thriller

Do Better
It was already a hot day. The garage Penny worked in always felt like an oven even in the winter. Penny tried to adjust herself in the cramped space she found herself in. She was trained never to panic in dangerous situations. This situation was the worst case scenario. Penny pushed different sequences of buttons and inputted various codes into the robot’s main computer.
By Desirae Anayaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Woman at the Window
A New Apartment When Claire moved into her new apartment on the edge of the city, she thought the floor-to-ceiling windows would be her favorite feature. At night, she would sip tea, gaze at the skyline, and let the lights lull her into calm.
By Hassan Janabout a year ago in Fiction
The Precipice Calls
My outstretched arms felt like failing vines as I held on for dear life. I tried to avoid looking down, but the pull of the descent was too much. I could hear it talking to me, telling me in grotesque detail of the various victims of death by misadventure it had caused.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
Forbidden Paradise
It was a beautiful sunny day as the seagulls flew up above a small boat carrying a group of students, when the coastline came into view. Waves could be seen crashing into the towering cliffs as the small boat bobbed up and down in the sea swell. It was a marvelous sight as the spray created brightly colored rainbows as the sun shone through it, and as the boat came closer to the cliffs, small openings could be seen each time they topped a swell. The five Oceanic Institute students looked at their instructor, and he told the captain to continue closer to the cliffs. Looking at the instructor with a concerned look in his eyes, he continued on, and at one point, the swell went so low they could see the ocean floor, while they could see everything around as it peaked and then vanished once again as it was playing peek-a-boo with its surroundings. Closer and closer they were getting to the cliffs when the instructor shouted at the captain to turn around, but he just shook his head and said he could not. The students lay down in the bottom as the captain tried to steer the boat the best he could as it bobbed even closer and closer, and when it seemed like they were going to crash on the rocks, the swell dropped, and the boat was swept into a small cavern that led into a larger cavern with sunlight coming from the far end.
By K.C. Keatsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Hunger. Content Warning.
Devonne Kincaid had never known thirst like this. Water slid down his throat by the gallon, yet his mouth stayed dry, his tongue raw. Coffee, wine, juice—nothing quenched it. At night he lay awake, jaw aching, grinding against a hunger that felt older than he was. The doctor said dehydration. Work stress. Maybe insomnia. But Devonne knew the truth in his bones. This wasn’t stress. This was something feeding on him from the inside. --- The first crack showed on the subway. The carriage swayed, packed shoulder to shoulder. Devonne leaned against a pole, eyes half-closed, when the smell hit him. Metallic. Sharp. A boy across the car had a wrist wrapped in gauze. The bandage was slipping. A red thread gleamed where it bled through. Devonne’s heart kicked hard. His throat closed. His mouth watered so suddenly he nearly gagged. He couldn’t stop staring. The boy shifted under his gaze. Devonne bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste his own blood, forcing himself back into his skin. When the train screeched to a stop, he bolted into the night air, lungs shuddering, hunger screaming. --- The dreams began after that. Dark alleys. Footsteps echoing. Shapes moving ahead of him. He reached for them with shaking hands, nails digging into phantom skin, the air thick with copper sweetness. He always woke with his pillow torn and his teeth aching as if he’d been gnawing stone. Food tasted like dust. Heartbeats became an unbearable noise. He stopped eating lunch with coworkers, stopped making eye contact, stopped riding the train. But silence only made the hunger louder. The hunger was not meant to be suppressed. --- One morning, Devonne woke with dirt packed beneath his nails. His tongue was coated in iron. His reflection in the mirror looked wrong—skin ghost-pale, pupils blown wide, teeth catching the light in ways they shouldn’t. On the news: "The body of a man was found drained of blood in an alley off Crescent Street. No wounds were visible on the victim." Devonne’s coffee mug slipped from his hand. It shattered across the tile. He looked down towards his shoes laid by the entrance door. Muddy, Thick, wet, black with rain. He couldn’t remember leaving his apartment nor coming back. --- Fear gripped him harder than hunger ever had. He kept his blinds shut. He stopped answering calls. He didn’t dare sleep. But hunger doesn’t care about fear. Hunger grows. --- It was the stairwell that broke him. He was dragging himself upstairs when his neighbor appeared—a woman, groceries in her arms, a polite smile on her face. Then she tripped. The bag split. Apples clattered, a wine bottle shattered, and her hand slid across broken glass. Blood welled instantly. Bright. Hot. Alive. A beautiful hue.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
'Return to Silent Hill' is Giving Me Mixed Feelings
We were finally given a teaser trailer for the third Silent Hill film, and I'm not sure whether I should feel excited or not over the sneak peek we got from the film. Return to Silent Hill is based on a videogame from the horror franchise, known as Silent Hill 2.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Broadcast. AI-Generated.
The Last Broadcast The night shift was the loneliest shift in the city. By the time the clock struck midnight, the streets outside were empty, save for the hum of streetlamps and the distant moan of the wind. Inside Station WPRX, only one light burned: the studio booth of Midnight Letters, a radio show hosted by a man who called himself Solomon Grey.
By Rashid khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library That Eats Memories. AI-Generated.
