Raj was in his usual crisp suit when he slipped into the crowd outside the theatre — eyes scanning for his next victim.

He never bothered with disguises; the thrill was in doing it as himself. The fear of getting caught — of even someone seeing him doing it — added to the adrenaline rush.

He moved with the grace of an artist making bold strokes on canvas, eyes fixed on his target: a short, round man in his fifties, bald on top with a fuzzy border of hair circling his head. Raj named him Doodoo — an old habit of naming strangers. To Raj, the man didn’t matter; only the slight bulge in his back pocket did—a wallet full of bills or cards or sometimes just receipts.

He slid behind Doodoo at the perfect angle — hidden from eyes — and with practiced ease, lifted the wallet. Smooth. Clean. Art.

And then, he felt it. The unmistakable sense of being watched. He knew that — instincts sharpened by years of pickpocketing.

He darted his gaze in that direction — and froze.

चेहरे पे ज़ुल्फ़ें बिखरी हुई थी, दिन में रात हो गयी।
एक अजनबी हसीना से यूँ मुलाकात हो गयी।
(Her hair spilled over her face, turning daylight into dusk.
That’s how I met a beautiful stranger.)

The old Hindi song played in his mind.

Bathed in the golden hue of evening, she stood there — hair flowing in the breeze, strands half-veiling a face but unable to hide her beauty—heck no! they added to her mesmerizing beauty. Her dark eyes beneath arched brows; her mischievous smile made him forget he was in the middle of a crime.

He blinked himself out of that spell, pulled out the smallest note — five dollars this time — and slipped the wallet back into Doodoo’s pocket. Doodoo, of course, remained blissfully unaware.

He never did it for money. His corporate job paid him enough to stay bored in luxury. This — this was his hobby. His drug.

But those eyes had shaken him.

His eyes shifted back to the place, where he had seen her. She was gone. He desperately pushed through the people, scanning everywhere carefully—no trace.

Then, that sensation again. Watching eyes. He turned and spotted her walking briskly toward the gate. The white shirt, the short denim jacket — unmistakable.

He hurried after her, just in time to see her slip into the back seat of a luxury car by the valet exit.

“Follow that car!” he shouted to the nearest taxi.
The driver, a bald, weary-looking man, adjusted his glasses and started the engine like he hated driving.

Raj offered double fare, begged him to skip the red lights, but the old man drove like a model citizen. Raj named him Mogambo out of pure frustration when he finally got off at his bungalow.

Back home, Raj tossed his suit jacket aside and slumped into his chair. For the first time, the thrill felt hollow. He wasn’t thinking about the five-dollar trophy, he was thinking about her.

Sighing, he pulled out his little black notebook — the one where every stolen bill, receipt, or card was glued in neatly, labeled with date and location. His own scrapbook of sins.

He opened his wallet to add today’s prize — but the bill was missing.

“What the…”

He emptied his wallet onto the bed. No five-dollar note. Instead, there was a tiny folded slip of paper.

He opened it.

A grin spread across his face.

(555) 019–4726

Raj leaned back, chuckling.
He found his soul mate.

Closing the door, she leaned against it and sighed heavily, the sound of his footsteps growing ever more distant. Her forehead rested against the wood, left hand still gripping the knob, the right clutching a small black sphere — the magic ball.

Her gaze dropped to it. Disgust prickled in her chest. She sprinted to the fireplace and lit it. The logs caught fast, burning bright and spitting sparks that crackled tsk-tsk, like small tongues scolding her sin. She stared at the ball one last time before tossing it into the flames.

The black surface blistered, melted, swallowed by fire. She watched until it was gone, her mind drifting back to the afternoon — when she had found it in the attic.

Yesterday, they moved into this old riverside cottage — Meera and Sam. After three decades of soul-grinding work and two decades of steady marriage, they had decided to retire. As if fate had finally chosen to be kind, they had stumbled across an ad for a rustic little rental cottage.

“We’re getting it, it’s perfect,” Meera had said, her grin deepening the dimples on her cheeks.

“I know, right? But let’s walk through once — just so, you know,” Sam said, his voice carrying the measured calm of a man with gray hair, glasses, and a lifetime of double-checking before leaping.

They had toured it the next day and signed the lease by evening , ignoring Sam’s faint— just so, you know—suggestion to look at a few more places .

That was four weeks ago.

Since then, they’d wrapped up their city life and moved in with minimal stuff but overflowing plans.

Today morning, Meera had skipped the walk (a line-item from the plans) and decided instead to organize the house. Sam brought breakfast and lunch packed on his way back. After breakfast, he’d crashed on the bed, exhaustion from the move was still underpaid. Meera, restless, climbed to the attic to store the things they used rarely.

A choice that changed everything.

The ball had rolled out from somewhere when she shifted a few old boxes there — a tennis-ball-sized sphere, perfectly black. She’d taken it for a toy at first. But when she nudged it aside, it flared silver. Curiosity got the better of her.

An hour later, she sat on the sofa, drained but curious, the strange ball in her hand. “I wish Sam were awake to see this thing,” she murmured.

At once, the surface shimmered. Two words appeared — Yes in green, No in red. Brows furrowed, she hesitated, then tapped Yes. The ball went dark again. She laughed at herself and set it down.

Seconds later, footsteps approached behind her. Sam — awake.

Joy flickered, followed by unease. She said nothing about the ball.

They had lunch, praising the house and their new life — mostly to reassure themselves. Then Sam stepped into the backyard to plan his garden, another line-item.

She sneaked into the living room, sat on the sofa, holding the ball. “If I’m going to test it,” she thought, “why not wish for something big?”

“I wish for a million dollars.” Then, tapped Yes.

From outside came a loud, raw cry — Sam’s voice!

She dropped the ball and ran.

By the time she reached the backyard, it was too late. Sam lay near the fence, his leg twisted, skin discolored, foam bubbling at his lips. Under the bush beyond the bars, the leaves rustled faintly.

She called 911, her hands shaking so much she could barely speak. Within minutes, the paramedics arrived, checked his pulse, and tried everything they could. One of them finally looked up and shook his head.

Minutes later, a police cruiser pulled in, its red-blue lights dull in the afternoon sun. They asked a few questions, noted the bite marks, and said the body would go for a post-mortem.

Meera stood in the doorway, numb, as they carried him out. The siren faded. The silence it left behind was unbearable.

And then it struck her — Sam’s life insurance. A million dollars.

She walked back inside, each step heavier than the last, until she reached the sofa. She collapsed, wept until she had no tears left. Then she stopped, wiped her eyes with the palms, cleared her throat decisively, and picked up the ball.

Her fingers trembled, but her voice was steady. “I wish Sam to come back to me.” She tapped Yes.

She rushed to the door, the ball clutched tight. When she opened it — he was there. Ten feet away, at the end of the driveway.

He dragged his swollen foot, eyes blank white, mouth open in that same frozen scream, foam crusted at the corners. Under the gray evening sky, the sight was both grotesque and heartbreaking.

“That’s not my Sam,” she whispered. “Something else is wearing his body.”

A hollow ached in her stomach. Her mind raced — live with this version of Sam, or with his good memories.

With a heavy heart, she closed her eyes, “I wish Sam to go. Rest in peace.”

The red and green words blinked again. Her thumb hovered — hesitation tearing her apart.

He was two feet away when she pressed Yes.

