thriller
Who's the real Monster?
Those words left me frozen in place. My mind raced with thoughts of denial; There's no way in Hell I heard that. If I have then I've finally lost it. Better get out now. The same voice spoke again to prevent me from leaving Follow me into the bathroom. Everything in me said run, yet I couldn't move.
By Lucy Torralbaabout a year ago in Fiction
Every Name Ends in Blood. AI-Generated.
The doctor was halfway through telling me about my gallbladder when he started talking to God. Not the generic God of hospital chapels and get-well cards—this one was precise. Orders, coordinates, a voice that knew which cells were dying and which ones should.
By Jesse Shelleyabout a year ago in Fiction
Wednesday Season 2
The smash-hit Netflix series *Wednesday* took the world by storm when it premiered in November 2022, blending dark humor, mystery, and supernatural elements into a fresh take on the Addams Family universe. With Jenna Ortega’s iconic portrayal of Wednesday Addams at the center, the show became one of Netflix’s most-watched series ever.
By Danyal Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
after dark. Content Warning.
I wish I was better at telling lies. I could tell my wife I love the haircut, tell the server the food was great or tell my boss the work will be done by Friday. The reason I wish I could lie better is because it would soon be time to use the skill I hadn't got. It was going to be a beating, maybe a murder, of someone who deserved it. Unfortunately saying that in a police interview probably wouldn't work.
By ASHLEY SMITHabout a year ago in Fiction
The Memory Vending Machine
I first saw the vending machine on a Tuesday night, half-hidden between a cracked pillar and a graffiti-covered bench on the lower platform of East 12th Street Station. It didn’t sell chips or soda. Instead, rows of tiny glass bottles lined the inside, each one glowing faintly, a handwritten label tied around its neck. Above the coin slot, in faded gold letters, were the words: “Memories — $3 each.” I almost laughed. New York was full of gimmicks, but this one was charming enough to make me stop.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Cat in Apartment B3
The Cat in Apartment B3 The first thing Nathan noticed when he moved into Willow Court was the cat. She sat on the rusted balcony of Apartment B3, tail flicking slowly, amber eyes glinting in the half-light like they were holding something back. She wasn’t the friendly, meowing type. She just… stared. Every time he came home, she was there—silent, still, watching.
By Muhammad aliabout a year ago in Fiction
The Price of Evil
The rain had been falling since midnight, a steady curtain of water that blurred the neon lights of the small city. Jonathan Hale stood at the window of his apartment, watching the world distort through the glass. He wasn’t waiting for anyone, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was approaching. Something inevitable. It had been five years since the night that ruined him. Five years since the betrayal, the blood, and the decision he could never take back. Jonathan had built a quiet life since then—routine job at the docks, evenings spent in solitude, and no friends close enough to ask questions. But evil has a way of finding the people who think they’ve outrun it. At 2:17 a.m., a knock came at the door. Three short raps. He froze, heart hammering. No one visited him at this hour. No one visited him at all. “Who is it?” he called, his voice steadier than he felt. A pause. Then, a woman’s voice—soft, almost trembling. “I think you knew my brother.” Jonathan’s mind started racing. He opened the door just enough to see her. She was drenched from the rain, dark hair plastered to her cheeks, eyes fixed on him with an expression he couldn’t read. “My name’s Claire,” she said. “My brother… his name was Daniel Reed.” The name hit him like a blow. Daniel. He could still see the man’s face in the flicker of that terrible night. Jonathan stepped aside and let her in, though every instinct told him not to. She sat on the edge of his couch, her hands clenched around a leather satchel. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “For years.” He forced himself to speak calmly. “Why?” Her gaze didn’t waver. “Because I know you were there the night he died. And I know it wasn’t an accident.” The room seemed to shrink around him. He had told himself no one would ever connect him to what happened. He had buried the truth deep enough that it should have rotted away by now. But there she was, proof that some evils don’t fade—they wait. “I didn’t kill him,” Jonathan said, the lie tasting like rust. Claire tilted her head. “Maybe not. But you didn’t stop it, either. And I want to know why.” Jonathan could have thrown her out, denied everything, even called the police. But he found himself sinking into the chair opposite her, as though this confrontation was something he had been rehearsing for years. “Your brother,” he began slowly, “wasn’t who you think he was.” Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t interrupt. “I worked with him,” Jonathan continued. “We were hired to move certain shipments. Not legal ones. I was desperate for money, and he… he was already deep in it. But then he crossed the wrong people. Stole something from them. Something worth killing for.” Jonathan’s voice broke slightly, though he tried to hide it. “That night, they came for him. I was there. I could have warned him. I could have helped him escape. But I didn’t. I told myself it wasn’t my fight. That I’d just get myself killed too. So I watched. And when it was over, I ran.” Silence hung heavy in the room. Claire didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She simply opened her satchel and pulled out a small black revolver. Jonathan tensed. “What are you doing?” “My brother wrote me a letter,” she said, her voice flat. “Said if anything happened to him, I should find you. He said you’d either help me get justice… or you’d pay for what you did.” Jonathan looked at the gun, then at her face. She was shaking, but her eyes were steady. He knew she hadn’t come here just to talk. “You think killing me will make it right?” he asked. “No,” she said quietly. “But it’s the only way I can sleep at night.” The rain outside grew louder, as though urging her to decide. Jonathan could feel the weight of his own guilt pressing down on him. In some twisted way, he thought maybe he deserved this. But then Claire’s hand faltered, just enough for him to see the hesitation. “You’re not a killer,” he said softly. “If you do this, it’ll own you. Just like it owned me.” Something flickered in her expression. She lowered the gun slightly, though her knuckles were still white around it. “Then help me,” she said. “Help me finish what he started. Take them down.” Jonathan stared at her for a long moment. It was madness. The people she was talking about were dangerous beyond imagination. But he saw in her eyes the same fire that once burned in him—before fear and selfishness had smothered it. “Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll help you. But once we start, there’s no turning back.” She nodded. “I don’t want to turn back.” They shook hands. The deal was made—not in ink, but in the unspoken understanding that both of them might not live to see it through. As the rain eased outside, Jonathan felt something strange. Not relief, not hope—something darker. A sense that evil, once awakened, can only be answered with action. And perhaps, in facing it, he might finally pay the price he had been avoiding for years. Somewhere in the city, the men responsible for Daniel Reed’s death were sleeping soundly, unaware that the storm outside had just found its way to their doorstep.
By Hazrat Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
