thriller
The Books
When walking through the library one dark and gloomy evening when I was placing books back in the stacks there was this one study carrell that seemed to whisper. I slowly went over to it, and it kept saying "Read the book. Read the book." I thought what book as I finished putting books back on the shelves. I went about straightening chairs and picking up items that students left behind and put in the lost and found box. "Read the book, read the book." Again, what book. I went into the next room and there it was "The Book".
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Episode 12: John Doe
So there was screaming. That’s how it started. In the room — one of those white, blinking kinds that smells like bleach and static and something dying in the walls. Someone was strapped down. Someone else was talking too calmly. There were machines. Needles. Silver bags of blood hanging from hooks like ornaments from a Christmas no one would survive.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Door: A Race Against Time
Down a cobbled alley, in the heart of the old city, between a disused bookshop and a tea stall with a busted awning, there was a tiny little shop that sold clocks. It bore no board — just an old wooden cuckoo clock on a nail driven into the wall over the door; and the bird had long ago ceased to sing.
By Saddique Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Episode 10: Reunion
When I woke up, the lights hummed like they’d forgotten how to sleep. They weren’t warm lights. Not the buttery kind you get in kitchens or the soft ones in motel bathrooms that make even broken people look romantic. These lights were silver. Hard. Surgical. The kind that show everything.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
To Make Gods Kneel
The winds howled across the desert, kicking sand into furious spirals. The remains of Olympus shimmered like mirages on the horizon. Sarai stood in the heart of the battlefield, her body still buzzing from the previous fight, her knuckles sore, her pulse steady.
By Kaori Knight about a year ago in Fiction
The Butcher’s Table. Content Warning.
I chop the meat. My job is one of transformation. We start with the husk of a living thing. It’s recognizable as a corpse. The bones are arrayed into a skeleton, the machinery of the muscles is still obvious, we can see the tendons that fasten it all together, and there is an image of the whole with all its functioning parts.
By Martin Vidalabout a year ago in Fiction
I Was Missing for Three Days—But No One Remembers. Not Even Me.. AI-Generated.
I woke up on my couch, wearing the same clothes I had on Tuesday. But it was Friday. My phone had 27 missed calls, a few messages from coworkers asking if I was okay, and one from my sister that simply said:
By ElaheMindStoriesabout a year ago in Fiction