Closing the door, she leaned against it and sighed heavily, the sound of his footsteps growing ever more distant.

Disclaimer: This story is an adaptation of the horror tale “The Monkey’s Paw,” which I read as a child and which has stayed with me ever since.

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It couldn’t be, but seeing her face, he knew it was — his grandmother, seven years dead — on her knees and digging in the garden under a shaded moon. For a long moment, he stood frozen by the window, his breath fogging the glass.

The old woman’s scarf fluttered in the wind as her gnarled hands tore frantically at the soil, every motion jerky and rushed.

He remembered that face on her deathbed seven years ago, when she’d taken his hand and made him vow to keep the family ritual alive. After his parents’ fatal crash a year ago, he was the heir left — the chosen one to continue the tradition and pass it on when his time comes.

“This must be performed every seven years. At any cost,” her whisper had been thin but grave.

“What otherwise?” he had asked, half mocking.

“The ritual keeps it underneath. If it isn’t done… it’ll be free.”

He had laughed then. “Come on, Grandma. I’m twenty-five now and never saw or felt anything strange.”

“That’s because your father, grandfather, and ancestors never missed the ritual. I beg you — for me. Just do it. Will you?”

“It’s cruel,” he’d said. “You made me bury a lamb alive. Even after months, I can’t forget the way it kicked — that cry still echoes in my head. It’s etched in me forever.”

“That’s the sacrifice we make. Otherwise, it’ll rise — and it feeds on our blood. One by one, until none remain.”

“But why me?”

“Because the male blood must perform it. It passes from father to son — never through daughters. After your father, it’s your duty. Your aunt cannot, nor her sons. It’s curse for the male blood line, a burden to keep rest of the family safe.”

“And if there’s no male heir left?”

“Then it dies with the last of you,” she said. “But as long as one son of our line remains, the debt must be paid.”

He had rolled his eyes. “This is insane… Alright, whatever.”

“Say it, child. Will you do it?

“Yes, yes. I’ll do it. Jeez!”

That same year, his grandmother died peacefully in her sleep.

Now, seven years later, he’d returned to the ancestral house to keep that promise. His heart ached at the sight of the lamb inside the sack — its frantic movements, its muffled cries. Each sound pierced through him, pleading for mercy. After a while, the kicks had slowed, weakening into faint spasms.

The ritual had to be done at midnight. He’d been waiting in his room for an hour before he saw her — the dead grandmother — digging in the garden.

For the first time in years, he believed.

A cold certainty settled in his chest: the ritual was real. The stories, the warnings — everything felt real. And though dread wrapped around his throat, there was also a flicker of relief. He had chosen to come, chosen to keep the vow. Maybe that decision would protect the generations.

“At least I’m doing my part,” he thought. “I’ll never bring a child into this twisted world. I just hope I have the strength to keep the ritual alive until my last breath.”

He lifted the sack. The movement inside had stopped. The lamb had gone quiet, perhaps accepting its fate.

The night air was cold and heavy, thick with the acrid scent of burnt wood — the same smell that had hung in the air during his grandmother’s funeral rites. Every instinct told him to run, but duty dragged his feet forward.

As he neared the ditch, the old woman stopped digging and slowly turned. His heart hammered, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. She looked normal — almost peaceful — and that eased him slightly.

He stepped forward cautiously, raised the sack, and dropped it into the ditch.

The clock inside struck midnight. A deep, resonant toll rolled across the garden.

He closed his eyes and began to chant the incantation she’d taught him, each word metallic on his tongue. As he neared the end, the night seemed to hold its breath.

He finished and exhaled shakily — just then something shoved him hard from behind.

He stumbled and fell. The ditch was deeper than before. Far deeper.

Dazed, he looked up. His grandmother stood above him, her face drained of warmth, her voice cold and unyielding.

“The sacrifice must be alive.” Her words echoed in his mind.

Before he could speak, the soil around him began to slide. Loose dirt poured in, fast and heavy, filling the space like water. He clawed upward, choking on the taste of earth and panic.

“Grandma — stop!” he screamed.

But her face didn’t change. She only watched, her eyes reflecting the moon like pale glass.

The weight pressed harder, crushing his ribs. He gasped, struggling to move.

As the dirt filled his mouth, his final thought was of the faint movement beside him — the sack twitched.

The lamb wasn’t dead after all.

But the ritual was.
And the family bloodline was safe now.

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I stood before Raman’s bungalow. I had been to his house countless times, but tonight it felt different. The full moon burned above, its light washing the house in pale gray. Three stone steps led to a small porch and the open door. The window to the right was wide open. No lights were on. The house looked calm, yet I felt restless. My instincts urged me to turn back, to run, but an odd pull held me there—an intuition that someone inside needed my help. My chest felt heavy, my legs heavier, and still they moved forward.

One step. Then another. Toward the open door.

Moonlight from the door and window stretched across half the living room, leaving the rest in darkness. On the sofa facing the window, Raman’s parents sat hunched, heads bowed, hands clasped. Something terrible had happened. The silence was too thick, and I dared not disturb it.

His mother slowly lifted her head. Her eyes were weary, as if she had been crying for hours, the dark circles beneath them deepened. She raised a hand and pointed toward the stairs behind me. I obeyed. The stairs turned left after the fourth step. I paused, glancing back. Both were staring at me, their eyes burning with anger. With hatred. I snapped my gaze forward and kept climbing. The stairs ended at a door that opened onto the terrace.

At the far end, about fifteen feet ahead, stood Raman’s room—a small brick shed under a tin roof. The door was half open, a mild yellow glow seeping through. I stopped, staring at the room, listening. Nothing. Only my own heavy breathing. Then, cautiously, I began to walk toward it.

When I was about five feet from the door, I froze. In the pale glow of the candle burning on the floor, two feet dangled at chest height above it. My gaze shot up. It was Raman—rope tight around his neck, his body hanging from the ceiling. My heart pounded violently, hammering in my temples. My eyes locked on his lifeless, pale, stiff face, his eyelids shut.

And then it happened. His eyes snapped open—empty, only white orbs, but something stared through them straight at me. I stumbled back, hit the floor hard, my gaze trapped in his as if hypnotized.

“We didn’t say goodbye.” His lips parted. The sound that came out wasn’t his voice. It wasn’t human. It was guttural, ancient, growling.

I bolted upright in bed, lungs burning, heart slamming against my ribs. My hands shook, my skin clammy, my clothes damp.

It was only a dream. It had to be.

But in the moonlit silence of my room, I wasn’t sure. Not entirely.

The nightmares hadn’t always been there. They began after one night—the night that split my life into before and after.

And it all started with a simple question:

Do you believe in ghosts?

This is an excerpt from my upcoming horror novella Planchette Crow. Get a complimentary eBook copy here: Google Form.

He had always hoped for a private moment with her but never imagined it would have turned out like this. The river was not the place he knew.

He stood alone at the top of the stone steps — the same steps he had walked a hundred times beneath the sun. In daylight this place belonged to him — familiar and comforting. Under the full moon’s pale light, it looked different. A land drained of color, blurred and sinister.

The river gleamed like polished stone, moonlight sliding faintly across its surface. The water appeared still, yet he felt something circling beneath its calm facade. On the far bank, the trees loomed as hulking silhouettes, their branches curled into claws. The air hung thick and damp, heavy with the acrid stench of burnt wood.

A sound cracked the silence. From far below, at the river’s edge, a splash — intermittent, strained — as though something fought to rise but was dragged under, again and again.

