thriller

Red rivers
My throbbing headache wakes me from my sleep. It’s 3 PM. I’m lying on my right side. Slowly, I turn onto my back and rub my eyes. Ouch. I sit up straight and slowly get out of bed. My head is pounding, causing me to lose my balance for a moment. I manage to collect myself and walk to the bathroom. I look in the mirror. I’m silent. So silent, just looking at myself. I get angry. My eyes are swollen and red. I hit the sink with my hands, step back, and put my hands in my hair, pulling at it. I let go. Enough is enough. I step into the shower. I think I was in the shower for an hour. Thinking. I’m so unbelievably angry that I don’t think I can even put it into words. Anger is an emotion I don’t usually feel easily, but my bucket is full. It’s been two months already. But it still hurts so much. The more I think about it, the more things I realize. This makes me angry again. But I’m also angry at myself. If you look at it, I did this to myself. Wait, what… No. No, that’s nonsense. I wasn’t the problem. I’m the victim. I run to my bedroom and put on the first clothes I see, grab my bag and keys, and head out. I arrive at the house. The door creaks open. Exactly as I remember. The blue door that was slammed shut so many times. I walk inside. The smell hits me. It makes me nauseous. I look at the kitchen and see the empty vase on the table. I visualize flowers in it. I shake my head. I try not to think about the memories and shake the smell off me. I have to keep going. I look at the living room, and nothing has changed in the past few months. Everything is exactly the same. I’m not surprised.
By Eemsabout a year ago in Fiction
Waking Up
If you have not read part 1 and 2, please do so via the following link: By Rowan Finley: -------------------------------------
By Komalabout a year ago in Fiction
Mary had a little lamb
The chapel was gone. In its place, a field of ash stretched into the gray horizon—windless, breathless, still. Mary stood at the center, her palms glowing faintly, threads of golden light weaving from her fingers into the sky. Ash knelt beside her, quiet, reverent. Sebastian… lay collapsed. His body was no longer shifting. He was no longer transforming. The wool had peeled away entirely now. His hooves were hands. His face—delicate, human, eerily angelic—stared up at her with wide, black eyes filled not with hatred… but fear. Not for her. For himself. Mary stepped toward him, her voice hoarse. “Who were you… before?” Sebastian shook his head. Ash, watching silently, finally spoke: “He wasn’t always this. You deserve to know what they did.” And then the world began to remember. The Real Origin of Sebastian It began in the village of Vehl, nestled in a valley choked with superstition. Sebastian had been a boy no older than six when the rains stopped falling. The crops died. The livestock were born deformed. The sky turned a sickly yellow. The elders, drunk on fear and desperation, demanded a reason. A scapegoat. And they found one in him. A child too kind. Too quiet. With hair like bleached snow and eyes that unsettled the priests. A child who had been there—present—when the mayor’s daughter went missing. What no one cared to remember was that Sebastian had tried to save her. He’d followed the scream into the woods. He’d found her doll in a bush. He’d run to the village, gasping, sobbing, begging someone to help. But by the time they arrived, the girl was gone. And the doll—soaked in blood—was still clutched in his hands. The real killer stood behind the crowd that night, expression calm, face smeared with holy ash. Elias, the herbalist’s son. Seventeen. Jealous. Clever. He had found the Tome of the Devourer by accident—buried beneath his grandfather’s floorboards. He never meant to use it. Until he saw the boy with the snow-hair smiling too brightly, too innocently. He planted the evidence. He told the priests. He showed them the cursed book. He whispered, “The child is a vessel. The demon has entered through his birth.” The ritual began on the night of a blood moon. Sebastian’s mother did not stop them. His father looked away. He was dragged from his home barefoot, crying, trying to hold his brother’s hand. But no one reached back. They stripped him naked in the village square. They painted his chest with runes that burned on contact. They broke his toys and scattered them around the circle, muttering that no soul could remain attached to “worldly tethers.” And then they cut off his tongue. To prevent the demon from “whispering.” He didn’t scream. He couldn’t. But his eyes—those impossible, dark eyes—watched them all. When they chanted the incantation, the air twisted. Time buckled. Something answered. But not the way they hoped. Instead of banishing darkness—they poured it into him. Sebastian had never been a demon. But the ritual made him one. It cored out his heart. It poured in sorrow, confusion, rage. It stitched the wool into his skin. It closed his voice forever. It made him immortal. And very, very alone. The ritual ended. The child slumped forward. And the villagers cheered, blind to what they had truly done. For centuries, Sebastian wandered. At first, silent. Confused. A lamb with hollow eyes and blood on his hooves. He did not remember being a boy. But he felt the betrayal. The pain became his compass. The hunger, his company. Until he met Mary. She had picked him up from the field, just as the villagers once dragged him away. She held him. Fed him. Named him. She did not know what he was. And for the first time in centuries, Sebastian felt warmth. But warmth, twisted through torment, becomes obsession. Back in the Present
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Town That Forgot How to Sleep
No one knew when it started. One night, the people of Elmbrook simply didn’t fall asleep. It wasn’t insomnia—no tossing or turning, no restlessness. It was as if the act of sleeping had been erased from their bodies, like a song they once knew but could no longer hum.
