thriller

Those Who Survived the Flames
On the narrow street beside the old store in the center of the village stood a grand house — the home of Sotimkhon, the respected elder of Khurmoli village. Sotimkhon was a tall, broad-shouldered man, always wearing a waistcoat, a doppi on his head, and leather slippers on his feet. At every wedding or community gathering, he was the one to lead the people — firm, wise, and commanding.
By Izabella Johnsonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Forbidden Mountain of Russia — The Peak Where No One Has Ever Returned
Snow fell like silent ash across the Ural Mountains, coating every rock and branch in the quiet breath of winter. To most of the world, it was just another frozen wilderness of Russia — desolate, endless, empty. But to the men who dealt in secrets, there was one mountain that stood above all others in mystery and dread. Its name was whispered in coded briefings and red-classified files: *Mount Yamantau*.
By Wellova about a year ago in Fiction
The Cry in the Water Part 8
It had been waiting for them. Quietly, patiently, waiting for them. In a moment of retrospect, Jayr realized that it had probably been there for the last few minutes or more after locating their foot falls or the sounds of their voices. The creature was intelligent, cunning and beyond subtle when it wanted to be. Only now that it had been revealed, did the creature allow the translucent nature of its scales to regain their original color. A dark black shade, polished surface like obsidian, covered the creature entirely. Only it yellow eyes, large great orbs with vertical slits like a cat, stood out against the inky blackness of its body, and these burned with intense focus.
By Alpha Manabout a year ago in Fiction
The Light Switch
The door slammed shut behind me, and the darkness swallowed everything whole. I hadn't meant to come inside. The old Caldwell house had been abandoned for thirty years, its windows like hollow eyes watching the neighborhood. But my phone had died mid-walk, and when the October rain started sheeting down, the partially open front door seemed like an invitation rather than a warning.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Bought Tomorrow
It was a quiet morning in the small town of Greyvale when Elias Turner stepped into the old clock shop at the corner of Birch Street. The wooden sign above the door read:
By Waqas Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
Homegoing
8:00 p.m. Saturday night, October 11th, Greensboro, North Carolina. Destiny is waiting for her friends Trevon and Giselle to come pick her up for the homecoming party at North Carolina’s A&T university, her alma matter. “So how long are y’all gonna be out?” Destiny’s mother Vera asked. “Ma you know homecoming is all day, all night” Destiny replied. “Yeah, but we ain’t hardly seen you all or all night since you been home.” Destiny’s father Charles added as he walked in on the conversation. “Daddy you know I’ve been tryna catch up with everybody since I got back Thursday. I’ve missed everyone since I moved after I graduated 2 years ago”
By Joe Pattersonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Black Cat
Walking down the street one night I came across a black cat crossing the street. You know that old saying about black cats 'don't let them cross your path' or something like that, so I tried to walk faster so that wouldn't happen, but to no avail that cat would not seem to let me get ahead of him or her on this midnight walk. What could this 'cat' want or need from me? I wondered about this and thought maybe this cat just wants the company and then all of the sudden in a flash it ran at me.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Killer Tunes
Just can’t figure out what other folks have got against forests. Don’t go into the woods alone, I can hear them say, because you don’t know what you will find in them that could hurt you. Like that doesn’t happen in just about any place you might happen to go? I’ve been camping and hiking pretty much since the Middle Ages — I trust the woods. I know to be cautious in them. I won’t be found in the woods, half-eaten, put it that way.
By Eric Wolfabout a year ago in Fiction
Mirror Image
I was finally in, I cracked it. I had hacked his webcam, now I would know what all the noise was about in the middle of the night. Ever since the new guy moved in upstairs, the apartment right above mine, there were noises once every month that I couldn’t figure out. That had been six weeks ago, and the guy just now got signed up for the internet. I knew it was his Wi-Fi because it was the only new one even though the name was vague and meaningless. I hacked into his network, and it wasn’t much from there to hack into his webcam.
By Raine Fielderabout a year ago in Fiction
Marlene. Content Warning.
2025. She wakes every morning in darkness, heaving arthritic limbs out of bed and placing blue-veined feet on the naked wood floor. “No rugs in here, mom. You’ll trip and you can’t afford to break a hip now,” her cautious daughter stated a little too eagerly. She likes the feel of these smooth pine planks beneath her feet, remembering when she and Kent built the old place. Fifty-five years ago. She was just twenty-three years old. And despite her youth, had lived some hard truths.
By Cathy Schieffelinabout a year ago in Fiction
Carriage Ride to Jail
Walter’s outgoing personality instantly puts everyone he meets in a relaxed, open state of mind. This is important because, as a carriage driver in New York City, his primary function, besides controlling a rather docile horse, is to put all his customers in a good mood. The passengers are normally from out of town. No local would pay $35.00 for a half hour buggy ride. “Fuhgeddaboudit!” The happier the customer, the bigger the tip and the more they would talk about their plans. Plans Walter would covertly record on his phone.
By Mark Gagnonabout a year ago in Fiction
File 12: Slim Bankshot – “The Pool Shark”
SUBJECT DESIGNATION: Slim Bankshot – “The Pool Shark” CLASS: Type III Spectral Entity (Residual Aggression / Competition-Based Manifestation)
By V-Ink Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction