Plot Twists Short Stories & Roommate Detective Novels

On Christmas Eve, my friend, Lenny Gibson, sends me a text message. "I've rented a Maybach for our cat so that we can go back to our hometown for the holidays. It'll be seven thousand dollars per person. The car is fitted with air conditioning and security cameras. Don't you think this is a good deal?" I glance at my bank app, which has just deducted my monthly house mortgage from my account. "Nah. Bebe isn't a spoiled princess. I can't afford to rent such an expensive car." The next day, I receive a selfie of Lenny hugging Bebe while seated in the Maybach. "It's such a shame that you aren't here, Noah. The Maybach's owner is a hot chick, not to mention she's kind-hearted enough to give me a ride home as well!" On the evening of Christmas, I hear sounds of rapid knocking coming from the front door as soon as I enter the house. Lenny's anxious parents can be seen standing on the doorstep. "Is Lenny here with you? He hasn't come home at all! He told us yesterday that he wanted to prepare a birthday gift for you, so he had us give him 20 thousand dollars!" Before I can recover from my shock, the police come knocking on my door as well. It turns out that I'm the last person Lenny has contacted…

Chloe, the maid I share a room with, is dead. I watched the head housekeeper and another maid pin her to the floor. I watched them as the housekeeper vomited up a slimy, black web of fungus and forced it down Chloe's throat. I should have screamed. I wanted to. But my selective mutism took over, trapping the sound in my throat. It probably saved my life. The next day, Chloe was alive again. She walked into the young miss’s room to brush her hair, just like always. I was so scared I dropped the water basin I was holding. As I stood there, frozen, the young miss leaned in close, her voice a whisper only I could hear. "You've noticed it too, haven't you? They're not themselves anymore."

At five in the evening on the thirtieth of April, I was heading back to my dorm when a disheveled woman in a mask passed me going the other way. Her eyes were sunken. "It's your turn," I thought I heard her say, but her voice was so faint I thought I might have imagined it. A second later, a deafening thump came from nearby. "Ah!" "Someone jumped off a building!" "Someone's dead! Call an ambulance!" The police arrived quickly and sealed off the scene. The girl who had died was Rosa Harris, one of my dorm mates. The police interrogated each of us. All of us had the same impression of her. She was poor, unsociable, withdrawn, and possibly mentally ill. Her death was ruled a suicide before long. The police left, but the campus stayed on lockdown. Everyone was forced to hand over their phones for inspection. Anything about Rosa's suicide was deleted to keep the news from getting out. The lockdown would end at eight in the morning on the first of May, when we could leave for the break. But I never made it off campus. When my alarm rang at six in the morning, I groggily opened my eyes. Suddenly, a large hand clamped over my mouth and nose. I suffocated, dying in agony and despair. When I opened my eyes again, it was five in the evening on the thirtieth of April. A voice spoke in my ear, so faint I could have imagined it. "It's your turn."

During my senior year of high school, I moved into an old house just to save money. Something about the place felt off. At first, it was just things I casually put down disappearing without a trace. Then, random objects that didn't belong to me started appearing around the house. One night, I finished my homework and was about to go to sleep when a girl's tank top suddenly fell from the ceiling. I froze for several seconds. Just as I was about to throw it away, I heard someone cursing out of nowhere. "Who's there? Darn it! What kind of creep steals a tank top?"