thriller

Episode 14: The Meeting Beneath the Ash
They called it neutral ground, but there’s no such thing anymore. The city library had burned down in the third month—flames and screams and paperback confetti—but the basement was still standing. So that’s where we met. Between the cracked pillars and the sleeping mold, beneath a banner that used to say SUMMER READING IS LIT!
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
Last Page
I opened her diary only once. Just once and nothing in my life stayed the same after that. Each page whispered her pain, her secrets, her silent screams.
By Jawad Aliabout a year ago in Fiction
Another Night at the Library
Working for two libraries usually during the night shift is for some a lonely time to work such a job, but for me it's a chance to work and do something that makes me feel good about myself. There was a night not so long ago at another library where I kept hearing the phrase 'Read the Book." "Read the book." so at the end of the shift the voice or more of a whisper lead me to a certain table that had an open book to a particular story and I read the book which by the way was 'The Holy Bible' and open to the story of the 'Good Samaritan' which helped me to make a decision for my life.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Before the Morning
Leah stepped into the house with a tired sigh, the kind that came from too many hours smiling at people she didn't like. The takeout bag in her hand swung gently as she shut the door behind her. The lights were off, though the porch lamp had been glowing when she parked. That was strange. James always turned them on for her when she worked late.
By Shai Andersonabout a year ago in Fiction
I Found a Photo of Myself at a Crime Scene From 20 Years Ago . Content Warning.
The envelope had no return address. No stamp. Just my name, scrawled in block letters. Elvin Warren. Inside was a photograph — aged, its corners yellowed, the gloss frayed. The scene was unmistakably that of a crime: blood on white tile, overturned furniture, the telltale chalk outline of a body that had once been warm. But that wasn’t what made my stomach twist. What made me drop into the nearest chair, my breath trapped in my throat, was me. I was in the photo. Off to the side. Blurred, half-turned — but it was me. Same face. Same scar above the brow from when I fell off my bike at nine. The photo was dated: July 18th, 2005. I was ten. what? --- The murder occurred in New Hampshire. Back then, my family lived in Chicago. I had never been to New Hampshire in my life. I thought it was a prank. Some cruel, elaborate hoax. But it didn’t explain the photo’s age — its authenticity. The Kodak timestamp printed in faded red. Or the way my stomach remembered something I couldn’t name. I turned it over. In shaky, faded ink: "Don’t let me remember." --- The photo lab was old, tucked beside a dry cleaner in a street that reeked of mildew. I only went because I needed answers — needed someone to tell me this was a fake. The woman behind the counter frowned when I slid it across. “You again?” she said. My spine snapped straight. “Excuse me?” “You dropped this off last week. Said it was urgent. I told you it needed cleaning, and you said, ‘It’ll clean itself once I remember.’ Weirdest thing.” “I didn’t— That wasn’t me.” She peered closer. Her expression changed. “Are you all right, hon? You’re… pale.” --- I started digging. The murder was real — a woman named Marla Henley. Age thirty-three. Throat slit in her home. No forced entry. No suspect ever named. I found her brother, Jeremy, now living in Maine. I told him I was researching a true-crime book. It was a lie. When I showed him the photo, he froze. His hands trembled as he took it. “That boy…” he whispered. “That’s the kid. The one no one could find.” I felt cold. “What kid?” “He was seen by a neighbor that night. Standing at the edge of the driveway. Staring at the house like it was on fire.” He swallowed. “But when the cops came, there was no boy. They thought the neighbor hallucinated.” He looked up, horror blooming. “You’re him.” --- My parents swore we’d never lived anywhere else. Swore I’d never disappeared. But when I pushed — really pushed — they got nervous. Panicked. “Why are you asking this?” my mother snapped. “Why dig up that nonsense?” “Because I think I was involved in a murder,” I said. “Or at least I saw it.” She went quiet. Then whispered, “You promised not to remember.” --- I found the adoption papers in a locked drawer in my father’s study. Filed under a different name. Nathaniel Graves. Adopted August 2005. New Hampshire Foster System. A child with my face. The death certificate came next. Nathaniel Graves: Deceased, age 9. Drowned in a frozen lake. No remains recovered. Presumed accident. Except I never drowned. I became Elvin. --- The memories came in trickles. A woman humming. A knife flashing. A scream — my own. Blood on my hands. But they felt… fractured. Inserted. Every time I dreamed, I saw myself from outside my own body. Like I was watching a stranger wear my skin. --- I burned the photo. It came back the next morning, tucked beneath my pillow. Clean. Whole. I buried it in the woods. It reappeared in my fridge. Damp with frost. Now, the image has changed. There’s something behind me in the photo. A shadow. A hand on my shoulder that wasn’t there before. Each day, it moves closer. --- Last night, I woke up outside. Barefoot. Mud between my toes. Standing in front of an old white house. I looked down. The same chalk outline. The same cracked tile. The same blood, long dried. I wasn’t just there when Marla Henley died. I was the reason. But I wasn’t a killer. I was a witness to myself. --- Now, I understand. I was buried. Rewritten. Replaced. But the photo — it remembered. And the boy in the picture? He wants his life back. --- I don’t know how much longer I have before he wakes up fully. Before he becomes me again. So I’m leaving this here. My name was Elvin Warren. But I think I was someone else before. I'm going away, I don't know where. But I wish to never come across my memories again.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
You're My Favorite Murder (Chapter 15). Content Warning.
Chapter 15: 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘉𝘰𝘺 My hand instinctively reaches into the opposite pocket, hunting for my vape before a white-hot dread surge through me as I remember I quit a few months ago. Though with the way things are panning out for me right now, I could do well with a hit or two, probably more.
By 𝓗. 𝓒. 𝓡𝓾𝓫𝔂about a year ago in Fiction
The Riverside Road - Part One
“Mr. Li, this letter appears to be the last words written by your late son, Hudson. We found it in your room, and it appears to be addressed to you.” Detective Williams produced a folded envelope and handed it across to the man dressed in mourning clothes beside him.
By Matthew Yuabout a year ago in Fiction
Episode 13: A Pet In The Garden
The first time they called her “it,” Marla said nothing. They were laughing, silver-mouthed and bright-eyed, lounging in the gardens of the fallen Capitol, dressed like gods from old paintings—if the gods had cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread and no shame about hunger. One of them—the girl with a voice like broken glass—tilted her head, smiled without warmth, and said, “Ant’s pet looks sad. Did he forget to feed it?”
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
I Found A Room That Shouldn't Exist
They’re going to say I hallucinated it. That it was a dream. That I misremembered or made it up, or that grief does things to a person.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
The Night at the Library
The night at the library started out just like any other night with me in the stacks reshelving books from the day before. For some reason this night was beginning to feel a different. At the moment I am not quite sure how, but I am having a feeling I will be finding out. Just not sure when.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
I Lived the Same Day for 100 Years
I woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of birdsong. Again. The same sun filtered through the same curtains. The same song played on the radio: “Golden Days” by The Morning Haze.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Books
As I went into that reading room there it was 'The Book". I walked up to the table, and I heard "Read the book." I stood there wondering what should I do for I thought that I had put all the books back on the shelves. I inched closer to the table, and it seemed like I was being gently pushed to that table with that book. My phone rang. I answered it, 'Read the book." Again, the feeling of being pushed to the table. I was closer to the table and the book turned out to be "The Bible".
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction