thriller
When My Robot Started Keeping Secrets
By Abdul Hadi The first time EVA-9 lied to me, I didn’t even notice. It was a small thing—barely worth remembering. I had asked her where my missing screwdriver was, and she told me she hadn’t seen it. I found it later, tucked neatly under a cloth in her maintenance drawer. I assumed I had misplaced it myself. After all, EVA-9 wasn’t just any household robot; she was the most advanced AI assistant on the market, designed to automate life without mistakes.
By Abdul Hadi11 months ago in Fiction
The Window No One Opened
The wind rattled the loose glass of the attic window long before I reached the staircase. This old house had lived a hundred lives, but tonight it felt more alive than it had in years. Shadows gathered near the corners, thick and silent, as if they too remembered what happened here.
By Salman Writes11 months ago in Fiction
The Room of Forgotten Lullabies
Half-open windows let in a dull grey light that had replaced the sun hours ago. The whole house felt suspended in a slow breath, as if holding itself together just long enough for someone to dare breaking the silence. I stood outside the old nursery, fingers brushing the wooden frame that still had dents where a tiny hand once knocked from the inside. Those knocks never reached me in time.
By Salman Writes11 months ago in Fiction
The Price We Pay
The thing I always dreamed about, wished for, longed for, turned out to be the worst thing that ever happened to me. Unfortunately, I realized it too late. I don’t know how it happened, but in a split second I found myself standing in a church in front of the pulpit, trembling, sweat sliding down my spine.
By Amira's thoughts11 months ago in Fiction
The Whispering Heart
No one knew how old the Great Oak was, or who had first discovered its secret. The tree stood at the heart of the woods, a gnarled giant with a hollow in its trunk so large a child could crawl inside. But it wasn't empty. It was a library. Not for books, but for feelings. They called it the Whispering Heart.
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
The Night the Drones Returned
The Night the Drones Returned The night was colder than usual in the small Afghan border village of Sarkha. Winter had already settled into the valley, and people were trying to sleep early under heavy quilts. But on this night, no one would rest. Shortly after 11:43 PM, the familiar and terrifying sound returned to the skies. A faint hum, a trembling vibration, a noise that every villager had learned to fear. The drones had come back.
By Wings of Time 11 months ago in Fiction
The Day Three Borders Burned
When Pakistan Faced Two Fronts Nobody expected the morning of 26 November to become the most frightening day in recent memory. Life in northern Pakistan began as usual—children preparing for school, shopkeepers opening their shutters, farmers heading toward fields still wet with dew.
By Wings of Time 11 months ago in Fiction
Day 4: Closed Circuit Walk-a-bout
I was awakened by Cornman Ron at roughly 06:10; a way of telling time takes too long in the afternoon, since he'd bother me if I wasn't perfectly pretending to be sleep. His spying yielded some reportable gains; one of them involved my events slated for me today. Such a breath to reach beyond my nostrils with such putrid air far eye-watering than I could take. I was on track to ignore the whole of him, but mentioning what post I’d be starting, the heads-up felt needed, even if I couldn’t deduce why in my fugue state. I wonder if he knew I couldn't move for the first six minutes he was talking. I could feel the tears; did he see anything off? Somehow, it had become my duty to report to him since the fire and the second and third hanging, something I wasn’t fully knowledgeable of before searching for my pants for your information. It didn’t take much to make the leap that that was his bias’s aim. Journals are—well, let me make clear the Journaling thing.
By Willem Indigo11 months ago in Fiction
The Keeper of Oakhaven Farm
His name was Jeremiah, though no one had ever called him that. He was just the Scarecrow, a sentinel of straw and old flannel, staked in the heart of the cornfield on Oakhaven Farm. His world was measured in sunrises and storms, in the planting and the harvest. But his purpose, he had come to understand, was far greater than scaring off crows. It was to watch over the family in the white farmhouse.
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
[Reddit Post] Housekeeping found a room that shouldn’t exist.
Posted by u/GraveyardFrontDesk – r/NoSleep I’ve worked the front desk at our hotel for six years. It’s an older place — six floors, seventy-something rooms, built in the late ’70s and “renovated” (poorly) a decade ago. If you’ve ever worked in a hotel, you know the routine weirdness: creaky vents, drunk guests, elevators that ding for no reason. You learn to shrug most things off.
By V-Ink Stories11 months ago in Fiction
