thriller
The Solitude of The Chupacabra
Many say that the Chupacabra is a rather recent and modern tale, a mangy coyote or rabied dog. Some point out that it’s just twisted evolution. But very few know the true backstory of the shapeshifter that led to the bloodsucking legend. And perhaps once you will come to know and understand more, you might “forget” a few cattle out to wander.
By Oneg In The Arctica day ago in Fiction
The Story Beneath The Story
People call me Bigfoot and other names and say that I smell horribly. They are afraid of me because I’m not human and have fur. I live where few people do, and the scent I give off is from my rich diet. We live in the wilderness, hiding from humans, and smell like the earth and trees. We rub the raw elk onto our fur and sometimes have nests with carcasses and excrement. Humans don’t find traces of our bodies because, when near death, our fur sheds and eagles take it away. We only die in the spring when wolf and bear cubs are emerging, and our bodies feed their young, while their parents consume our bones. There aren’t many of us left. We think humans stink, and we know when they are near. Human females smell better than males, but sometimes their acrid odor makes me sneeze; it seems to happen once every moon.
By Andrea Corwin a day ago in Fiction
The Safety Bell
Pity hung from the funeralgoers' faces. They were something out of a nightmarish painting; not sure what to do with their mouths, some pinching them closed, others looked like they were caught mid scream. Most of the women had watering eyes that they tried to avert from meeting Albert’s. For some reason, it made him feel ashamed.
By Nikki Torino Wagnera day ago in Fiction
Someone Keeps Swiping Right on My Dating Profile
I downloaded the dating app two weeks after Valentine’s Day. Not because I was ready to date again. Mostly because my friends wouldn’t stop telling me to “get back out there.” My last relationship ended badly, and February had been miserable enough already.
By V-Ink Stories2 days ago in Fiction
My Girlfriend Wants My Heart for Valentine’s Day
When my girlfriend first said she wanted my heart forever, I laughed. It was Valentine’s season, and she’d been in that overly romantic mood all week—pink candles, heart-shaped cookies, cheesy love songs playing in the apartment while she cooked dinner.
By V-Ink Stories2 days ago in Fiction
The Last Round Before Sunrise
The group had been bar-hopping since early evening. St. Patrick’s Day had turned the whole downtown area into a blur of green shirts, plastic shamrocks, and loud music pouring from every open doorway. By midnight, most of the popular bars were packed shoulder-to-shoulder.
By V-Ink Stories2 days ago in Fiction
The One's Who Come Back
The Therapist’s Room: The Ones Who Come Back Everyone knew the old story. When someone dies badly, they linger. That was the version passed around in whispers and television specials and badly printed paperbacks sold beside incense and dreamcatchers. A spirit with unfinished business. A presence in the hallway. Cold spots, flickering lights, footsteps overhead. The dead, apparently, became poets the moment their heart stopped. They floated about in old houses wearing sorrow and purpose, waiting to deliver messages in riddles to whichever woman in a linen blouse happened to be spiritually available.
By Teena Quinn 2 days ago in Fiction
Quiet Armageddon
“The price of oil has now reached over one hundred dollars a barrel. The highest it has been since twenty twenty-two.” Sylvia half-listened to the voice on the radio as she turned into the Tesco car park. She was more concerned with remembering what she actually needed: cat litter, milk, and probably bread.
By J.B. Miller2 days ago in Fiction
The Midnight Alley: The Boy Who Called His Killer “Dad”
Lightning cracked overhead as Detective Lena Carter’s boots splashed through the rain-slicked alley. The call had come just moments ago—a child was hurt, and the storm didn’t care. Narrow walls of brick reflected the flickering light from a struggling streetlamp, puddles trembling under each flash. On the wet ground lay a boy, twelve years old, eyes wide in final surprise, blood glimmering in crimson streams across the cracks beneath him. Clutched in his small, trembling fingers was a soaked scrap of paper. Carter leaned close, throat tight: the letters D_A_ smeared by rain.
By imtiazalam2 days ago in Fiction
Contillian Rubustus the III
Contillian counted the seconds before the beast was to be released. His bare shoulders were flexed. Already, his sweat drenched his body in the heat of the baking sun. He had wrestled lions and bears dozens of times. Whatever type of beast was behind the gate, it couldn’t be worse than the animals that he’d strangled to death before. The spear in his hand was sharp.
By Rowan Finley 4 days ago in Fiction
