Plot Twists Short Stories & Pervert Mind Reading Novels

My name is Margaret Turner. After my daughter, Sarah McDowell, becomes pregnant, I am shocked to find that I can hear the thoughts of the baby in her womb. "Grandma, please don't let Mommy get the prenatal checkup! If they learn I'm a girl, Dad will make her get rid of me. I don't want to die!" I can't believe what I'm hearing. Knowing that my son‑in‑law, Jeremy O'Brien, works at a hospital and can use his connections to learn the baby's gender, I do everything in my power to keep Sarah from being examined. But three months later, doctors confirm that Sarah's baby has a congenital deformity and is fated to be born disabled. Sarah is devastated, and guilt consumes me. Suddenly, I hear my granddaughter's voice again. "It's all because of Dad. He cheated with that nurse and returned home soaked in her cheap perfume. As soon as Mommy breathed it in, I was fated to come into the world deformed. Poor Mommy…" Rage explodes inside me. Without a second thought, I storm into Jeremy's workplace, determined to catch him in the act. I don't expect to walk in on a critical heart surgery he is performing. My intrusion throws the room into chaos, and the patient dies on the operating table. The patient's family loses control, and they cause a violent scene in the hospital. In the mayhem, Jeremy is killed on the spot. When Sarah learns what I've done, she is consumed by rage and declares she wants nothing more to do with me. At that moment, my granddaughter's voice echoes in my mind once more. "Mommy is heartbroken and needs time to heal. Grandma, please don't make things worse. Mommy will be okay after she rests." Hearing this, I force myself to stay calm. But that very night, word arrives that Sarah has thrown herself into a river and ended her life. Shattered by grief, I eventually make the same tragic choice. As my final breath fades, my granddaughter's chilling laugh echoes in my ears. When I open my eyes again, I find myself back on the day her voice first crept into my mind.

In my past life, I was trafficked and gave birth to a son. When Noah Barrett turns six, I plan to take him and escape from the mountains. On my first attempt, I map out the route in advance and prepare to flee with him. But in the morning, my mother-in-law, Ruth Whitaker, blocks me at the door. She ties me up and locks me inside the shed. Then, she starves me for three days. On my second try, I secretly buy sleeping pills from an unlicensed village doctor and slip them into dinner. At the table, Ruth flips the table without hesitation and beats me until I am half dead. The third time, I take advantage of a village meeting and escape with Noah again. We hide in a concealed mountain cave. Neither of us makes a sound, yet Ruth finds us with ease. I am dragged back and locked away in the pigpen. Ruth takes a shovel and strikes me with it again and again. "You filthy bitch. You dare run off with my precious grandson!" Her eyes are bloodshot. With the final blow, she uses all her strength and smashes the shovel into my head. I collapse to the ground. My consciousness fades. My blood drains away, and I die. When I open my eyes again, I am back on the day I plan to escape the mountains with Noah. Suddenly, I can hear Noah's thoughts, his voice clear and dripping with viciousness. "Mom can't be allowed to run. Grandma says Mom is our family's slave. She's supposed to serve us for her whole life."

I am a real estate agent. For the past three years, I have been the top seller in the industry. It is not because I am a smooth talker; it is because I can hear houses speak. The houses will chatter about a hollow wall, a leaking pipe, or a window with a bad seal. During move-out inspections, I point out exactly what tenants try to hide. When showing a place to renters, I warn them about hidden red flags. I have been doing this so long that both sides treat me like family. Then, one Friday, a regular client, Eleanor Wilson, shows up. "Devan, the tenants at the Eastmere place are moving out." Eleanor is in her 60s. Her husband is long gone, and she lives off the rental income. She is a sweet soul. She charges 20% below market rate and even makes cookies for her tenants during the holidays. The couple moving out this time is Henry Johnson and his wife. They run a fruit stand at the local market and have a six-year-old daughter, Lea Johnson. "Lea is missing," Eleanor says, her eyes welling with tears. "She vanished outside the market last month. Just like that, in the blink of an eye. Henry and his wife have been searching for a month. They're worn out and broke. They just can't take it anymore." A heaviness settles in my chest at her words. I grab the keys and head out with her. Eleanor gasps for air with every flight of stairs we climb. I walk ahead of her. The moment I slide the key into the lock of Apartment 602, the doorknob vibrates violently against my palm. A second later, I dial 911. "I want to report a case of murder. There's a hidden body on the sixth floor of 18 Montclair Heights, Eastmere. The victim is their daughter."