Every part of him screamed to turn back. To leave. To run. But something held him back, an intuition that someone needed his help. His chest felt heavy, his legs heavier, yet they moved.

One step. Then another. Toward the dark water.

The deeper he descended, the more restless he became. He was tethered to the sound below, pulled forward like prey, the river drawing him closer. By the last step, his heart pounded violently, hammering in his temples. He forced himself to lean forward, peering into the water.

Nothing.

No reflection. Not even his own face.

He bent closer, holding his breath.

In a flash, a hand shot up from the water and clamped around his ankle. Cold fingers dug deep, squeezing the flesh desperately. He kicked, twisted, and fought with everything he had. He wrenched his foot free — but dragged up a face on the water.

Her face.

Meera. His love—distanced by fate.

But not the way he remembered her. Her skin was pale, stiff, and lifeless in the moonlight. Water streamed from her hair, her mouth gasping as if she had surfaced after hours beneath. Her eyes found his, wide, filled with something worse than fear. A soul-crushing cry for help.

“Meera!” He reached for her, hands clawing the air, straining to pull her back onto the steps.

But her body jerked backward, yanked by an unseen force. The river swallowed her whole, restoring its calm facade. Just before she vanished, her lips whispered a word — rushed but clear.

“Goodbye.”

The weight of that word shattered him awake.

He bolted upright in bed, lungs burning, heart battering against his ribs. His body shook, skin clammy, clothes damp. Worse was his right leg — just above the ankle, sore and tender.

He told himself it was only a dream. It had to be.

But in the moonlit silence of his room, he wasn’t sure. Not entirely.

This is an excerpt from my upcoming horror novella Planchette Crow, adapted for a writing prompt on First Line Fiction (a Medium Publication).

Get a complimentary eBook copy here: Google Form.

Parth, Ruhi, and Xavior sat cross-legged in a circle, a box of sizzling kebabs and colorful chutneys at the center. The terrace light behind Ruhi cast a shallow pool of glow, beyond which the full-moon night stretched in a misty, pale blur.

It was their first-Friday-of-the-month ritual, an unspoken pact carried out religiously on the boys’ hostel terrace.

Ruhi was the boldest among them, and besides, it was her idea.

She had slipped past the watchman as he scrolled through YouTube during his dinner break. Getting out was always trickier, but Xavior’s cigarette offers to the watchman bought her enough time to vanish back to the girls’ hostel next door.

The kebabs weren’t the draw, though.

It was the horror they devoured all month — books, films, rumors. Those couple of hours were for the stories they shared, with hair bristling and fear flickering in their eyes.

Tonight, Parth had just appeared from his trip home — carrying a story unlike the others. He said it was special.

Ruhi stabbed a kebab, dripping it into mint chutney. “So? What’s the story, Parth?”

Xavior, halfway to savoring his tomato chutney soaked bite, didn’t bother to look up.

Parth leaned forward, voice low. “I saw a ghost. A real one.”

Xavior froze mid-bite. “What? For real?”

Parth nodded. “On the way back from my relatives’ place…”

It had been past midnight. Parth slouched in the back seat while his dad drove and his mom sat drowsily beside him. His body ached for a bed, for the stretch of legs against cool sheets.

“This shortcut cuts through town,” Dad said, easing toward a narrow road branching from the highway. “Saves three, maybe four hours.”

“Why take a risk at this time?” Mom muttered.

“I’ve taken it before,” Dad replied, turning the wheel decisively.

For a mile the road wound between trees, then opened to empty fields. Under the full moon’s glow, everything looked eerily still. Another turn led to another stretch — and then they saw it.

A truck stood in the open field, headlights glaring. A few figures crouched in front of it, knees hugged to their chests, faces buried. Beside them, a woman stood waving toward the car, the light burned behind her, reducing her to a silhouette.

“Stop,” Mom urged. “Looks like an accident. They need help.”

Dad pressed harder on the accelerator.

They sped on, turned another corner — only to see the same truck, the same figures, the same woman waving. This time, she appeared closer.

Mom said nothing.

Another turn. The scene again. And again. Each time the woman nearer, her dark outline dragging toward the road.

On the terrace, the kebabs and chutneys sat untouched. Ruhi and Xavior leaned in, eyes wide.

“Maybe the road circled back?” Ruhi whispered.

“And she was walking toward the road,” Xavior added, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than a genuine doubt.

Parth’s gaze was fixed on the shadows, as if he could see her even now.

“That’s what we told ourselves. Until the fifth time. She was at the edge of the road. In the full moonlight, we saw her face.”

He shuddered.

“Her face looked long… pulled. Stretched upward by something invisible. And she was laughing. A low, cunning laugh…”

Parth paused. Then, his whisper dropped into silence.

“… She had no eyes. Just white, sightless orbs. And still… something was staring at us.”

Parth’s gaze moved over them, one by one, his stare unsettling.

“Then Dad floored the accelerator. We shot past a giant tree — and it all stopped.” He smiled, but he didn’t.

The final words felt conjured, yet both of them wanted to believe.

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Raj arrived on a roaring bike, dressed in branded clothes, his shiny watch flashing its price tag louder than the time. Behind his Ray-Bans, he scanned the crowd, which would filter out anything ordinary.

“You look like Hritik Roshan!” A compliment he heard a lot, from eyes fixed on his bike and watch than on his face.

I never understood how we became friends during our first year of engineering college. We shared no common ground — financial, social, or intellectual. I was the top ranker, the first admission into the program, while Raj was the last, slipping in through a management quota. Yet somehow, we ended up in each other’s orbit.

And later, our eyes — and hearts — settled on the same beautiful girl.

Raj joined a month late. Before he arrived, one early morning, I waited on the porch for the shutters to lift so I could get inside the college building. At that age, my eyes sometimes strayed toward the girls, though the weight of family responsibility kept me in check. I was my family’s hope, the savior, expected to land a high-paying job and lift us up.

Love happens in movies. Real life is about responsibilities. My father’s words were carved into me. He had risked everything to fund my education.

But then Meera walked into the porch.

She looked like an angel just descended to earth on a golden chariot with white horses. She wore a dark pink traditional suit with a white veil over her shoulders. Her deep eyes rested beneath arched brows, her skin glowed with a blush of rose, and her straight, delicate nose was poised above lips that would put lipsticks out of business.

I forgot about the world.

Her eyes met mine. She smiled casually, and I froze — like a deer caught in headlights. She looked down, but her smile lingered.

Our eyes met many times after that — across the library shelves, while walking the corridors. Each encounter stayed at a smile and a soft “hi.”

“Dudes! Finished the math assignment?” One day, Raj dropped at my table uninvited— the day before submission, a week after I had finished it.

That was the start of our friendship. It deepened with every assignment he borrowed, every set of notes I lent him before exams. He was popular; I was the topper. Maybe we bonded on the strengths we each held over the other.

People feel comfortable in relationships where they sense some superiority.

But a small crack appeared the day I saw him with Meera in the canteen. Just the two of them, facing each other with two cups of coffee on the table between them. Later, I kept seeing them together — in the canteen, in the library.

“I love her — way more than my last four girlfriends. And she’s into me. Don’t tell anyone. I’m going to surprise her on Valentine’s Day,” he’d probably told ten others.

I forced a smile.

She’s out of your league anyway, I consoled myself, but the hurt was buried deep inside.

