thriller

Them.. Top Story - December 2025.
The storm raged wildly outside. With the fast pace of the train, the raindrops almost looked like razor blades slicing through the wind and the trees. It was difficult to see much beyond what was right outside the window. It was hot in the train cab, muggy. I could feel the beads of sweat starting to form around my scalp. I leaned my forehead against the window and let the freezing glass calm down the uncomfortable feeling.
By Leah Suzanne Dewey11 months ago in Fiction
The Lighthouse . Content Warning.
I inherited the lighthouse the day my father vanished. No note, no explanation—just an empty house perched on jagged cliffs where the sea screamed endlessly into the night. People in town said the place was cursed, said the last keeper went mad. I didn’t care. I wanted solitude, a place to escape the chaos of my life. I got more than I bargained for. The first night, the light turned on by itself. I hadn’t even climbed the stairs. Its beam swept over the waves, cutting through the fog with unnatural precision, as though it knew where to look. I told myself it was a trick of memory, exhaustion—but the smell followed: salt, yes, but metallic, like blood soaking into the wood. Then I began to see it. At first, just a flicker in the shadows of the cliffs, something crouched too tall, too thin, watching. It moved in the spaces my eyes shouldn’t reach. I would wake screaming, drenched in sweat, and yet somehow it felt familiar, as if it had always been there, waiting. Sleep became a stranger. I dreamt of the lighthouse’s spiral stairs stretching endlessly into the void, the walls melting into black water that whispered my name. My father’s voice came through the fog, soft and pleading. I would reach for him, only to fall into nothingness, the abyss opening its mouth wide enough to swallow the world. By the third week, I stopped seeing the shape only at night. I caught glimpses of it in mirrors, in the dark corners of the lighthouse, even in the glass of my coffee cup in the morning. It was always just at the edge of perception: tall, impossible, its form twisting, as though geometry itself feared it. One stormy night, the wind carrying the smell of rust and decay, I climbed the lighthouse. The light beam sliced through the fog, revealing the ocean below. But the sea was wrong. Darker than night, it churned like liquid shadow, moving in impossible angles. And rising from it was a city—not made of stone, not made of wood—but of shapes that made my skull ache just to see. Spires that bent sideways, buildings stacked like impossible puzzles, streets that looped into themselves. And atop it all, a figure: tall, thin, impossibly patient. Waiting. I understood then. It had always been here. Watching. Waiting. Every lighthouse, every beacon, every human soul—it had been waiting for me. For us. The floor of the lighthouse groaned. I looked down. The stairs behind me had vanished. There was no escape. The walls bent around me, swallowing the light. I felt my mind splintering, fracturing into shards that each screamed a different truth. And in the center of the storm, I understood the enormity of it: a consciousness older than the stars, patient enough to wait for all of humanity to notice it, yet indifferent to our screams. I screamed. I clawed at the walls. I tried to flee. But the lighthouse was no longer mine. It never had been. It was a vessel, a doorway, a mouth opening into something vast and eternal. The figure from the sea reached for me, its limbs bending impossibly, dissolving into fog and shadows. I woke on the cliffs at dawn. The lighthouse stood silent, its light extinguished. The town was quiet, oblivious. But I could feel it in the corners of my vision, in the air around me, in the beat of my heart: it was still waiting, patient, eternal. I had seen it, and it had seen me. And I knew, without question, that it would return. The wind carries whispers now, even in the calm. My father’s voice is gone. But another waits in its place. Patient. Unending. I cannot look at the sea without seeing the city beneath, and I cannot look at the lighthouse without seeing the figure on the cliffs, stretching, waiting, hungry for the next soul foolish enough to climb its stairs. I will not go back. Not tonight, not ever. But I know it is watching, and in some dark, infinite corner, it is laughing. Because it knows: I will never stop looking.
By E. hasan11 months ago in Fiction
THE IRON SILHOUETTE
The Eastbridge River had seen many things—mostly the wrong things—but nothing like the night Luca Varrano’s body floated to shore.
By Alisher Jumayev11 months ago in Fiction
THE QUIET WOMAN ACROSS THE HALL
I first noticed her on a wet Tuesday morning, the kind of morning when the city felt permanently exhausted. She stood in the narrow hallway of our apartment building, staring at the wall as if deciphering invisible handwriting. A pale woman, tall and thin, with dark circles under her eyes that suggested she hadn’t slept in days.
By Alisher Jumayev11 months ago in Fiction
The Clockwork Murmur
The small city of Larkridge had always been known for two things: its clock tower and its secrets. Most people thought the tower was just a relic of old architecture—harmless, beautiful, and always on time.
By Alisher Jumayev11 months ago in Fiction
Day 6: The Occurrence Eve. Content Warning.
…And Wolfman Patrick’s journal, extra scratchy bold like a kid scribbling on his desk. I think last night’s haul was a little light. Ron read my journal and was becoming sick of my apathetic fight against his journalistic integrity. No details too small, and if there’s some kind of prize money for this find, he’ll split it with me down the middle. I won’t talk—yet. It’s not the stringing him along, but in the case of an F.B.I. raid before the sacrifices start, that I may, with escape time, be a waste of a charge. Protection is cheap when everyone is desperate. Something I discovered holy while shitting off the boat's side.
By Willem Indigo11 months ago in Fiction
Snowfall. Content Warning.
