#thriller

The light of the waning gibbous showered down through the veil of clouds onto the wheat fields below. There was a scar amongst them, where there lay the charred skeleton of a farmhouse. A cold wind blew through the autumn air. The front door stirred, which bore a strange sigil upon it, scratched into the woodwork. Ashes blew solemnly into the night. Beyond, many such sites could be seen littered amongst the fields, all reduced to teeth and cinders. Down the road for miles and miles the wheat…

The laughter didn’t start right away. In the beginning, it was just an odd, harmless hobby. Sarah loved David. She loved his quiet nature, his steady hands, and the calm predictability he brought into her life. So, when David suddenly took an interest in clowning—buying vintage costumes, studying classic mime routines, and practicing face paint in their bathroom mirror—Sarah did her best to be supportive. She even chuckled when he clumsily juggled oranges in the kitchen.

Ed was a night watchman at Mr. Mitchell’s company, a firm that manufactured engines for motorboats. He was 54 years old—tall, thin, and never without his glasses. His night shift usually followed a set routine: he would circle the warehouse several times and then spend the rest of the night either napping or buried in a crime novel.

Sebastian woke up to the sound of a loud and repeated banging on his bedroom door. He opened his eyes slowly: the pounding of each knock enraged every muscle within his head, and amplified his hangover. He groaned to himself as he was in the process of sitting upright in his bed, to find he’d fallen asleep wearing the gray sweat-jacket, jeans, and white shoes that had been worn the day before, and shook his head at the sight of himself. He grabbed his head and groaned louder. His bedroom was…

Tap, tap, tap… Tap, tap. Silence... tap.

I've always hated my job for one simple, yet insurmountable reason: nothing ever happens. Imagine spending nine hours. NINE freaking hours. Locked inside a concrete bunker, listening to the universe breathe into your head through an oversized pair of headphones. The higher-ups like to pretend this is some kind of essential service. That my job is somehow paramount to the advancement of the human race. It isn't.

Jeanette moved closer to the glass, and besides a bony hand, she also saw the terrifying face of an old woman with a scarred face and 4 eyeballs. Jeanette was completely paralyzed, not knowing what to do. ​"Who are you and what do you want from me?" ​"You are the one who summoned me along with your friends during the evening séance, remember that, Darling?" ​"Siltani, come here" — and so I came, from the Land of the Whispering Bones and Shadows, here I am, and from now on I will give you no…

I lost my wife a few years ago. Most people hear that and picture someone older–fifties or sixties. I’m twenty-one. Rose and I were born in Insurrection County, West Virginia. Rose was a southern belle, even though she always said that West Virginia wasn’t the real South. Rose’s hair was strawberry blonde, and she had deep green eyes and freckles that would pop when her face was sunburnt.

Year 157, Near the end of the fall season. I'm not sure what day it is. I am a regular guy who lives in the peaceful village of "Unut." And today, I am helping the village elder by chopping some logs for him. "But he's not going to pay me shit." I said as I swung my axe. I'm only helping him because he's like a father to me. I was a little child when my family abandoned me. Yet he took me in and raised me to this age. "And I am going to do his chores for the rest of his lifetime."

Father did not sleep that night. Neither did I. After the fourth call faded into the mountains, he checked every door and window in the house twice. Then he pulled a chair beside the front door, laid the shotgun across his knees and remained there until morning. Nobody talked much. Mother took Thomas into their room. Evelyn stayed downstairs. She sat wrapped in a blanket near the stove, occasionally looking toward the windows whenever the house creaked.

The sweltering summer is especially unbearable for me, not to mention the endless rain, which is slowly driving me insane. Savage pains torment my body. Everything inside me swells and bursts, so violently that sometimes I simply pass out. Every step I take feels like a thousand nails being driven into my flesh. My calves explode, oozing meat and fat, and there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop it. But physical suffering can be endured. You can switch yourself off for a while.

It started as a whisper in the static. I bought the old farmhouse on the edge of Blackwood township because the price was impossibly low, and the solitude was exactly what I needed to finish my thesis. Clara, my girlfriend of three years, was hesitant to move out there with me, but she eventually agreed, hoping the fresh air would do us both some good. We were wrong.

Annabella was a Witch, She lived in a house made of sticks. Through the woods, and over a stream Where very few people are ever seen. ~ In the village, she loved a man. Jeremiah, as he stands. But no matter how hard Annabella tried... She could never catch Jeremiah's eye. ~ In her House of Sticks, she cried. Feeling her heart slowly die. But soon a vile plan was born, To get Jeremiah, this, Annabella had sworn. ~ For the toxin of love: an ingredient was needed.

I’m twenty-six, and I just realized something that I can only describe as deeply, agonizingly uncanny. I can’t remember who my best friend was in high school. It sounds mundane—a random gap in memory, right? But I was going through my old yearbooks from sophomore and senior year, and as I turned the pages, a strange, creeping panic set in. I was looking for him. We were inseparable back then. But he wasn’t there. I scanned every column, every row, my breath hitching, that nagging gut feeling…

The Day I Rise From The Dead Episode 1: Cursed From Birth The sun always shined a little brighter on Alestia.

Call me tasteless but I enjoyed running Southern Fried Murder. Growing up, I loved horror movies, especially slashers, but as I got older I became more drawn to true crime… To the real life monsters walking among us. Like most people, I was initially drawn to the sensationalized Bundys and Dahmers of the world but the local cases scared me more. I became more intrigued by the murders and vicious crimes that happened in my neck of the woods here in the American South. These were also the crimes…

Aware of my dependence, of how insignificant I am in the claws of the monster, I cannot bring myself to feel panic or the urge to run from it. I want this. I want it, and I plunge into the abyss, into the depths that rake their claws across my thin, frail body, and I even find pleasure in it, because at last, after all these years, I can feel something. I experience this euphoria, this furious rapture beating inside my rib cage with nine separate hearts, while my head grows hazy and heavy, as…

I was eleven years old when it happened. It was Halloween night, and my parents had gone out with my aunt to a party across town, planning to stay overnight at a hotel and return the next afternoon. That left me at home with my seventeen-year-old sister, Jessie, and our older cousin, Hannah. I absolutely adored Hannah; she was the fun, cool older cousin who always brought us treats and took us on adventures.

It started at 3:14 AM. I was working late in my home office, the blue glow of my monitor the only light in the room, when my living room television suddenly flickered to life. It didn't turn on to my cable box; instead, it booted directly into a static-filled, analog snow screen.

Everyone in town loves Burger Sams. Everyday they would arrive, packing the order counter, tripping over each other to get their chance to just lick the burger grease. The dining area was always a chaos of noisy chewing and smacking lips. Sometimes they would have to close the drive thru to stop the line from blocking the road. Everyone in town loves Burger Sams. Except Jen. Because she worked there.