my tears fell on your beak, and a golden shell formed over it." The sparrow returned home.
By Muhammad Saeedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Disappears in Every Photo
It started with a TikTok trend. “Zoom in on the corners of your old photos,” the trend said, “you might find someone who wasn’t there.” Most people found cats, photo glitches, or maybe their annoying cousin photobombing. But when Jamie tried it, she found a girl. Not just in one photo. In all of them. --- She noticed it first in a picture from her 12th birthday. Her friends were laughing, cake smeared on their faces. But just behind the fence—barely visible—was a girl in a white hoodie, head down, hair covering her face. Weird, but maybe a neighbor kid? Until she found the same girl in her prom photo. This time, on the edge of the gym bleachers. Same hoodie. Same posture. She zoomed in. The girl's face was smudged out. Not blurry—just gone. Jamie, a true crime junkie and amateur sleuth, dove into her files. She flipped through her parents' vacation albums. Her childhood Christmas photos. Even a baby picture taken at the hospital. In every single one, the girl was there. Watching. --- She showed her friends. Some said it was a prank. Others laughed nervously. One of them, Mia, grew pale. “I’ve seen her before,” Mia whispered. “She was in my graduation photo too.” Now they were panicking. They made a group chat. More people joined. Dozens found the girl in their photos too. No one remembered her. No one knew her name. Until someone on Reddit posted this: > “The girl is called Elise. She disappeared in 1997. They say she died during a field trip—drowned in a lake no one talks about anymore. Her body was never found. But after that, she started showing up in pictures. And the rules are simple: 1. Once you see her, she knows you. 2. If she gets closer in the next photo, you're next.” --- Jamie laughed at first. Until she checked a photo she took the night before. Elise wasn’t behind the fence this time. She was on the porch. Looking straight at the camera. --- Jamie didn’t sleep that night. She kept refreshing her phone, staring at the photos. Her bedroom lights flickered. The air grew thick. Her dog whined at the window. The next day, she received a notification: 📷 New shared album from unknown contact Inside were hundreds of photos. All of Jamie. Sleeping. Eating. Walking. Laughing. And in every one—Elise was getting closer. --- Desperate, Jamie reached out to a tech YouTuber who’d gone viral for debunking horror filters. They agreed to meet on livestream. Fifty thousand people watched as Jamie showed the photos. The girl. The pattern. The YouTuber scoffed. "It's an AI glitch," he said. Then the camera glitched. The livestream went black. When it came back on, the YouTuber was gone. Jamie sat alone. And Elise stood behind her. --- The stream was taken down within an hour. But not before it was downloaded, clipped, and shared across social media. Some say it was a hoax. Others call it the best horror ARG ever created. But then more people started seeing Elise. She showed up in their childhood photos. In their reflections. In their livestreams. --- Last week, Jamie’s account went dark. But today, she posted one final video. No caption. Just her whispering: > "I tried to delete the pictures. But she's in my mirror now. She’s standing behind you.” The video ends with a knock. From inside the room. --- They say the only way to stop her is to show someone else your photo. So… Check the last picture you took. Zoom in on the corners. If you see her— You’re already part of the story.
By Kausar Hayat about a year ago in Fiction
The Door Opened at 11:39 PM
to being on our own. My parents worked late shifts and rarely returned before midnight. The house, tucked at the edge of a dense forest, always felt too quiet, too still after the sun went down. Alex arrived just after sunset, carrying a bag with snacks and a dusty Monopoly board. We played a few rounds on the living room floor, half-listening to the old box television flickering in the background. Around 9:30, we lay in our sleeping bags, whispering about the abandoned subway station three miles from the house. It had been shut down in 1932, just after the market crash, and my parents always warned me never to go near it. “They used to send people down there,” I said. “Criminals, or those who got sick. They left them to rot.” Alex looked intrigued but nervous. “We should go tomorrow,” he whispered. I smiled. “If we’re brave enough.” We eventually drifted off to sleep, but something woke me later. A sharp, distant noise. I sat up, heart thumping. Alex stirred next to me. “What was that?” he asked groggily. I wasn’t sure, but it sounded like a gunshot. I checked the clock. 