“What’s today’s date, sir?” I asked at the campus bank counter while filling out a check — to withdraw the little money left in my account — to pay my overdue mess fees.

The clerk looked at me as if he’d seen a ghost.

“You don’t know today’s date? It’s the 14th! Valentine’s Day!”

He shook his head, eyes narrowed in pity, as if he were looking at a youth wasted without love.

At lunch break, Raj asked me to come along to the jewelry shop to pick up his surprise gift for Meera.

“Sorry, Raj. I have to pay the mess fee today — it’s already late.”

“Don’t worry, dudes! We’ll grab lunch at Glasshouse on the way back. I’ll drop you at the mess after college. I need you, bro.”

I climbed onto his bike — killing my own secret love story that day.

When we returned, Meera was waiting in the parking lot, waving from a bench under the trees. I tapped Raj’s shoulder to slow down and got off the bike without a word.

“Go on, it’s your moment.”

“Come with me, bro. I need moral support.”

“No. This one’s private.”

Raj’s bike roared forward, dust rising behind him. He parked, straightened his shirt, and prepared to pull out the diamond earrings we had just collected.

I thought about leaving, but heartbreak craved more hurt. Sometimes fresh pain soothes the old — like pressing on aching feet after a long walk.

A minute passed. Then both Raj and Meera looked in my direction. Raj waved at me to come closer. I patted my pocket, realizing I was holding the earrings.

I walked over. Meera lowered her gaze with her signature smile. Raj grinned widely.

“She likes you, dudes!” he blurted. “I’ve seen it in your eyes, too. I tried to trigger you so many times, but you’re such a stubborn motherfucker!”

In a town where nothing ever changed, his was the first new face in years. But Damien hadn’t moved here to see new faces — he’d come to avoid the old ones.

He hated people. Nosy, demanding, deceitful. He lived alone in a small English cottage at the edge of town, with a cozy, covered patio overlooking a beautiful garden in the front yard.

A cute, small house with a storybook picket fence.

The garden was picturesque: clusters of bright flowers arranged with care, a border of white stones neatly tracing the edges, surrounded by a lawn that looked like a lush carpet. Damien cared for the garden with the same devotion he gave to his house — and to himself.

His world was filled with silence, except for the rustle of leaves, the whisper of rain, and the soft chime stirred by a passing breeze.

Until a voice cracked it.

“Excuse me, sir…”

It was late afternoon on a hot summer day. Damien sat in the shade of his patio, watching the dirt road that lay quiet and empty at this hour. A breeze brushed past like a soft, cold feather, carrying with it the intermittent cry of cicadas — a sound he oddly found comforting.

Damien turned toward that unexpected, unwanted voice with a frown. A boy stood at the entrance, dirty, sweating, dark skin clinging to bone.

“…sir, can I have some water? Please?” The boy’s voice rasped with thirst.

Damien looked away.

“I’ll work for it,” the boy pleaded, palms pressed together as if in prayer.

Damien looked at him and then at the peeling paint spots on the fence.

“You can touch up my fence. Do that, and I’ll give you water or juice. Anything you want to drink.”

The boy’s dull eyes lit up with hope, and he licked his cracked lips eagerly before asking, like a child seeking reassurance, “‘Anything?”

“Yes. But finish the job first.”

The sun punished the boy as he worked, strokes uneven, hands trembling. Damien scowled at the patchy work.

“I’m done, sir! Can I now have something to drink?”

“No. That’s sloppy. Do it again — slow, steady. I’ll show you.”

Damien didn’t bother to hide his disgust as he took the brush from the boy’s filthy, sweat-slick hands. With slow, deliberate strokes, he painted over a patch — like Leonardo da Vinci, carefully restoring the Mona Lisa.

When he handed the brush back, his eyes glittered with the pride of an artist admiring his own work. He never noticed the tears in the boy’s frightened eyes: Will I ever be able to do it this good?

The time in the sun had worn Damien down — and he longed to wash the touch of the brush from the boy’s hands. As he turned to go back inside, he said,

“‘Knock once on the door when you’re done. Just once. Got it?”

The boy nodded silently.

Inside, Damien scrubbed his hands with soap — twice — then lay back on the bed, a glass of cold water slipping down his throat. Through the window, he watched the boy move carefully this time, dragging his body along the fence with each patch. Damien’s eyes soon grew heavy, and he drifted into sleep.

When he woke, dusk had settled. The boy was gone.

“He must’ve left. Too dark now to check the work.” He fixed himself a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He never saw the small body curled in the shadow of the patio, lifeless.

Around midnight, the full moon bled through the window, casting the room in a pale, blurred glow. The air turned cold, a smell of paint filled the room. Damien crouched in his bed, clutching the blanket to his chin.

And then he heard it.
One knock at the door.

Just one.

Damien frowned, eyes half open, “The boy… still working?”

His eyes, heavy with sleep, flicked toward the door. His breath caught in his throat — there, inside the room, stood the boy. Damien rubbed his eyes, blinked hard. The figure was gone.

“A dream,” he muttered. “Just a dream.”

Knock.

Small knuckles on hard wood.

Again. Just one.

Not at the door. From the bookshelf this time. Damien snapped his head around — and froze. The boy sat perched atop it, feet dangling, heels pounding the wooden doors. His head tilted at an unnatural angle, his grin stretched too wide, his eyes fixed on Damien with a piercing stare.

“I’m done, sir,” the boy rasped. “Can I have something to drink now?”

The laugh that followed was brittle, dry, like sandpaper scraping glass.

Damien jerked up, inching toward the door, but the floor was icy cold beneath his feet, numbing him, rooting him in place. The paint fumes grew heavier, suffocating him.

And then — the boy vanished from the shelf.

He dared a glance at the door, clinging to a faint hope of escape. But the boy stood there now, blocking it. His face was hard, his breath heavy, his eyes burning holes through Damien. When he spoke, it was no longer a child’s voice but something guttural, ancient.

“You promised,” it growled. “I can have anything I want.”

Damien collapsed to his knees. Hands pressed together, trembling, he begged, “Forgive me… please. Let me go.”

The boy’s expression shifted — years of anger, years of hunger, years of torment etched into it. Damien lowered his gaze. He saw the boy’s feet — raw, bleeding, caked with dirt — the endless miles walked barefoot under the sun.

A scream ripped through the house, echoing down that desolate corner of town.

Nobody heard it.

The next morning, Damien woke to find the novel on his bedside table. He let out a dry chuckle. “Just a nightmare, I really should stop reading horror.”

But the words died in his throat when his eyes shifted to the patio — where the boy’s body sat slumped in the shadow, eyes wide open, utterly still.

The police arrived and carried it away. The report was dismissive: unknown minor, dead from heatstroke and dehydration.

No one ever knew the truth.

From that day forward, Damien never dared to touch the fence. His house remained spotless, his garden immaculate, but the white picket fence stood untouched — its paint peeling, its boards weathered, a scar against the perfection.

In the silence he once cherished, he sometimes heard the boy’s frail whisper on the wind, “Sir… can I have some water?”

On darker nights, when he lay sleepless, he heard something worse — a knock at the door.

Just one.

Epilogue

Now, by the entrance, Damien keeps a jar filled with water on a small table. No one must ever pass his house thirsty again. It is his offering, his penance, his fragile hope that the whispers will fade, that the knocking will stop, that life might one day return to normal.