By Muhammad Rehanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Quiet Ant
The Ant Who Carried Too Much There once lived a small ant in a thriving ant colony beneath the roots of an old tree, neither the fastest, the strongest, nor, by far, the cleverest of her kind. She did not construct the tallest towers or plow the deepest tunnels. She did not race or solve puzzles. Still, she had something lost that never, ever went away.
By Rohitha Lankaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Harvest of Silence
In the secluded town of Whispering Pines, where fog lingered low and the trees whispered secrets to those who dared listen, there existed a ritual older than any written history. It was called The Harvest of Silence.
By Fawad Ali about a year ago in Fiction
Wings of Kindness
On one fall day, a strong wind went through the woods, covering the sky with clouds, as trees were bending and flying in the gusts. The storm raged on, a crow soaring overhead, lost before it was caught on the branch of a gnarled old oak tree, shrieking as its body tumbled to the ground with one wing dragging uselessly behind.
By Rohitha Lankaabout a year ago in Fiction
Through the Streets. Content Warning.
Day 1 Debra anxiously waited in a hard wooden waiting room chair. Her parents, Stacey and Marvin Taylor, sat on either side of her. Debra's demeanor was almost as dark as the sky outside. Her partial knee replacement was scheduled for 8:30 a.m. and she was nervous. It was her first major surgery, despite it being minimally invasive, and she was apprehensive going forward. A new nurse came over and informed them that a room was ready. The family followed and ended up in a semi private room. Debra was asked to remove her clothes and put on a paper robe. Before leaving, the nurse told them the doctor would be in shortly to go over the procedure. Still nervous, Debra started pacing. “You need to stop doing that.” Stacey hissed. “The doctor told you to stay off of it.” “Fine.” Debra sighed and sat down on the medical bed. “This will be quick.” Her father reassured her. “They do these knee replacements all the time.” “Can we not talk about it? It’s bad enough that I have to go through it.” Debra rolled her eyes. The silence became boiling in seconds, and Debra started fidgeting in the bed. Then she asked, “What if they mess up” “You will be fine.” Both of her parents said in unison. Trying their best to quell her fears. At that very moment, something shook the hospital. Marvin was the only one to really react as he looked around the windowless room. Minutes after the shaking stopped, Marvin's phone rang, and he stepped out to pick up the phone. “You okay, Frank?” “I am, for now, Marv. I’m over by the Empire State Building. Got a woman in the back who lost her arm, and I’m stuck here.” “Lost her arm?” “Falling glass.” “Goddamnit.” “How’s Debra doing?” “Scared, but putting on a brave face. We’ll be okay here. Do you know what’s happening?” “Radio says a comet exploded over the city. Looks like the windows shattered on all the buildings. Lotsa dead and injured over here.” “Jesus. Just take care of yourself, Frank.” “Will do, Marv. It’s gonna be one hell of a day.” Marvin hung up the phone and followed the nurse back into the room. Once the nurse had on gloves, she prepped Debra for an IV. Despite the nurse digging in her arm for a vein, Debra stayed silent. Even though she was petrified and wanted to scream “what if something goes wrong?” She remained quiet. She even kept quiet when the doctor came in and introduced himself. After explaining the plan for the surgery, the doctor left to get ready, “Breathe.” Stacey said as the room grew quiet and Debra’s anxiety was physically palpable. “Where did you go?” Debra asked her father. “Where did you run off, too?” “A comet exploded above the city.” Marvin stared blankly back and forth between his wife and daughter. “Was it an airburst?” Debra asked. “If that’s what that’s called, then yeah.” Marvin replied, still looking shocked. “Frank said there are a lot of injured people downtown. He is stuck with a woman who got her arm cut off from broken glass falling.” “Marvin, what does that have to do with her surgery?” Stacey asked as she got up and walked to his side, both now looking at their daughter. “Nothing. I was just saying what he told me.” Marvin shrugged. Before anyone could say another word, the door opened, and several nurses walked into the room. Debra was whisked away to an operating room, and her parents waited for her to return. A little after an hour, the surgery was complete, and Debra was wheeled back into the room. She was still dazed and confused, but her parents were by her side when she woke up. “The surgery went fabulously and with no complications” the surgeon emphatically said to Stacy and Marvin. “Now the best thing for her is to go home, rest, and recover in the comfort of her own home. If there are any problems, call my office.” Debra’s head continued to clear, and she was more responsive and was able to listen as the nurse went over all the