11:39 PM. That didn’t sit right with me. Hunters came into the forest sometimes, but never this late. They knew the dangers of wandering these woods after dark. Trying not to panic, I walked quietly to the bedroom window and peered into the black wall of trees. Fog drifted between the trunks, thick and unmoving. I couldn’t see anything. I turned to Alex. “We should go back to sleep. Probably just... hunters.” Before I could finish, a long creaking sound echoed from downstairs. The front door had opened. Chills raced down my spine. Alex’s eyes widened. We didn’t speak. We just moved, quietly, swiftly. We ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned off the light. The silence was suffocating. My breath came in quick, shaky pulls. Then came the footsteps. Slow, deliberate. The weight of each step thudded against the wooden floor. They stopped just outside the bathroom door. We froze. Then came a knock. Not hard. Not fast. Just... rhythmic. Like someone was waiting. Neither of us moved. Then the knocking stopped. We exhaled. But then came a splintering crack. Wood snapped. Metal screeched. The door was being hacked apart. We screamed. A piece of the door broke away, revealing an eye behind a bird-like mask. A Plague Doctor mask. The beak jutted forward, and the single glass eye glowed with a deep red light. The man wore black leather from head to toe, his gloved hands pulling at the jagged wood. I searched the darkness for something, anything. The vent. It was high on the wall, too high to reach. Alex whispered, “I’ll lift you.” He crouched down, hands clasped together. I stepped into them and pushed upward, straining to reach the screws. They were rusted, but I managed to pry the grate loose. I looked down just as the man’s arm forced its way through the hole in the door, reaching blindly for the lock. I grabbed Alex’s wrist. “Come on!” He jumped, and I pulled, my fingers aching with effort. He was almost through when the lock clicked. The door flew open. A flash of movement. A hand grabbed Alex’s ankle. I screamed and held on, but he was yanked down, vanishing into the dark. “Alex!” I shouted. I crawled through the vent, heart pounding, mind blank. I landed in the hallway on the other side and ran out the back door, into the freezing fog. I followed the forest trail, feet slapping against the wet earth. I didn’t think. I just ran. I knew where he was going. The abandoned subway station. The entrance yawned like a mouth in the hillside, surrounded by vines and broken concrete. I stepped inside, guided only by Alex’s fading screams. The air was damp and foul. My shoes splashed into ankle-deep water as I descended. My breath clouded in the cold. The screams had stopped. Only silence now. I moved forward, deeper into the station. The tunnel was endless. Fog clung to the ceiling, thick and choking. The only sound was water dripping and the echo of my own steps. My flashlight flickered. Then died. I stood still, listening. “Alex?” I whispered. Nothing. I walked forward, arms out, hoping to feel a wall or a turn. Then I stepped into deeper water. Waist high. Freezing. My teeth chattered. The darkness felt alive. Like it moved when I blinked. I could swear I saw shapes. I heard breathing behind me. I turned. Nothing. Then I saw it. A figure. Not just the Plague Doctor. Taller. Thinner. Its face was stretched and pale, its arms too long, its fingers dragging in the water. It was watching me. I turned to run, but the subway had changed. The path twisted, shifted. Doors had appeared on either side of the tunnel. Dozens of them, all rotted and old. I tried one. Locked. Another. Stuck. My breathing grew shallow. I opened a door and found a stairway. At the top, another hallway, tiled like a hospital. Lights buzzed overhead. And Alex was there. Standing in the middle of the corridor, back turned. “Alex?” I stepped forward. He didn’t move. “Are you hurt?” He slowly turned around. His eyes were black. Hollow. His mouth stretched into a smile that didn’t belong to him. “You left me,” he said. “I tried to pull you up. I didn’t let go!” “You let him take me.” “No!” He reached out, and the corridor warped. The tiles melted into flesh. The lights flickered and popped. The hallway dissolved into screaming. Then I was falling. I woke in my bed. The sunlight poured through the window. The TV was on. Monopoly pieces lay scattered across the carpet. Alex was gone. I called his name. Nothing. I searched the house. I screamed for him in the forest. No one answered. When my parents got home, I told them everything. They called the police. No signs of forced entry. No blood. No axe. No Plague Doctor mask. No Alex. Just me. They said I imagined it. That Alex never came over. That maybe I had a nightmare. But Monopoly was still there. The vent was still open. And in the bathroom, just beneath the sink, I found something the police missed. A single black leather glove. Still wet. The End
By CreepVille Horror Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror Only I Could See
I discovered the mirror when I was eleven. It wasn’t hidden behind a curtain or buried beneath the floorboards. It hung plainly in the hallway between my room and the laundry closet, a place so ordinary that no one paid attention to it — except me.
By Mian Nazir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The other me woke up first . Content Warning.
The first thing I remember was the light — sharp, unnatural. My eyelids refused to cooperate. My limbs were limp, soaked in sweat, tingling like I’d just returned to them after years. There was a hum in the ceiling. A coldness in the floor. And someone breathing.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Wired for War: The Neurobiology of Jingoism
The flag doesn’t bleed. But you do. And yet, when they raise it high, your chest swells as if it’s your own beating heart.