But deep down, he knows it never will.

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The elevator jolted to a sudden stop. Power outages have become routine lately.

But, this time, I didn’t mind.
Not for the evening city view through the glass panels.
But because she stood beside me — the new girl in marketing I’d been too shy to say hi.

Just us.

It felt like fate was handing me a chance — maybe my only one. I couldn’t wait any longer. My pulse hammered louder than a train clattering over rough rails.

“You… you’re beautiful”

She turned to me sharply.

“I’ve been trying to say hi since you joined nine days ago,” I blurted.

Her eyes widened.
A shiver ran up my spine — would I be getting that email from HR?

Then she smiled, the prettiest smile in the world, and whispered.

“Same here.”

This story first appeared as Flash Fiction under 150 words in Story Lamp Reviews, a Medium publication.

Even though she’d seen it with her own eyes, she would never believe what happened. Meera stared at the clip on her phone, her hands shaking. “Oh my God… no, that’s impossible!”

The digital clock blinked 1:43 a.m. The sharp alert had pierced the silence of her sleep — a motion detection from the backyard camera. She’d installed it a week ago, praying it’d never catch anything worth seeing.

The grainy night-vision footage showed a figure stepping into the faint porch light.
Her breath caught in her throat.
It was him.

Her husband…
The man who had died three weeks ago.

Four months ago, their world had shifted. The joy of expecting their first child soured when he lost his job — like salt in milk.

He had fought relentlessly, but the ruthless job market spat back rejections. Once, they dreamed of building a world for their baby; now, they worried about keeping a roof overhead.

Then, the stroke of hope appeared a month ago: a few interview calls in Los Angeles. He’d left with a nervous smile, promising to return in days.

Instead, came the call.
An accident.
A burned car at the bottom of a valley.
A body so charred she could not even recognize him.

And now, at midnight, with eyes heavy from worry more than grief, she watched that same man step inside her house.

Her heart thundered. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t.

Floorboards creaked outside her bedroom.
She froze — her body swollen with pregnancy, barely able to move.

The door opened.

She tried to scream — but a hand clamped over her mouth. Panic blinded her. The room spun. Then, darkness.

When her eyes fluttered open, she was lying on the bed. He was sitting in the chair beside her — her husband. Alive.

She jerked up, but he leaned forward quickly.

“Don’t scream. Please. I’ll explain.”

Her wide eyes narrowed and filled with tears. He pulled her gently into his chest, his fingers stroking her hair.

A few moments passed. She put her palms on her eyes, wiping her tears, cleared her throat, and stared at him, demanding answers.

“The interview was a disaster,” he began. “I knew I didn’t get it. I just kept driving, not knowing where I was going…”

Aimless driving brought him to a ravaged woodland, still smoldering from the wildfire that had torn through days before. He took a walk in that desolate place, trying to clear his head. The air reeked of ash and charred earth.

And there he saw it.

A burned body — half-buried under fallen branches.

“This could have been me. At least, it would end everything.”

But then his mind raced. No job, a child on the way, debt mounting… desperation led to something unthinkable.

“I called an old friend. He’s… a fixer. Knows people who can swap dental records, fudge autopsies. We made a plan.”

Meera’s stomach turned.

He dragged the corpse into his car, strapped it into the driver’s seat, gagging at the smell of scorched flesh. He slipped his wedding ring onto its finger, and tucked his wallet by its side.

He then loosened the fuel line, soaked the spare blanket in motor oil, and lit it before shoving the car down the slope.

He stood at the ridge, watching the fire devour his existence.

“Why?” Meera whispered, her face pale.

He leaned back, a smile curling at his lips.

“Life insurance,” he said, eyebrows waggling, “Four million dollars.”

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This story first appeared in First Line Fiction, a Medium publication.

Shivering on the frosty bench, she pulled her thin coat tighter against the icy wind, her bare hands red and raw.

The neon display flickered above her:
Bus #47–Delayed.
Arriving in 3 minutes.

She sighed.

Meera had moved to this icy northern city just yesterday for a job. No one had warned her about the sudden snow bursts — this much, this wild. She regretted wearing an outfit meant for a mild winter drizzle.

Then, she saw him — rushing to the bus stop.

Sam.

She froze. Her pulse drummed in her ears, and heat rushed to her face, reminding her of his betrayal!

Eight months… Eight months since she walked in on him and her best friend tangled in the sheets — her sheets — when she showed up early from a weekend trip. Yet the hurt of betrayal returned, like a migraine in the glare.

She looked away. But it was too late. He’d seen her.

He slowed, eyes narrowed, then he shrugged as she was clearly avoiding him.

The air was tense, the kind of silence that shatters with a single word. He reached into his coat for a cigarette — but just then, he saw the bus pulling in.

They climbed aboard. The bus was almost full — only a row with two seats was empty.

“Go ahead, I’ll stand,” he offered.

She didn’t bother acknowledging him and headed straight for it.

He stood by the pole, but the driver, irritated by the storm and icy roads, barked from the front,

“No standing allowed! Take a seat or step off, sir!”

“Fantastic!” He threw his hands in the air and slid into the seat beside her. They both stared out opposite windows.

A few minutes passed in awkward silence. He couldn’t stand it anymore,

“How are you?”

She turned sharply, “Why do you care?”

He lifted his palms, backing down to keep the peace. But she continued,

“You really have the guts to talk like nothing happened?… after what I saw?”

His head tipped back slightly, eyebrows lifting.

“You saw? No, your highness — I saw. You were in the kitchen, laughing in lingerie… and he was buttoning his shirt.”

Her eyes widened.

“What are you even saying? Do you hear yourself? Or have you completely lost it, Sam?!”

His head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing, “Who’s Sam?”

“What do you mean, who’s Sam? That’s you — who else… Sam?”

“I’m Nathan. You remember me, don’t you, Ms. Rita?”

“Who’s Rita?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Wait — aren’t you Sam?”

“No! I’m Nathan. Here’s my card.” He pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to her.
She studied it for a moment.

His eyes narrowed, “Aren’t you Rita?”
She shook her head.

They stared at each other — then burst out laughing.

“Maybe the universe,” she said through giggles, “wanted to play a cosmic joke.”

He nodded, “You look exactly like my ex. I’ve heard there are seven people in the world who look alike, but this… this is beyond anything I imagined.”

“Totally! I can’t believe we look exactly like each other’s exes — this is mind-boggling!”

The bus screeched to a halt. They both reached for the railing, and her hand landed on his. They both froze for a beat. She pulled it away slowly.

“That’s my stop,” he said, stepping off with a wink. “Bye, Ms. Almost-Ex.”

She watched him vanish into the snowfall.
Her smile lingered a little longer.

And then she noticed the card in her hand.
Nathan Reynolds
Graphic Designer
(555) 019–4726

The smile returned to her lips.

Maybe the universe wasn’t done with its quirks.
Maybe… it was just getting started.

This story first appeared in First Line Fiction, a Medium publication.

You know the type, we’ll do.

First to stand when the plane lands, closest spot facing the tour guide, front and center in all photos — whether it’s a baby shower or a funeral.

Unbearably irritating.

But behind that pushiness was a story I never expected.

It goes back to my college days.
There was one in the dorms who never shied away from racing to the prime spot — for everything. Annoyed as we were, the rest of us still got a good laugh, vividly mimicking his antics behind his back.

Then, one day, it all changed — for me.