The Library That Eats Memories The storm had driven her off course. Amelia was not supposed to be here—half-drenched, her umbrella useless, trudging through an alley that felt older than the city itself. She was searching for shelter when she noticed it: a crooked wooden door wedged between two forgotten brick buildings. Above it, the faded sign read: The Library of Echoes.
By Rashid khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Balcony That Watched Back
Liam had always loved mornings. The kind of mornings where the first sunlight crept lazily over the horizon, painting the city in pale gold, and the distant hum of traffic was gentle enough to be comforting rather than annoying. From his apartment on the 16th floor, the skyline looked like a painting, a perfect vista that made him feel both small and infinitely expansive at the same time.
By AngelFaceabout a year ago in Fiction
something is wrong here
I sit by the window. I’ve opened it a crack, gentle breeze caressing the curtains. I’ve already assessed the view outside—it is not the problem. Not the thing that is making me itch in an untouchable discomfort. An intangible minute difference.
By Raine Nealabout a year ago in Fiction
The Ghost Collector. Content Warning.
Your first date isn’t going well. The food is great but you can't enjoy it because this guy is just too much. His eyes make you feel uncomfortable, he’s not yelling or raising his voice but he just seems too intense.
By Sam Spinelliabout a year ago in Fiction
The World Forgets Devonne. Content Warning.
Devonne woke to silence. Not the ordinary silence of dawn, but a silence so heavy it pressed against his ribs. He rose from bed and stepped into the hallway of his apartment—only to stop short. The corridor wasn’t his. Instead of the narrow passage with peeling wallpaper and a single dangling bulb, the hallway stretched endlessly in both directions. And the doors—there were far too many. Identical brown doors lined each side, every one stamped with his apartment number: 24. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, but the numbers didn’t change. “Yvonne?” he called, his voice too loud in the stillness. His sister had been staying with him for weeks, hiding from something she never named. But the silence only gave his voice back to him in a warped echo: Yvonne? Yvonne? Yvo—nne—nne. The sound crawled along his skin. He tried the nearest door. Inside was his bedroom—perfectly replicated. Even the socks he had dropped last night lay on the floor. But when he opened the next door, the socks had shifted. Another door, and they had moved again. A fraction to the left. A fraction to the right. As if his life were being replayed, frame by frame, slightly altered each time. The hallway bent back on itself, looping into impossible curves. Scuff marks from an old accident appeared again and again, repeating like a scratched record. His phone was useless. The screen glitched, the numbers of the clock sliding downwards like melting wax. Then the humming began. At first faint, like a refrigerator buried in the walls. Then louder. Deeper. It vibrated in his chest, in his bones. It wasn’t mechanical. It was alive. Devonne swallowed. “What do you want?” The humming deepened—content, almost amused. He pressed forward, clinging to the thought of Yvonne: her sharp laugh, the way she drummed her fingers when impatient. He would not—could not—leave her here. But the hallway wasn’t empty anymore. People appeared. A woman in a yellow raincoat passed without looking at him. A man carried grocery bags filled not with food but with screws, feathers, teeth. They muttered to themselves in doubled voices, every word repeated a heartbeat later. Then came familiar faces. His old schoolteacher. A neighbor from childhood. Even his father, who had been dead for years. Devonne’s chest tightened. “Excuse me—have you seen Yvonne?” The neighbor smiled politely, but her words cracked and stuttered: “Yv—onne? No one by that—by that—by that…” The syllables fractured and dissolved. They didn’t see him. Their eyes slid over him, as if he were nothing but a smudge on glass. By the time he reached a town square—its fountain spilling black ink instead of water—he understood why. In the ink’s reflection, his face was fading. Not invisible—blurred. His features were dissolving, outlines smudged into suggestion. He raised a hand to his cheek and felt skin, but in the reflection, there was only a blank patch of air. The world itself was losing him. “Yvonne…” His voice was almost a prayer. The ink rippled. And there she was. Across the square, Yvonne stood with her hair plastered to her face, her dress dripping black liquid that stained the stones beneath her feet. Her eyes locked on him with recognition—and horror. “Devonne?” Her voice fractured into echoes. “You shouldn’t have followed. You’ll unravel.” He stumbled toward her, desperate. But the square stretched as he moved, the distance between them elongating like rubber. “Stay with me!” he shouted. “I’ll bring you back!” Yvonne shook her head slowly. “I’m not me anymore. I’m… scattered. Every time I remember you, I lose another piece of myself.” Her image flickered, twisting—child, woman, stranger, all superimposed at once. The humming swelled into laughter, vast and delighted. Devonne clutched his head. “Why us? Why here?” The presence didn’t answer in words. The buildings buckled. The sky cracked like porcelain. Something immense and unseen erased another piece of him. His memories stuttered. His name slipped from his own mind like water through a sieve. Yvonne stretched out her hand, trembling. But her fingers never reached him. “Go back. Forget me. If you stay, it’ll take all of you.” “No,” Devonne gasped. “I won’t leave you here.” Her broken smile cut him to the bone. “You already are leaving me.” He looked down. His hands were gone. Not invisible, not fading
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction