thriller
A Farm
We stood there for a moment, and the door was still open and all of a sudden the door closed, but not with a slam but with a kind of welcoming feeling. We both spoke up. "Who's here?" In the cold fireplace a fire was started, so we both walked over to warm up a bit. There was not much to this house, but this one room. We looked around. We felt a presence around us. We heard a whispering voice. "Can you help me? I want to go home." "Who are you? We will not hurt you." Please tell.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
A Farm
Out in the middle of nowhere there was a farm that seemed to be deserted, but it was wintertime and the chores were completed. We stood and watched to see if anyone came out of the house by the road. We heard something. It could have been a bird or an animal scurrying away. Then we saw the curtain move, we stood awhile longer and yes, we saw something in the window. We waved and it waved back. We walked to the door it slowly creaked open. One thing no one was there. What should we do now we thought.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
My Grandmother’s Mirror Only Reflects the Dead
The Mirror’s First Secret I almost sold the mirror the day after Grandma Lillian’s funeral. It was an ugly thing—a heavy oak frame carved with twisting vines, the glass smoky with age. But Mom insisted: "She wanted you to have it. Said it was special."
By MUHAMMAD Abbasabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker's Silence.
The Clockmaker’s Silence In the heart of a quiet, mist-covered village stood a little shop that never closed, yet no one ever saw it open. The sign above the crooked door read “E. Varnham – Clockmaker”. Its windows were always clean, the brass doorknob gleamed like gold, and inside, clocks of all sizes ticked in harmonious rhythm. Some villagers claimed the clocks inside ran backward on stormy days. Others said you could hear a heartbeat if you leaned against the door. But the most curious thing of all was that no one had seen Elias Varnham speak. Not in years. Old Elias had once been the most talkative soul in the village—a man who hummed while he worked, told long stories about time and its secrets, and loved children enough to handcraft wooden cuckoos to make them laugh. Then, one day, he went silent. Not out of illness, nor rudeness. He simply… stopped speaking. He still greeted customers with a gentle nod and a smile. He still fixed their clocks, often leaving them in better shape than new. But never a word passed his lips. People asked, of course. “What happened to Elias?” “Did he take a vow?” “Was it grief?” Some whispered it had to do with his son, Peter. Peter Varnham was a bright boy with quick fingers and a quicker smile. He had helped his father since he was tall enough to reach the workbench, dreaming of becoming a clockmaker, too. But when Peter turned sixteen, he left the village after a terrible argument—shouting so loud it rattled the shop windows. He never returned. Years passed, and the clocks in Elias’s shop never lost a second. But the silence inside the shop deepened. The cuckoo birds didn’t chirp anymore. The chimes fell quieter. And Elias grew older, more frail, but never ceased his work. One gray autumn evening, the village’s priest, Father Harren, visited the shop. He brought a pocket watch that had belonged to his grandfather. “It’s stopped,” he said gently. “Like so many things lately.” Elias took the watch, nodded, and turned to work. As the gears clicked beneath his tools, Father Harren hesitated, then asked: “Do you ever wish you could turn back time?” Elias paused. His hands trembled slightly over the brass gear. Then he opened a drawer and took out a small notebook. He wrote in it carefully, and slid it across the table. > “Every day. But time only moves forward, even for clockmakers.” Father Harren looked into the old man’s eyes and saw something there—regret, loss, and the deep ache of unspoken words. That winter, snow fell early. The clocks in Elias’s shop continued to tick, but the villagers noticed something new: a large grandfather clock in the display window that no one had seen before. It was unlike anything Elias had ever made—sleek, modern, yet ancient in design. Its pendulum didn’t swing side to side, but in a slow, circular motion, like the hands of a sundial. And etched into the base, barely visible through frost, were the words: > “Forgive me.” One week later, the shop was silent. Utterly silent. No ticking, no whirring, no soft sounds of winding gears. Elias Varnham had died in his sleep. The village mourned, and the shop remained closed. But one rainy morning in spring, a stranger appeared—young, with Elias’s eyes and hands stained with oil. He carried a worn suitcase and a wooden cuckoo tucked under his arm. Peter Varnham had returned. He didn’t speak at the funeral. But afterward, he walked to the shop, unlocked the door with a rusted key, and stepped inside. The clocks began ticking again. And for the first time in decades, the cuckoo birds chirped.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Fiction
Signed, Your Ghost