discharge instructions. “Take your pain medication as needed for the pain and stay off it as much as possible” the nurse said as she had Debra sign the discharge papers. Day 2 The following morning, Debra got up early, from pain in her knee, and took more pain medicine. She went back to sleep shortly after. She was unaware of the dust particles that wafted on the air after the airburst the previous day. Most of the world was unaware of the dust that spread on the trade winds, inundating the whole planet with a new chemical. As it spread, people turned into docile former versions of themselves. While the majority of people became meek, a few out of the multitude became extremely violent. Noises rose into the early morning air. People were screaming to the heavens as others committed atrocities on the streets and in the buildings. The basement apartment that housed the Taylors was already quiet but didn't stay that way. The one unfortunate enough to get the adverse effects was Debra Taylor. She had been sleeping away her pain, but the unknown material invaded her lungs, and she woke with a start. Her eyes darted around her poorly lit room, blood pumping adrenaline down every vein, and she sat up abruptly. Her eyes were trying hard to focus and bulged this way, and that as she scanned the room for the third time. The light switch flipped when she got close enough to it, and her eyes made another sweep of the room. With the light on, she found what she wanted to find, a baseball bat that was her dad's. She then turned around and promptly left the room. Debra ran down the hallway and stopped outside her parents' bedroom, bat hanging loosely in her right hand. The door opened quietly, she left it open a crack, and approached her father. The older man was still sleeping, being a nighttime cab driver who just got to sleep and was rudely awoken. She knew how to swing a bat and aimed at the head on the pillow. THWACK! The bat bounced back, but Debra threw it in reverse at the slowly moving head that was barely exposed. THWACK! “What is going on?” Stacey Taylor asked groggily as she started to move under the covers. In complete silence, Debra swung again. THWACK! And again. THWACK! “Oh my god, Debra, what are you doing?” Stacey fell silent when she turned on the light and noticed their once white covers stained with blood and her daughter standing over her father with a bloody bat in her grasp. THWACK! “Stop it, Debra. Why are you doing that?” Stacey could barely get the words out as she started to cry. “Stop calling me that! What did you do with my parents?” Debra screamed as tears fell down her face, and she limped around the bed. Her mother, still under the blood covered comforter, raised her arms to prepare for the incoming swing. The bat reached the apex of the swing, and Debra brought it down hard on her mothers arms. THWACK! “Why are you doing this, Debra? I am your mother!” Stacey did her best to keep addressing her daughter, but the first swing fractured the right forearm, while the second swing broke it in two. Her screams echoed in the small room, only driving Debra’s anger. “You are not my mother!” Debra kept screaming with every new swing. She lost count of how many times she swung at the grotesque humanoid laying in her mothers place. Tears welled up in her eyes before falling in streams down her face. “You're not my mother!” The creature stopped moving, but Debra kept hammering down on it. She left the beast in a puddle of its own blood, an odd green color, and limped into the bathroom. The line of lights flashed on as she hit the switch, and her image jumped into view. She had been sprayed with blood almost every time she slammed her weapon down, and there were lines running vertically over her clothes and face. The lights pressed down on her, illuminating the now bright emerald green blood, and she closed her bloodshot eyes for a second. With a start, she opened her eyes and panicked at what was happening. She looked around the master bath and rushed to the sink. She stared into her red eyes and gripped the bat harder. “Where are they?” Debra whispered to herself. Her liquid covered face dripped into the fiberglass bowl and looked as if she were melting. The bat fell out of her hand, and Debra’s eyes continued to expel salty liquid, which created streams of slow-moving channels down her sharp features. She quickly turned both knobs on the cheaply made but meticulously kept, master bathroom sink. Her hands cupped under the freely falling fluid, and she splashed her face with the collected water. It took several more splashes, and Debra used her fingers to scrape the disgusting mess off her face. She then realized she was completely covered and turned and ran for the shower. She discarded her clothes over the few feet required to reach the shower. She scrubbed away every bit of green she saw, then stood under the pouring warm water and let it cascade down her hair and back. The shampoo brought her back to a previous morning of pancakes and laughter, but the memory turned sour. The beautiful