Ben has had enough. He sat at the edge of a stained mattress on the floor. The air in his apartment felt stale, like it hadn’t moved in days. Or maybe that was just him.
By Erick Vanderhale11 months ago in Fiction
Halloween
Myers reached out his hand and pulled Laurie into the compactor. He crawled out and they charged at him, but he was gone in a flash. The citizens of Haddonfield let out a collective gasp. There were whispers and gaping mouths. He was not human. He had vanished in front of Laurie back in 1978. This hinted at his supernatural nature, but no one wanted to admit that.
By DJ Robbins11 months ago in Fiction
Healthy
1st Edition: Originally Published on Vocal Media in 2021 2nd Edition: December, 9th 2025 - I am dreaming of data screens, metal shapes, floating numbers, bulging muscles, and the allure of fat-slimmed, rippling-bodied figures. A shock interrupts my heaven. My eyes open to a familiar ceiling, in familiar quarters, in a familiar, floating, apartment building. An alarm resounds throughout the bare, white walls- made blue by the hue of the nightlight. I am delighted to exchange Heaven for a treasure of equal weight.
By Scott A. Vancil11 months ago in Fiction
En Passant. Content Warning.
1st Edition: Originally Published on Vocal Media in 2021 2nd Edition: December 9th, 2025 - The refrigerator door hung open, expunging the cold air from the chillboxed realm of the keeper of the sustenance. Leftover rancidity wafted into flared, masculine nostrils—nostrils erupting with bushels of hair. It had been an Ocean Quahog’s age since the man had eaten anything. The light in the fridge had broken, and deluminated food had an unappetizing zeal. However, The Man knew if he had bothered to fix the problem, he would see that in the illuminated age, nothing was worth eating in the first place.
By Scott A. Vancil11 months ago in Fiction
I Opened a Door in My House That Should Not Exist
I’ve lived in my house for more than a decade. In all those years, I believed I knew this place better than anyone—every creaking floorboard, every shifting shadow, every cold draft that slipped through the old wooden frames. But yesterday, I discovered something that should not exist in any home. It started like a normal Sunday. I was cleaning the attic—a cramped, dusty room I rarely entered. The air smelled of old books, mothballs, and forgotten years. My flashlight flickered as I swept it across the cluttered space. That’s when I saw it. A door. Not the crooked little cupboard door I already knew about. This one was different. New. Sleek. Pitch‑black. It swallowed the dim attic light like a void. There was no knob, no keyhole—nothing that suggested it belonged to the house. Yet it fit seamlessly into the wall, as if it had always been waiting for me to notice it. Curiosity tugged at me. I touched the door. It was cold—so cold it felt unnatural. A shiver ran through me, urging me to walk away. But then a whisper, faint but insistent, echoed inside my mind: Open it. I found a hidden latch along the edge and pulled. The door swung inward without resistance. Beyond it was complete darkness—thick, endless, almost alive. My flashlight beam disappeared into it as though the dark was swallowing the light itself. I should have stopped. But my feet moved on their own. The moment I stepped through, everything changed. The attic vanished. I found myself standing on a cobblestone street wrapped in dense fog. Golden lampposts flickered in the distance. The air smelled of damp earth and burning wood—like a forgotten century. People walked past me wearing long coats, bonnets, and top hats. Victorian clothing. But none of them saw me. I wasn’t part of their world. I felt like a phantom drifting through someone else’s memory. As I walked deeper, the fog thickened. Buildings tilted inward as if watching me with their dark windows. The ground rippled beneath my feet like shifting water. I tried to speak, but my voice was gone—replaced by a humming sound that felt ancient, intelligent, and aware of me. Then I noticed the clock tower. Its cracked face spun backward, time twisting in reverse. And at its base stood a woman. Tall, draped in black silk, her face hidden by a veil. She lifted a gloved hand and beckoned. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said. Her voice echoed everywhere at once. “This place chooses its visitors. Not every door is meant to open.” My heart thudded. “Where am I?” “This is the Between,” she whispered. “A liminal space stitched between moments. A place where time folds and forgotten memories drift. Your world touches ours only briefly. Leave now—before it notices you.” I realized then: the fog wasn’t fog. It was the residue of old memories—lost, fractured, waiting for someone to step inside. I felt eyes on me, countless unseen eyes, studying me like I was an intruder in a sacred place. Panic surged. “How do I leave?” “Through the door you came,” she said. “But hurry. The door closes once. Hesitate, and it disappears. Hesitate, and you become part of this place.” I ran. The cobblestones liquefied under my feet. The fog grew so thick I could barely see my hands. But then— I was back. Back in my attic. Back in the dust and dim light. The black door was gone. Completely vanished. Except for a faint outline pressed into the plaster, like the ghost of a doorway that refused to be forgotten. I told myself it was stress, lack of sleep, imagination. But every night since then, I hear something. A soft, patient scratching. Like a knock. From the other side. One thing is certain: My house is hiding a secret. And if that door appears again… I don’t know if I’d have the strength to open it—or the wisdom to walk away.
By Muhammad Reyaz11 months ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Vanished Twice
On the night Emily Soren disappeared, rain hammered the streets of Graybridge like a warning no one wanted to hear. Detective Mara Hale arrived at the crime scene soaked to the bone, her flashlight slicing through the mist as officers moved in tight, nervous motions.
By Alisher Jumayev11 months ago in Fiction