Devoid

Dear Mr. Hitchins, I hope this letter finds you well. I'm writing to you out of a mix of desperation and hope, as strange events have been unfolding in my apartment, and I'm at a loss on how to handle them. I live with my mother, and our routine is simple. She spends her days in the living and dining areas, often with the TV playing in the background while she scrolls through social media or cooks. I'm usually in my room, working late into the night, sometimes indulging in online shopping—a guilty pleasure, I admit. Recently, I bought motion sensor lights to light our way to the bathroom at night. They were supposed to be purely functional, but I found myself quite excited about them. They worked perfectly at first, casting a soft glow at our feet as we walked by. But then, things took a strange turn. One night, while my mother was asleep, the light at the foot of my bed turned on by itself. No bugs, no rats (we've never had them), nothing to trigger it. I w...

  Struggling with the loss of his grandfather, Ebe found himself at the old Paramount Art School, the last piece of his grandfather's magnum opus. It was more than a school; it was a treasure chest of his family's history, the only thing left. Life was rough for Ebe, with bullies making every day harder and his grandfather's comforting presence now just limited to a memory. In the dusty corners of Paramount, Ebe stumbled upon an ordinary-looking paintbrush that was practically marinating in a strange liquid. It spoke to him with quiet words of advice. It was strange, sure, but Ebe felt like the brush understood him. Even with the brush's warning "this comes at a cost," Ebe was too curious to pay any heed to it. He thought about what he felt—anger, sadness, a deep kind of hurt—and the brush seemed to get it, telling him to let those feelings out on the canvas. Naturally, rage dominated his other senses and Ebe let his anger lead the way, pushing everything else...

The cave exuded an eerie, non-sentient odor, as if no creature with a shred of awareness would dare venture into its oppressive darkness. Its walls bore a moth-like texture, and menacing stalactites hung like a colossal chandelier. Yet, nothing could deter her determination to stay at this forsaken place. The girl yearned for solitude; no one could fathom the depth of her anxiety. Even she was unfamiliar with this overwhelming emotion. If there was anyone who truly knew her, it was Sebastien. After an arduous search, he finally found her. As he approached, he moved cautiously, crabwalking to avoid triggering her hostility. " How long have you been here? " he inquired. " I lost count of the days. How did you find me, anyway? " She replied, her irritation apparent, fully aware of his intentions to help. " Mr. Trinton has been very worried, " Sebastien explained. "He's gathered all his mercenaries, and it won't be long before they ...

She had been eyeing that attic for quite some time now. Afraid to approach it. She was trained to flight situations like these throughout her life. Though currently, she is helpless. Whatever lies inside that cabin can't be as dangerous as the man-eating tiger on the loose. According to the locals, the man-eater has claimed three lives in past two weeks. The attic is flawlessly camouflaged in this dense forest. There hasn't been any movement to suggest its occupation. Though, there are some footmarks to put her in a dilemma. She learnt long back how to differentiate between paw-prints and that of a giant man.  It's been an hour. She has to approach. Out here, she is a sitting duck. Every minute decreases her survival chances significantly.  A gentle thud on the door makes her recede herself. The door was drenched. Surprisingly it has been raining since morning. Pretty unusual, she wonders. She gathers herself and makes a valiant effort to knock with more spirit. A loud one ...

I lately bought a 3-century old palace in my native town. It looks magnificent from the exterior. The royalty is palpabl e when you approach it.  It requires a bit of cleaning, no doubt. But with time, I understood that people were wary of working even around this palace, let alone inside. Apparently, this is one of those haunted castles we keep hearing about.  After a long and arduous effort, I found 4 helpers. They were ready to work with me and an old guide who was a mute. He provided his knowledge by writing things down on paper. My wife and I were okay with it. During the 2nd day of our refurbishment, I heard the helpers stampeding towards my chamber. Their faces flushed, sweat dribbling profusely from their forehead.  "Maalik (Master), we are hearing the sound of ghungroo (a musical anklet) from that old room," one of them said pantingly. "But the room is locked since ages!" I exclaimed. We all rushed towards that room. The helpers weren't lying. You could...

The world has evolved a lot since the last murder. The Government detects sociopaths and psychopaths beforehand through personality processing and prevents any loss of life. Though I constantly knew how to outwit the system. I have sustained my social score above 8.3, which is above 95% of the general population. For other impulsive crimes, the accused is judged by a jury of 4 people. It involves the sufferer. The person to whom you have been most helpful. The person to whom you has been most offensive, and the person who was saved by your action. I have been accused of killing, and everyone is horrified. Evidently, my case is a global sensation. Well, I did kill Robert, but only because he was bothering my girl, Sara. With my social score, they couldn't find anyone eligible to take the mean spot. And since this is the first killing in decades, the dead victim can't testify now, can he! They are baffled. I've adored Sara since our childhood. Arranged everything to make her...