It was a Saturday evening, and I was minding my own business — sipping from a smuggled beer at a campus hideout. He walked in by accident, holding one in his hand. We barely knew each other, but my private rumination quickly turned into a drinking-with-a-buddy ritual.

Since, I’d long contemplated what could possibly drive his behavior, half bottle in, I had courage to ask him directly.

“Why the fuck you’re like this?”

He didn’t understand where I was coming from.

Reading out a few case files with indisputable facts cleared the matter.

Then, what he said next changed everything — the way I saw him, how quickly I judged people, and how blind I’d been to the silent weight others might carry.

The Story Behind That Pushiness

This was eight years ago. He was twelve. She was seven — his little sister. He loved her more than anything. She was the only one who made him feel like a hero.

Every afternoon, she’d be waiting for him outside her school gate —one hand always holding onto a Barbie doll like it was sacred.

She was crazy about barbie then — a couple of years ago, it was dinosaurs. Now her world was made of glitter and plastic heels.

That winter, he secretly peeked into her Letter to Santa when she was asleep hugging a Ballerina Barbie.

“Dear Santa, I don’t want new doll this year. I want to go to Big Barbie party. Please please please”

That big event was set for the day after Christmas. Tickets would go on sale in two days.

That morning, he skipped school and boarded a train downtown to make her secret wish come true.

The ticket booth was swarmed — impatient parents yelling. Elbows flying. He stood there for a long time… hesitant.

Then he turned around. Empty handed.

That Christmas Eve she cried for hours.

“There’s always the next Christmas, right? I’ll take you next year,” he wiped her tears.

She believed him with teary but hopeful eyes.
“Promise?”
“I promise,” he lied.

Spring came. Then summer. Then something changed.

It started with a cough that wouldn’t stop.

The pneumonia was sudden. She was so small in that bed, surrounded by big machines.

She still believed in his promise… till her last day.
And he hated himself for it.

It’s been years now.
He’s first in line for everything — even the things that don’t matter.

Sometimes the only moment that stays… is the one you missed.

This story first appeared in Pen With Paper, a Medium publication.

It wasn’t love at first sight. Their first meeting felt like a performance — he was making sure his biceps showed beneath perfectly arranged sleeves, while she angled her smile just right so he didn’t miss her dimples.

It was a typical arranged marriage setup — matched through bio-data and married under parental guidance.

Yet, they fell in love — unaware of what destiny had in store.

They shared their hearts over morning coffee…
He gently kissed her forehead when came home late from work, thinking she was asleep…
She quietly closed the bedroom door each morning so he could sleep a little longer…

And, when everything felt perfect, life turned it all upside down.

That day, he came home early — a small velvet box hidden in his pocket, a promotion letter tucked in his bag. All the way, he pictured her face when he shared the news: the sparkle in her eyes, the laughter with her dimples.

But the home was silent except for the distant hum of the bathroom’s exhaust fan. He placed his phone on the shelf, hit record, and angled it toward the bathroom door — eager to capture her reaction to the surprise he had for her.

“This will be a memory,” he whispered to himself.

Moments later, she stepped out.
She was surprised to see him waiting there, but he noticed the trace of tears in her eyes — she had been crying inside.

He rushed to her, wrapping his arms around her. She leaned into him as if she had been waiting for him for hours.

He felt the depth of her sadness.
He stayed silent, giving her the space to gather herself.
She let her tears spill onto his shoulder, clinging to him.

Then, in a fragile voice, she said,

“I’m sorry to break your heart… I hate to bring pain to the man I love. But I need you to hear me…”

She had been diagnosed with cancer just a few hours earlier.

The doctor’s words still echoed in her mind:

“It’s spread everywhere. There’s nothing we can do. It’s time to accept what’s coming and find closure. You have a few weeks… a month at most.”

That day, all their plans, all their dreams were shattered like fragile glass.

Hospital visits became routine. Hope rose and fell with every test result. And then, five weeks later, the fight ended. Her side of the bed went cold forever.

He tried everything to stitch himself back together, but the house was filled with her absence. Grief clung to him like a shadow through days and nights.

But love always finds a way to give strength, magically.

One lonely night, he was scrolling through the photo gallery on his phone — fragments of a life he once shared with her. He paused at the video — the one recorded on that evening, when he had planned to surprise her.

He tapped play on the video, but suddenly all the sadness of that moment crashed over him.

He threw away his phone.

He rushed into the bathroom, opened the drawer, and pulled out a razor blade. He stared at his wrist, trembling.

And then… he heard her voice…

“I’m sorry to break your heart… I hate to bring pain to the man I love. But I need you to hear me…”

He froze.

From the corner of the bedroom, his phone screen was glowing — it was playing that recorded video.

“I will always be with you. I will never be happy if my absence becomes your weakness. Every time you choose happiness, I will feel it too.”

He wept like a child — for the first time since she had passed away.

The blade slipped from his fingers to the floor.

That night, he didn’t die.

He lived, carrying her voice like an anchor to life.

This story first appeared in Pen With Paper, a Medium publication.

I remember the night when my fortune had vanished in thin air.

A few years ago, out of curiosity, I bought a few bitcoins — they were cheap back then.

To store them safely, I created a digital wallet using an app. It gave me a seed phrase: twelve random words that act as the master key to the wallet. Anyone with those words can access my bitcoins, so that seed phrase must be kept secret.

I wrote the seed phrase on a piece of paper and snapped a photo with my phone.

But I never uploaded that photo anywhere — not to Google Drive, not to iCloud. I’d heard the stories of hackers breaking into cloud accounts. One leak, one hacker, and all my bitcoins could be gone.

And, that was my first mistake.

That photo stayed on my phone as a forgotten secret for years — until the day I upgraded my phone.

I have this irresistible urge to start fresh whenever I get a new device, so I set it up from scratch with no data carried over from the old phone.

“The important stuff is already in the cloud, right?” I assured myself.

And, this was my second mistake.

Then came December 2017 — the month Bitcoin made its biggest leap. A single coin hit $20,000! Suddenly, everyone was talking about Bitcoin — even my uncle, who calls every app a “website”.

I remembered that I owned a few bitcoins. But my stomach sank as the truth hit me: the photo of my wallet seed was gone. My Bitcoin wallet, then worth hundreds of thousands, was locked in a digital vault I could no longer open.

What followed were the days of guilt and frustration — giving way to an obsession to recover that photo from my old phone. I scoured countless how‑to articles and YouTube videos titled “Try this if nothing else works” — But nothing worked.

I was shattered. I could’ve been surfing in the Bahamas instead of typing a status email to my manager — the one who began every sentence with, “Let’s not compare apples to oranges.”

Eventually, I surrendered to the truth: nothing in life arrives before its time… I stopped trying.

I stopped checking Bitcoin prices and started upvoting comments on Reddit that said “Bitcoin is a scam”.

Fast forward to July 2025: Bitcoin soared to heights the world had never seen.

And then, something unexpected happened!

The kids were on summer break, and our dinner time had turned into a hub for a “family project” ideas. The winning idea was converting the storeroom into a cozy reading nook.

I honestly wasn’t thrilled to spend my time-off sorting through years of dust. But I didn’t have much of a say, so I chose to enjoy the process.

I started with an old box of toys.

Inside that box, I found my daughter’s old Polaroid camera. She used to love taking random pictures back then — everything from the dog’s nose to her half‑eaten breakfast.