The first letter arrived on a Tuesday. Mara found it tucked neatly into her mailbox, nestled between bills and a coupon booklet. There was no return address—only her name handwritten in a script that looked strangely familiar. The envelope was pale gray, sealed with an old-fashioned wax stamp bearing the impression of a feather. She opened it on the kitchen counter, next to a half-drunk cup of coffee and a vase of wilting sunflowers. > Dear Mara, You left the bedroom light on last night. It’s okay—I didn’t mind. It’s strange, watching you sleep. I used to sleep beside you. Do you remember that? I’d count your breaths when I couldn’t count sheep. You always exhaled in threes. I never told you. I’m still here. Just quieter. Signed, your ghost. Mara stared at the letter for a long while, her fingers trembling slightly. She assumed it was a joke—some elaborate prank. But no one knew about the breath-counting. No one could’ve. She folded the letter and shoved it into a drawer. By Thursday, she had nearly convinced herself it was a one-time thing. A trick of memory. Maybe she had written it herself, during one of her sleepless nights, and forgotten. But then came the second. > Dear Mara, You made pancakes this morning. You forgot the vanilla, but they were still good. I remember how you used to hum while flipping them—“Moon River.” You don’t hum anymore. I wish I could eat with you. Sit across from you like before. But the table only sets for one now. Still, thank you for making them. The smell reminded me of Sunday. Signed, your ghost. It had been two years since Leo died. Two years since the accident. The sharp turn. The tree. The endless silence that followed. She had buried him with his favorite blue scarf and the book he never finished. Mara had tried to move on. She even dated someone briefly, a man named Owen who worked at the bookstore downtown. But she always ended things early—before she got too close. Before she had to explain the shadow that still sat at her table or the phantom weight beside her in bed. Now, the letters came once a week. They never asked her for anything. They were simply observations. Memories. Moments only Leo could’ve known. The smell of their favorite candle. The way she cried at commercials. The time she broke her toe dancing in the kitchen. Each one ended the same way: > Signed, your ghost. At first, they terrified her. Then they made her ache. But over time, the fear dulled, replaced by something else—comfort, perhaps. Connection. She started writing back. Nothing elaborate—just notes scribbled on napkins or the backs of receipts, left on the windowsill or taped to the mirror. She never knew if they were read, but somehow, she felt less alone. On the anniversary of his death, she made his favorite dinner—spaghetti with too much garlic and a bottle of wine neither of them could ever finish. She lit a candle. She poured two glasses. The next morning, she found a final letter. > Dear Mara, Thank you. For everything. For the dinners and the dancing, the laughter and the late-night walks. For remembering me. For not forgetting yourself. You’re stronger than you think. You always were. I’ve been holding on, afraid you needed me to. But I think you’re ready now. Not to forget—but to live. You’ll always carry me, but you don’t have to wait for me anymore. You are not alone. You never were. Goodbye, my love. Signed, your ghost. Mara wept, but it wasn’t the same kind of sorrow. It was softer now, almost sweet. She tucked the letter into a box with the others. Then she opened the windows, letting in the morning air. The sun spilled across the floor like forgiveness. And for the first time in years, she felt light enough to move forward.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Fiction
The Gym Rat Trap
When I met Chad, I thought I’d finally cracked the dating algorithm. He was funny, ambitious, and had biceps that could probably cradle a small cow. A real gym rat — not just one of those guys who “occasionally hikes” and thinks whey protein is a type of shampoo. He had the full package: personal trainer certification, veins that mapped his forearms like Google Earth, and a way of saying “macronutrients” like it was a poem.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Voice Message
The first one came on a cold October morning. Maya had just turned 28. She was standing in her kitchen with a mug of bitter coffee, watching the steam rise like it was trying to escape. The phone buzzed. No caller ID. Just a voicemail.
By Muhammad Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
Borrowed Dreams
In the city of Lysoria, dreams were currency. Not just metaphors for ambition—but real, vivid dreams you could rent, download, and live in like a midnight theater. Wealthy clients paid thousands to relive the perfect kiss, the thrill of flying, or the comfort of a lost loved one’s voice. Those who couldn’t afford the high price of hope? They rented secondhand dreams—cheap, blurry, and half-wilted.
By Muhammad Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
Exit Sign
He woke up in a hospital bed again. The beeping monitors, the antiseptic smell, the sterile white walls—it was all different from yesterday’s dusty motel room, but one thing was exactly the same: the glowing green exit sign, mounted just above the door.
By Muhammad Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
My Neighbor Is Haunting
The house next door had always been empty—or at least, that’s what everyone said. It was the kind of old place that looked like it was holding its breath: porch sagging, curtains drawn tight, windows like tired eyes. Every kid on the block had a story about it. Some said a woman once walked off its roof thinking it was a stairway to heaven. Others claimed the furniture moved itself when the moon was full. But I wasn’t afraid.
By Muhammad Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