day outside grew a familiar green, and malformed human-like creatures started appearing outside. Debra shook herself to the present and looked down at her vulnerable and exposed body. She all but jumped from the shower and rushed out of the room. With closed eyes she maneuvered through the room that was once her parents’. Into the hallway her eyes popped open and she ran full speed down the narrow corridor leading to her bedroom. Passing the hallway closet, she stopped and slammed the door open. A multitude of sports equipment just sat there ready to be used. Debra grabbed the leg pads from her volleyball days, expensive running shoes from her phase, and then her field hockey equipment ending with another baseball bat. Her tee-shirt and shorts were covered by the sportswear. Then she grabbed her pain pills and shoved them into her pocket. The weapon felt light in her hands and she was satisfied with her choice. A quick glance out the only window in the room which peered out onto the sidewalk, showed a gruesome sight. People were just slowly walking, most looking aimless, while one or two individuals were attacking random innocent strangers. The few held things they found at the construction site a few blocks east; hammers, screwdrivers, and various building materials. Instead of fighting back the aimless just screamed in pain and begged for mercy. Debra knew what she was about to do was dangerous, but her parents would want her to fight. Maybe she could find them out there. With a turn to her left she limped her way out of the room and through the living room, almost slamming into the front door. With a quick look through the peephole she saw no one. She knew there were only two other people living down here, but she wanted to be careful. The door creaked and squeaked as she opened it and nothing stirred but the dust in the stale light. She turned to her right and limped quietly to the steps that led to the first floor. The short hallway to the lobby was clear, so Debra opened the door and headed out. A few steps into the lobby and something hit her in the back of her head. Her eyes shut and she fell onto the concrete floor head first. Thinking she was dead, from the bit of blood that oozed out from under her head, the madman ran off. Part 3 After coming to, Debra peered around hoping to go unnoticed by whomever was nearby, but the lobby was completely deserted. She jumped to her feet, forgetting her knee surgery the previous morning, and almost fell.. She swore and downed a couple of the pills from her pocket. Debra felt her head and tried her best to scrape off the dried blood. When she reached the door out into the world she paused. Gripping her bat harder she stepped out and immediately heard the roar of screams coming from every direction. She did her best to find the closest scuffle to help, but when she got to the otherside of the street it was empty. She picked up her bat and rushed to the corner. She looked to her left and saw a white man screaming at a pole. He continued to scream at the pole and Debra decided to try the other way. She looked both ways before rushing to the other side. Now she had a choice. Help the woman being beaten to death by a large biker, or jump into the fray with the three guys fighting each other. She chose the woman and raised her bat above her head and ran straight at the large individual that towered over the dark skinned woman. Debra’s quick footfalls caught the attention of the near giant, but she didn't care. She took the last few steps and jumped. Soaring through the air with her bat raised she swung towards the large man. THWACK! The attack barely fazed the man and he grabbed for Debra. She jumped back and brought the bat down on the man's head. THWACK! A little more of a pain response this time told Debra to not stop. The man however wasn't going to just let her keep swinging. Fed up with the amount of hits to his already foggy head he bum rushed her and caught her mid swing, wrapping her in his massive arms. She screamed obscenities as the man gave her a bear hug. Unsure of what to do Debra opened her mouth wide and slammed her mouth onto the man’s neck. Her teeth immediately sunk into the man’s flesh and Debra ripped her mouth away, now full of blood dripping flesh. The giant of a man screamed with rage and threw her against a building. She was quick to her feet and charged again. The man tried to rush her again, but she was ready. Instead of swinging wildly she made a plan. Dodge under the arms, use the bat as a pool stick and jam it into his crotch, after that she sidestepped the man and slammed the bat hard on his spine. He screamed again but when he tried to turn around he got a faceful of bat. He stumbled a bit and Debra smelled blood in the air. She then doubled her efforts at swinging at his head. A few more good shots at the light brown haired head and the behemoth fell. For good measure she gave the prone man a few more hard swings. The head broke open on the last swing and Debra just stared at the blood and brain matter flooding out