Out of nostalgia — and partly to escape the cleaning — I began flipping through the stack of instant photos.

And there it was!

A blurry photo my daughter had taken years ago showed my coffee mug. Off to the side, on my desk, lay a sheet of paper with twelve handwritten words — the seed phrase I had written back then. The same one in the photo I had lost when I upgraded my phone. And, by pure luck, my daughter had unknowingly captured it in this random shot!

The words in this photo were out of focus, but I was already a seasoned pro at finding how‑to articles and YouTube tutorials to make them readable.

To my shock, Bitcoin’s price had climbed to unimaginable heights, surpassing $100,000 per coin!

And just like that, millions in Bitcoin returned to me — rescued not by a cutting-edge technology, but by a child’s random act of curiosity!

This story first appeared in Quirky Rants, a Medium publication.

Real life turns into a saga when love touches it. When he first saw her, it felt like a dream — her beauty pure as rain‑washed leaves, perfect without a touch of makeup.

Her skin was soft and glowing with warmth. Her eyes were serene, as if hiding a secret. Her dark hair fell gently around the oval of her face, eyebrows arched with grace, and delicate nose where the tiny stud found its elegance.

The kind of beauty you glimpse once and remember forever.

He couldn’t believe she invited him to sit beside her — when everyone else always pushed him away.

That day, when he had walked into the classroom, he stumbled over a foot deliberately stuck in his path and dropped his books. Everyone laughed. He gathered his books and scanned the room for a place to hide from those stares.

That’s when he saw her and, without a single word, she invited him to sit beside her.

He was clumsy and shy, always avoiding eye contact. He lived in the company of books rather than people. His talent invited envy and made him everyone’s favorite target.

She arrived at the high school, mid‑term, to finish her senior year. She was an outsider in a world already in motion. She saw a boy, whom everyone teased and laughed at, searching for a friendly hand.

That moment became the start of a friendship that would grow into their closest bond.

They began studying together, and soon their worlds intertwined. She was impressed by his talent, and he felt joy when her eyes lit up after he explained something complex.

They walked through tree‑lined paths to their hidden spots where they sat together for hours—far from the crowd and noise. She talked about anything under the sun, and he listened with his heart. In that comfort, their friendship became its own small world.

Days passed, and the school year came to an end.

Life was ready to pull them onto different paths after graduation. On their last afternoon together, he finally gathered the courage to open his heart to her.

She hesitated…

“I’ve always seen you as a friend.”

He understood his place. He forced a smile, swallowing the lump in his throat, and pushed his tears back.

Years passed.

She married a confident, successful man. Together, they climbed the ladders — bigger houses, fancier cars, lavish trips. On Instagram, they were the happiest couple alive. But in quiet evenings, she still remembered him —his eyes in that last moment they shared.

One day, they were on a cliffside road in Santorini — one of those picture‑perfect vacations. Her husband drove with one hand, the other occasionally lifting his phone to capture the view.

The road curved sharply. A flash of sunlight off the water blinded him for a heartbeat. Tires screeched against the edge of the cliff.

When she opened her eyes in the hospital, the world was dark. Her husband recovered in a few weeks, but the accident had left her blind with severe damage to her corneas and optic nerves.

With her husband by her side, she chased every hope — doctors, specialists, treatments. Weeks blurred into months of waiting, each day heavier than the last.

Then, one afternoon, the doctor walked in with a smile and said,

“We have a cornea available for transplant.”

For the first time in months, she felt alive.

The surgery was delicate and slow, but when the bandages were finally removed, a faint blur of light broke through her darkness. She let her tears spill. The world she thought she had lost forever had returned — like a second life.

A few days later, she wrote a thank‑you letter to the donor’s family through the eye bank. To her surprise, they invited her to their home, hoping to hear how she saw the world through their son’s eyes.

She stepped into his room — and found herself everywhere without her photo or name anywhere. Gifts, sketches, poems — all whispered memories of those moments from the school, years ago.

On his desk lay a worn diary. She turned to the last page. There, in his familiar handwriting, a single line was written.

“I hope one day she will see my love the way I see it.”

And in that moment, through his eyes, she did.

This story first appeared in Quirky Rants, a Medium publication.

The courtroom was tense.

Judge Harold Wilcox — a man in his fifties, with a sharp voice and the build of a retired wrestler — adjusted his glasses and leaned forward. He’d presided over countless trials, but few drew this much scrutiny. Dabbing the sweat from his forehead, he took a sip from his glass of water.

The jury was seated — ten randomly selected people from different walks of life.

A woman was dead. A wife. A soon-to-be mother.

And the man on trial? Her husband.

Daniel Raynor — the husband — sat at the defendant’s table with a hollow stare. He hadn’t slept peacefully since the night he found her lying on the kitchen floor.

His eyes looked exhausted, from the kind of tears that come in waves — stirred by the memories of a loved one… their smile, their voice, some small, ordinary thing they used to do.

The room was packed. The media had covered the story like a restless hawk.

Three weeks earlier, Melissa Raynor became a headline. Found on her kitchen floor in a pool of blood. One clean stab to the abdomen. No signs of forced entry. No defensive wounds.

And the kitchen knife was missing.

It was the prosecution’s star witness who provided the first solid lead.

“I saw a man leave their house around midnight,” said neighbor Greg Milner.

This matched the coroner’s estimated time of death: between midnight and 1 AM.

“Middle-aged. Big guy, broad shoulders. Didn’t see his face, but he moved like he knew the place.”

He described Daniel without describing him.

The defendant’s main witness was Tara Levin — the victim’s friend and trainer.

She repeatedly insisted that Melissa and Daniel were happily married.

Until, the prosecution’s cross uncovered that Tara and Daniel knew each other from childhood — way before she met Melissa.

And then poked a hole into her portrayal of the happy marriage…

“Did Melissa ever mention Daniel acting violently?”

Tara looked at Daniel — as if asking for the right answer.

“Ms. Levin?”

“Yes… she said he hit her. Once.”

The cross-examination raised reasonable doubts in her testimony — and credibility.

On the following days, many witnesses were called upon to testify. Each one built the prosecution’s case stronger.

The coroner confirmed that someone with Daniel’s physique was capable of inflicting such a fatal wound.

Former co-workers spoke of his temper, his mood swings, and the way he appeared possessive whenever Melissa’s name came up.

On the fourth day of the trial — when the jury appeared to have already made up their minds — the defense made a shocking move!

“Defense calls Mr. Daniel Raynor to the witness box.”

The defense lawyer’s face said it all — this wasn’t a strategy, it was a forced move by the accused himself.

The jury gasped, and the courtroom erupted in whispers.

“Order! Order!” — Judge Wilcox slammed his gavel to restore silence.

Daniel stepped into the witness box.
The defense stepped forward for examination.

“Please state your name and relationship with the victim, for the record.”

“I’m Daniel Raynor. Melissa is… was my wife.”

Grief looks different on everyone. On Daniel, it wore a restrained shade — like doing its best to hold him together.

“How would you describe your marriage, Mr. Raynor?”

“I loved her. She was the only one who didn’t make me feel like a loser. We were married for 12 years. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

Daniel looked down — pushed back tears, and regained his composure.

The defense continued, “I know this is a difficult time for you, but for the jury’s knowledge — where were you on the night of the murder before returning home?”

