psychological
Mind games taken way too far; explore the disturbing genre of psychological thrillers that make us question our perception of sanity and reality.
Across the Shattered Sea
Three generations. The birthdates, names, and deaths of three generations were logged into the black leather-bound notebook resting on the nightstand of Founder Kimble’s private chambers. Kimble, before embarking on this mission, could not have imagined that he would be here…. still on board the Guay. He struggled turning through the pages of the book, reading the few dozen names of the current crew members, looking for an answer. While he strained to see the names in the candlelight, other more poisonous questions, bubbled to the surface of his mind. Why couldn’t he hear the voice? That loud booming voice, clear as day, back when he was a young boy. The voice that had shown him the location of $20,000 hidden deep within the pines. The voice that told him to use the money to build a ship to carry a select few to a better world. The voice that promised Kimble he would find a new kingdom. Where was this voice? Surely, it would have spoken by now. If nothing more than to reassure Kimble that he was on the right path.He thought of himself as Moses. Instead of leading his people through the unforgiving desert, Kimble was leading them through the sea. He had been a good shepherd. Kimble had done everything the voice commanded of him. Certainly, this deafening silence was not punishment for his own doing. Kimble surmised that it undoubtably was a member of his flock to blame for their forsaking. “Greatest esteemed Gyias – voice of all wisdom and time, please grant me your ear” He whispered, his face buried into the book. “I now understand your silence. I beg of you to reveal the name of the one who has disowned their cloak and deafened their ears. Give me their name and I shall bring righteous judgment upon their head”. He sat up with his eyes still closed, his fingers vigorously moved through the pages. When they stopped, Kimble read the name his finger landed on “Abraham Russell”.
By Brittany Bates5 years ago in Horror
Black
I was born confined to that cold imitation of a bed. Crammed between a patient monitor and a dresser swelled with medications and doctor records. I became indistinguishable from the chalky furniture surrounding me. Living in this husk made it painful to hear them painting my birth defect as a beautiful thing. In their portraits I'm alike an aged statue, limbless but lovely and profound. Yet I knew every waking moment was fruitless. I'd lay on stone with no memories to dwell on, as every memory was a contemporary moment. What are you if you're void of future, void of present, void of past. If I had the chance I'd let them live a day in my life. If you could call it a life.
By Sophia Hochgesang5 years ago in Horror
Charlie's Weight
I have a nosebleed when the plane lands. That sense of lift you have when your balls try to run back into your pelvis, your heart skips in your chest, and your brain plays the rerun of Airplane Destination Death doesn't leave me even after the plane parks and the hostess tells everyone to unbuckle their seatbelts. I chalk it up to nerves. Right about now, my would-be father-in-law should be going up in a glorious blaze of purifying flames erasing his taint from the Earth.
By Gabriel North5 years ago in Horror
Surprise
“I should definitely not be doing this alone.” Sara thought as she slid into the driver’s seat and pulled the door closed behind her. “Whatever I need to get out of the house.” She had been working remotely for a little over a year now with little to no human interaction outside of her husband Ryan. Sara is a text-book introvert: outgoing and personable but requiring 72 hours alone for every one hour spent with other humans. Even still, some days she swore those four walls inched closer together every time she looked up from her computer screen.
By Samantha Morton5 years ago in Horror
Symbiosis
sym·bi·o·sis ˌ simbīˈōsəs,ˌsimbēˈōsəs/
By Brittany Taylor 5 years ago in Horror
No Good Deed
When I met him he smelled of peppermint and honey. What an odd scent for a man to have I remember thinking to myself at the time. It was overpowering but gentle like thick poison lulling me to sleep. I wish I could blame my downfall on that. That would be easy. Simple.
By Brittany Taylor 5 years ago in Horror
The Sacrifice
Shawn sat in silence looking at the pictures on his phone. Taken last summer. It was the last time they had a chance to take a trip, the last time they laughed like that. A night out in a new city. She was stunning in her blue dress, and he just smirked at all the jealous guys seeing her with him. He loved that.
By Jen Greenebaum5 years ago in Horror
The Transporter
As Adrian got dressed in his black and white suit, he thought he would never be liberated from the clutches of these corpses. Five years had passed and he was still in the human remains removal business, or as civilians call it, cadaver transport. He had been called from the county’s Medical Examiner’s office to pick up a fresh one: William Stone, Caucasian male, early 40’s, 207 pounds, self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. He’d been hoping for a smooth night. No such luck. “It’s always the ones with the mid-life crisis,” Adrian thought to himself as he pulled into the parking area of the morgue.
By Conie Santana5 years ago in Horror
The Loop
I saw him standing in front of my building. He was larger than some—muscular. He wore a pair of long khaki shorts and a green collared shirt—I waved. He seemed friendly, familiar—maybe I’d seen him coming and going—Holy Shit!! He disappeared…he completely just vanished. Should I call the cops? Almost, in slow motion a little black notebook fell to the ground. The noise of the busy street faded—I heard the little black notebook thump onto the grassy square.
By Vicki Japha5 years ago in Horror
Imbroglio
A flurry of feathers broke the quiet of the overcast day, followed by a secure thud. Wounded leaves fluttered to the ground like butterflies anticipating wasps. Fifty years have perished since he became what he is. Fifty years since the grandfather’s clock consummated its countdown, on that queer evening that juxtaposed sultriness against cold autumnal front, and bequeathed the bars of misfortune on him. Perched on white oak, the defiant white crow pirouetted, as if in front of a mirror, observing its elongating and shortening shadows, barely discernible like its existence. Everyday since then, he had combated the unforgiving knowledge mauling at him like it was scratching the face off a photograph.
By Ishani Ray5 years ago in Horror
