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I went to report my murder

At 2:13 a.m., a man walked into the police station with a blood-soaked notebook pressed against his chest. The constable behind the desk looked up. “I want to report a murder.” “Whose murder?” The notebook landed on the counter with a wet thud. “Mine.” For a few seconds, the ceiling fan did all the talking. “Wait a minute. What are you talking about? Are you drunk? High?” “No. And I know how this sounds. But I am not losing my mind.” “Then explain.” The man leaned closer. “I have less than an hour before the rest of me disappears.” That got the officer’s attention. “Disappears?” “It started a month ago. I was late for an office meeting, so I called reception and told them I would be there in two hours.” “And?” “She laughed. Thought I was joking. Apparently, I was already there. Attendance marked. System logged in. Coffee mug on my desk.” “And you believed that?” “No. That was my first mistake.” He reached the office expecting a prank. Instead, people congratulated him. The meeting had ...
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The Silent Dagger

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That’s Delilah. Ever so beautiful, ever so graceful, draped in that stunning black dress that clings to her silhouette elegantly. The sky above is heavy, dark clouds casting a somber shadow. The wind picks up with every passing minute, as if trying to warn others of the impending storm. Delilah is my sweetheart, the love of my life. Right now, a thin veil shrouds her face, concealing her striking features. Oh how I hate watching her cry; she is such a gentle soul. I wonder what will happen to her if I’m not around to care for her. Tears swell in her glassy eyes, so clear they seem like they could shatter rather than splash. And there's my mother. Another gentle soul. That's why she loves Delilah. She sees a younger version of herself in her, always telling me how I should cherish her and never hurt her, because "God doesn’t make people like her anymore." They share a long, sorrowful hug. Both look so shattered, as if the weight of grief could crush them. My beloved to...
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Lights out!

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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...
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Paramount’s Last Artist

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  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...
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Whispers of anxiety

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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 ...
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The Collector

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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 ...
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Who is behind that door?

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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...
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