onto the sidewalk. She kicked the busted head from impulse and then turned to the dark skinned woman still on the ground. Her eyes fell upon a disgusting sight. The woman wasn't a woman at all. It was some kind of extraterrestrial with a smashed face. The skin was dark but when she saw the bashed in face she could make out razor sharp teeth. She jumped back and swung down on the creature that started to move. She kept swinging until her arms started to hurt. Taking a needed breath she also popped another pill. She could still hear the cacophony of terror around her. Looking around she noticed someone creeping up behind another person and rushed to the rescue. As she stepped onto the asphalt and took her second step towards the coming scuffle she paused just in time. A blood covered yellow cab came out of nowhere, nearly hitting Debra and the two cars she was in between. The cab flew by, but she thought she got a good enough look to identify the man behind the wheel. “Was that Frank?” Debra asked herself before continuing her way across the street. When she reached the other sidewalk she looked for the two people, but both were gone. Thinking they entered the alley a few meters down she took off with a huff. A few steps in and she couldn't help but start limping. She neared the alleyway and heard a commotion. Something was happening and Debra was going to stop it. As she turned the corner she was shocked to see a bright blue humanoid thing with tentacles for feet. The alien was looking the opposite direction when Debra entered the alley. She slowly approached the creature and brought up the bat to swing. As she swung one of the tentacles snapped out and blocked the weapon. She brought the bat back again, but the same thing happened when she tried swinging. Her next swing was blocked too, but this time it was bounced away by one of the aliens arms as it turned around. Its front view was horrifying and caused Debra to pause. The monstrosity towered over Debra by several feet. Its head was bulbous with veiny strains in a light blue color that traveled down to its midsection. The eyes were beady and a bright red. The lips were equally plump like the head and mimicked the color of the eyes. When the thing opened its mouth, reaching over a foot when extended, there were rows after rows of sharp teeth. The arms, covered in light blue veins, came at Debra. She easily dodged the poor excuse of an attack, but as she did one of the black tentacles wrapped around her leg. She brought down her weapon, but it just elicited a scream from the monster. The tentacle gripped harder and started pulling Debra towards the open mouth. Debra tried, in futility, to beat the tentacle off, but it just started to throb, crushing her already sensitive appendage. When the tentacle lifted her off the ground she started to violently thrash. It wasn't long before her coordination went out the window and she hit herself in the head and knocked herself out. Debra woke up an unknown time later with a headache and a throbbing leg. She looked around, but there were no signs of the monster. She got to her feet, popped a few pills, and exited the alley. She looked both ways before deciding on going to the right as it had less noise. Her head was pounding and she couldn't see straight, so she leaned against the building. Then she rested her back against it, putting her hands on her knees. That’s when she heard a message coming from something up ahead. As she neared the corner, Debra could see where the muffled message was coming from, a cop car sitting in the middle of the intersection. The doors to the vehicle were shut, causing the noise to be stifled. When she opened one she was met with an encouraging message. “...we are not infected. We have food, water and shelter. We can protect you. I'm broadcasting over the emergency frequency in hopes to reach all survivors and this message will be looped.... It's been three days since my neighbors and I came out of our calm. We're not quite sure what happened, just that the world really went to shit. Not going to lie to you, every time I go outside I really miss those peaceful feelings from whatever this was. My neighbors and I, we gathered what supplies we had and brought them here. A few of us make nightly supply runs. We can survive this, and with more help, we can survive longer. Don't be foolish, don't take your chances. They're still a lot of crazy people out there, the streets are lined with the dead. Don't be another body left to rot in the streets. My name is John. Find us. Look for the warehouse in North Brooklyn between Degraw and Douglas, just off of Fourth Street. There is a single light left on on the third floor, that's us. We are not infected. We have food, water and shelter. We can protect you. I'm broadcasting over the emergency frequency in hopes to reach all survivors and this message will be looped…”. “That's right around the corner.” Debra said to herself as she looked at the intersection she was in. Without another thought she started walking towards the next corner.