By Azam Tariqabout a year ago in Fiction
Glass realms, Iron lies
"The truth is what breaks us. The lie is what keeps us whole." The Glass Realms were once said to be unbreakable. Seven floating kingdoms, each sculpted from starlit quartz and singing crystal, hovered above a shattered world. They gleamed in the sunlight, refracting myths and mercy down upon the scarred lands below. But beauty, as always, is a story someone wants you to believe. Lira was born on the edge of Shardmere, the lowest of the Realms. She knew two things by the age of ten: The sky above her was a lie. Her mother was never coming back. Her mother, Serel, had once been a Singer of Iron—one of the few permitted to descend to the surface to repair the fractured seals that held the lower world in place. But Serel had vanished. And when Lira asked the High Voices what had happened, they gave her silence. So Lira grew up with questions and anger braided into her hair. The Realms ran on magic, but not the kind you could see. Iron lied. That was its power. It could hold stories in place like steel bars, warp truth into obedience, and smooth over memory until even grief forgot what it was mourning. But glass—glass remembered. It shimmered with what was real. That was why only the High Voices could speak through it. And why Lira—born of forbidden blood—was never allowed near it. Until the day the towers cracked. Lira was seventeen when the sky above Shardmere fractured like a broken mirror. The shimmer-paths went dark. The floating citadels drifted, off-balance. And the High Voices began to panic. They summoned the oldest Singers. They whispered of rebellion. They reinforced the Iron Thrones. And that was when Lira did the unthinkable. She entered the Glass Library—a place no one from her caste was allowed. She expected to be stopped. Killed, even. But no one came. Only silence and memory. Inside, the walls weren’t shelves but living panes—each one capturing a piece of truth the Iron had buried. And in the center of it all, in a prism that pulsed like a heartbeat, was her mother. Not dead. Not lost. Imprisoned. The truth split her in half. Serel had discovered that the Realms floated not by magic, but by stealing weight from the world below—draining its life, its color, its future. She had tried to free the surface from that burden. And for that, they shattered her name into silence and locked her inside living glass. Lira touched the pane. It burned her fingers. But her mother’s voice came through like wind in a storm: “Child. Don’t weep. I made my choice.” “Why?” Lira sobbed. “Because the lie was too heavy to carry.” The Glass Realms began to fall that night. Each crack in the sky was a crack in the story. People began to remember. To question. To see. The Iron Voices fought back with silence and illusion—but the truth had already begun to sing. Lira fled with her mother’s memory imprinted on her skin—glass-shards glowing beneath her veins. She could hear songs now, in the wind, in stone. They told her of hidden truths buried beneath mountains and rivers. Of those who remembered before forgetting was enforced. She was not alone. She traveled to the surface—what was left of it. It wasn’t lifeless. It was waiting. Roots curled like sleeping serpents beneath ash-covered soil. Cracked statues whispered forgotten names. A tree grew upside down from a cliff and dropped silver leaves into the clouds. Everything had been lied into silence. And Lira began to sing it awake. But every song took a price. To sing the truth was to bleed. To burn. To remember everything the Iron made the world forget—including your own grief. She lost her voice. She lost her sight. And still she sang. On the last day, Lira stood atop the ruins of Shardmere, now shattered glass scattered in the wind like stars. She held the final shard of her mother’s prison. She pressed it to her heart. And she whispered: “Break me, if it means the world wakes up.” And it did. Years passed. The Glass Realms were no more. But in the new villages rising from ash and wildflower, children told stories of a girl with glass veins and a voice like morning. They said she died beneath a weeping sky, smiling. They said her mother’s voice was the wind now. They said her lie was that she had ever been just a girl at all. In the end, no statue was raised for her. But in every place where someone dares to ask, “What is the truth?”… A flower blooms through stone. Because even broken glass remembers the light. End.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
You left the door open . Content Warning.
You left the door open. That’s what the note said—scrawled in looping, childlike handwriting on the back of an old gas station receipt.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Whispered Name. Content Warning.
The sound of trickling water dissipated behind her as she slipped beneath the trees. Darkness had swallowed the world. No stars. No moon. No light. Her footsteps concealed, she was alone deep in the woods. Roots rose above the ground, reaching out their hands to trip her. The ground was slick, turning into ice by way of the crisp winter breeze. Her breath came in short frantic bursts—her lungs fighting against the heavy bitter air.
By Hailey Mabout a year ago in Fiction