“I was working late that night. I had called in to let her know that I would be coming back in the morning. But I couldn’t focus, so I decided to leave and reached home an hour past midnight…”

Daniel’s voice was shaking as if he were standing there again.

“The door was unlocked. First, I thought someone had broken in. I panicked and rushed inside, and then I saw her… lying on the floor… lifeless… blood all over. I didn’t believe myself… I didn’t want to.”

Daniel turned his face down, covered in his hands, sobbing quietly, but the subtle shaking of his shoulders gave it away.

Jurors looked doubtful, as if they were trying to decide if it was grief or guilt.

“Did you kill your wife?”

“No! I would never hurt her. She was the love of my life… she was my life.”

Two jurors shifted in their seats — appeared unsettled.

“No more questions, Milord,” the defense rested.

“Mr. Raynor, did you know your wife was carrying someone else’s child?”

The prosecution struck right where it hurt.

Daniel didn’t respond. He appeared defeated, looking at the helpless defense lawyer.

“Mr. Raynor, answer the question. Yes or No?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Have you ever hit your wife?”

Daniel’s voice turned sharp for the first time.

“Yes, we fought. Yes, I was angry. But I never… never laid a hand on her after that one time. She threatened to leave, but I begged her not to.”

“Mr. Raynor, just a yes or no was sufficient.”

The prosecution continued, “Why didn’t you call 911 immediately? You waited 2 hours before making the call.”

“I was shocked… I didn’t want to believe it…”

“That was two hours, Mr. Raynor. Plenty of time to clean up… even hide a weapon. Why did you wait that long?”

“Objection! Asked and answered.”

“Overruled,” Judge Wilcox said coldly. “He can answer.”

“I… was hoping it was a nightmare and it would get over if I just waited. I was hoping to wake up feeling that relief —like it was all just a terrible dream.”

The prosecutor looked at Daniel, studying him like a human lie detector.

“Mr. Raynor, can you recall what time you left your work that night?”

“Ah… I don’t remember the exact time. Maybe at midnight?”

“No, Mr. Raynor, you left at 11:37 PM. The security camera footage proves it. It takes no more than 20 minutes to reach your home. That means you must have reached home right before midnight.”

Jurors noted it in their writing pads.

“No, I had checked the time before stepping out from my car at home, it was almost 1 AM…”

Daniel hesitated as if caught between staying silent and telling the truth…

“I know you are not going to believe me. But I stopped on my way home at a corner… I had left home that day on a bad note, so I was trying to pull myself together. I had a couple of cigarettes… if I hadn’t stopped, I could have saved her. I hate myself for it.”

“That’s very convenient, isn’t it, Mr. Raynor?”

The prosecutor paused for a moment — just long enough for the tension to settle — before delivering his next blow.

“You reached home right before midnight, you apologized for the morning, but she had decided to leave you. You couldn’t take it. You couldn’t control yourself from that humiliation… You killed her in that rage. Yes or No?”

“Objection! Badgering!” the defense stood up.

“Sustained. Mr. Raynor, you don’t have to answer it.”

The judge reprimanded the prosecution and requested the jury to disregard the remark.

“My apologies, your honor. No more questions.”

But the words had already reached the jury— no instruction could unhear them.

Jurors exchanged glances.

“Guilty!”

The unanimous verdict from the jury arrived in less than an hour.

Daniel looked around the courtroom like a drowning man — trying to find one pair of eyes that still believed him.

Tara let her tears roll down when her eyes met Daniel’s gaze and whispered to herself, “She told me you loved her. Even with everything that happened, she knew you loved her.”

Judge Wilcox’s gavel came down. “Court is adjourned.”

Back in his chamber, the judge removed his robe with care.

He poured himself a drink with shaking hands.

He then reached down and unlocked a desk drawer.

Inside, wrapped in a handkerchief, was a bloodstained kitchen knife.

His eyes lingered on it.

She had told him that night — the truth he couldn’t afford.

He had begged her. Pleaded. But she wouldn’t listen.

It would’ve destroyed everything.

He closed the drawer.

And locked it.

This story first appeared in Illumination, a Medium publication.

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You never picture yourself in a room like that — still, cold, waiting. Maybe it was my curiosity… the one that killed a cat. Maybe fate. But there I was.

Then he walked in. The man who murdered 37 young couples, leaving their little ones behind to face the world alone. I had sixty minutes to find out why — not as a detective or a journalist, but as someone trying to understand what turns a person into a serial killer.

Honestly, I’d pictured someone else — cold grin, piercing eyes. But, there was none of that. Just an old man in his sixties. Thin hair. Slouched in his chair. Blinking slowly, staring at nothing — as if he’s tired of being seen.

One fluorescent light flickered overhead. But inside me… emotions swirled like a deafening tornado. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding, and worried he could too. Fear, anger, doubt… and above all, a pressing curiosity: What makes someone do what he did?

A few seconds passed in silence.

“Why?” I finally asked — barely a whisper.

He sighed, “That’s the question, huh?”

There was a long silence.

He leans back. I wasn’t sure if he would ever answer it.

But then he spoke. Not to confess, not to justify, but maybe to empty something out.

“It never starts with a murder. It starts with the pain… I didn’t know how to exist without the pain. So I gave it away.”

I didn’t feel sympathy. But it hurt. Like hearing pain speak its native tongue.

“But why parents? Did you ever think about the kind of life their children would be left with?”

“When you’re drowning, do you care who you drag down with you?”

I didn’t want to answer that.

He didn’t expect one either. He continued.

“My mother used to lock me in the basement when I cried. Said I needed to learn how to behave. I wasn’t even ten…”

He swallowed hard, like the words were heavier than he expected.

“My father? He used me to dump his frustration — on the rare days he was sober enough to stand. I don’t think he saw me as a person. Just a punching bag — the reason his life didn’t work.”

He paused, eyes fixed somewhere I couldn’t see.

“I just wanted to play. Be a kid. But the others wouldn’t let their children near me. They’d leave the park when I showed up, or stare at me until I left. Close their doors if they saw me on the sidewalk.”

His voice dropped.

“They all thought I was a monster. And so I became one.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I felt his pain but didn’t want to admit… to him… or myself.

A few minutes passed in silence. I thought about stepping out to give him space and give myself distance. But one question lingered like a thorn in my mind. I couldn’t walk away without asking.

“Did you ever want to stop?”

He chuckled — not out of comfort, but something closer to helplessness — then dropped his gaze. Maybe he was searching for the right words. Maybe just avoiding to face the question.

I didn’t dare interrupt. I stayed still… just like I used to as a kid, waking up in the middle of the night, frozen in bed, convinced something was lurking in the dark. One small movement, one sound, and it would know I was there.

He finally spoke.

“It was the only thing that made me feel anything. Stopping meant facing who I was without it. And I didn’t think there was anything left by then.”

It struck deeper than any life lesson or philosophy I’d ever read.

The door opened. The hour had passed. I stood to leave.

He looked into my eyes… for the first time directly. And then, from somewhere deep inside him, came two unexpected words.

“Thank you.”

I didn’t understand why.
Maybe it was gratitude, surfacing in the final days of his life.
Or maybe… I was the first person who listened long enough… for him to finally let go of what he’d buried for decades.

I walked out unchanged on the outside — but rearranged, disoriented inside.

The monsters aren’t born. They are cornered, stripped, and pushed to become one.

This story first appeared in Quirky Rants, a Medium publication.