By Colt Hendersonabout a year ago in Fiction
Melody of Chaos. Content Warning.
"The melody of chaos, Etched onto the stars, Hidden behind the clouds, Of the ever-raging storm, Ever in sync with the crashing waves,
By Rey Thorneabout a year ago in Fiction
“Buried Truth in a Birthday Cake”
The town of Willow ridge loved birthdays. Every week, balloons flew, music played, and cakes were sliced in celebration. But none were as eagerly anticipated as the 18th birthday of Sarah Elwood. She was the mayor’s daughter—beautiful, brilliant, and beloved. Her mother, Margaret Elwood, had spent weeks preparing a grand surprise party at their countryside estate. Friends, neighbors, and relatives gathered under string lights and bunting as the golden sun dipped below the horizon. The cake was the centerpiece—a towering four-tiered confection of chocolate and vanilla, adorned with intricate sugar flowers. It had been specially made by the town’s oldest bakery, “Sweet Whispers,” known for their secret ingredients and custom designs. As guests cheered and Sarah blew out her candles, Margaret stepped forward with a large silver knife. “One slice for luck,” she smiled, cutting into the bottom tier. The moment the slice was removed, the room fell silent. From inside the cake, something metal clinked onto the plate. It was a small, rusted key—old, oddly shaped, and stained with what looked like dried blood. The guests murmured. Sarah laughed awkwardly, thinking it was part of the bakery's surprise. But Margaret’s face turned pale. Her hands trembled. “That’s not supposed to be there,” she whispered, barely audible. Sarah looked at her. “Mom… is everything okay?” Margaret couldn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the key like it had crawled out of her nightmares. That night, after the guests had left, Sarah went to her mother’s room. Margaret sat in the dark, staring at a faded photograph in her lap—an old picture of a little girl, a woman, and a young man standing in front of the Elwood estate. “Who are they?” Sarah asked gently. Margaret hesitated. “You know I grew up in this house, right?” Sarah nodded. “What you don’t know… is that you had an uncle.” Sarah’s heart skipped. “Had?” “His name was Daniel. He was my twin. We were inseparable until the night of our 18th birthday. We fought that day, over something stupid. He ran into the woods behind the house. He never came back.” Sarah sat beside her, silent. “They searched for weeks. Police. Dogs. Helicopters. Nothing. Then winter came. And hope faded. But I always felt… like he never really left.” Sarah looked down at the key. “It was his,” Margaret said, voice barely a whisper. “It opened his old toy chest. The one I buried years ago… to try and forget.” Sarah stood. “We should find it.” The next morning, mother and daughter walked into the dense woods behind the estate. After hours of searching near the mossy stone wall where Daniel used to play, they found the place. Margaret knelt, hands shaking, and began to dig with a garden spade. After some time, the spade hit something solid. A wooden chest, rotting around the edges, emerged from the soil. Inside were faded drawings, a slingshot, a compass… and a stack of letters wrapped in a red ribbon. Sarah untied them. As she read the first letter aloud, Margaret gasped. It wasn’t from Daniel. It was to him. “Dear Daniel, I’m sorry for what I did. I never meant to push you. I was angry. I didn’t think you’d fall.” Sarah froze. Margaret’s breath caught in her throat. The next letter detailed it all. A fight between siblings. A shove. A scream. A body falling into the old well behind the wall—now long covered with ivy and forgotten. Margaret dropped to her knees. “I thought… I thought he just ran. I lied to everyone. I was scared. I never meant…” Sarah didn’t know what to feel. Her mother had buried the truth—not just in the woods, but in her soul. Later that day, Sarah returned alone to the old well. She cleared the ivy, revealing the moss-covered stones. The wooden cover creaked as she opened it. Looking down, all she saw was darkness… until something glinted. She called the authorities. Two days later, human remains were recovered. DNA confirmed what the letters had already confessed. Daniel Elwood had never left. The town was stunned. Margaret turned herself in. Given her age, mental state, and the accident’s nature, she received house arrest. The bakery was investigated, but the mystery remained. No one at “Sweet Whispers” had inserted the key. The baker insisted he had no idea how it got there. The cake was baked and delivered like any other. Some believed it was Daniel’s spirit, finding the only way to be heard after all these years. Months passed. Sarah now lives in her family’s estate, running a small library in honor of her uncle. She still celebrates birthdays—but with small cakes, no candles, and no surprises.
By Tanveer Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Signal From Room 119
It started with static. Martin Reeves, 58, had been working as a night janitor at Pinewood Research Facility for over a decade. Nothing ever happened here after dark. No secret labs. No conspiracies. Just dust, floors, and coffee-stained keyboards.But on a cold Wednesday night in October, something in Room 119 started humming.
By Amran Hossainabout a year ago in Fiction
The Birth of a Drowned Maiden: Rusalka
The legend of the Rusalka begins with pain. Unlike the sirens of the Mediterranean or the playful naiads of Greece, rusalki were once human—young women whose lives ended violently, often by betrayal. Jilted brides, abused lovers, raped villagers, drowned suicides. Their deaths were not peaceful, and neither is what comes after. According to Eastern European lore, these women—especially those who die near water—do not pass on. They transform. Their souls become unquiet, tethered to the lake, river, or swamp where they perished. And over time… they become something else. Something hungry. More Than a Ghost A Rusalka is no ordinary spirit. She is hauntingly beautiful—pale skin, glowing eyes, and long, eternally wet hair that coils like living weeds. She may sing. She may laugh. She may stand in the mist at twilight and beckon you with a smile so perfect it seems carved by angels. But do not approach. For she hides her true form until it's too late: black, bloated limbs from endless submersion, a mouth filled with moss and silt, and hands strong enough to crush bone. Those who follow her song are never seen again. How She Hunts They say a Rusalka will appear to men who are lonely, lost, or full of desire. She knows what you want. She becomes it. A lost love. A fantasy. A woman weeping on the riverbank, waiting for help. She is whatever will pull you closer. And when you're close enough, she strikes. Some say she uses her hair like a noose, wrapping it around your throat and dragging you into the depths. Others say she pulls you close with tenderness—a kiss like ice, a whisper like death—before dragging you down. And the worst tales claim she doesn’t kill you instantly. She keeps you. Beneath the water. Forever. Real or Legend? So—does the Rusalka truly exist? Scholars classify her as a figure from Slavic pagan traditions, later demonized by Christian influence. In early Slavic beliefs, rusalki were water spirits that brought fertility in spring. They danced in fields, watered crops, and symbolized nature’s rebirth. But after centuries of religious and cultural shifts, they became cursed, restless revenants—female ghosts associated with revenge, seduction, and drowning. But legends only survive because people keep seeing her. Even today, rural villages near lakes and rivers across Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, and Poland whisper her name. Locals swear by sudden drownings—young men found lifeless in calm waters, with no wounds, no struggle. The only explanation? The Rusalka took them. Fishermen leave offerings. Swimmers avoid certain spots after dark. And the stories—the real, bone-deep ones—keep spreading online. Forums where people post blurry photos. Claims of laughter echoing from empty shores. Long, wet hair found on riverbanks where no one was seen. Are these just coincidences? Or has something followed us into the modern world? Cursed by Beauty, Bound by Rage The tragedy of the Rusalka is that she is born not just from death—but from injustice. She didn’t choose this fate. It was forced on her. Her legend is soaked in real historical horror: generations of women silenced, erased, violated. Her story is a howl that rose from their graves. And it still echoes, centuries later, as a warning. Some versions say she can be set free—if her death is avenged, or her body laid to rest properly. But most agree: the Rusalka doesn’t want peace. She wants you. Final Warning If you ever find yourself near still water on a moonlit night… don’t linger. Don’t follow the sound of singing. Don’t approach the silhouette on the rocks. And whatever you do—don’t speak to her. Because the moment she turns to face you, the moment those glowing, tearless eyes meet yours… Your lungs will fill with water. Your screams will echo beneath the surface. And no one—no one—will ever find your body.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction