Action Adventure Fiction

Bedtime stories, fantasy, fiction, romance, action, urban,mystery, thriller and anything more you can think ... Just a warning ... none of them are normal.

3:00 a.m. Insomnia gnawed at my nerves like a rusted saw, grinding back and forth mercilessly. On a whim that I couldn't explain, I opened a radio app called "Echoes from Below." The interface was simple and bare. Black background, blue text. No ads, no host introduction. Just a single audio waveform, slowly buffering on the screen. The shape of the waveform felt wrong. It didn't look like soundwaves at all. More like rows of sharp, interlocking teeth. A pop-up window appeared in the center of the screen. [Listening Guidelines] The letters glowed blue, carrying an unsettling eeriness. [This station's signal may extend into dreams. If you hear the broadcast while dreaming, firmly believe that you are awake.]

To pay off my student loans, I started doing spicy streams online. I never thought I'd actually blow up. Every night, my audience floods the chat, fawning over my face and my body. I love the attention, and I work hard to give them what they want. Until I was dropped into a horror game. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a rotting corpse. And for some reason, my livestream was still running. When the game’s Boss told us all to pick a weapon to die by. The other players all chose to die of old age, or peacefully in their sleep like a baby. I turned my phone to face the boss. "My fans think you're hot," I stammered. "They want me to be killed by... well, by the weapon between your legs. They said 'deeply.' Is that... an option?" The other players whispered among themselves. “This woman must have a death wish.” “Just watch. The Boss is about to tear her to shreds.” But no one expected the Boss to blush.

Stimmen des Windes In den stillsten Winkeln der Welt, wenn die Nacht sich verdichtet und der Wind mit einem uralten Klagegesang flüstert, versuchen Stimmen an die Oberfläche zu dringen, die niemals hätten gehört werden dürfen. Es sind die Stimmen derer, die starben, belastet mit Schuld, die sich nicht mehr abwaschen lässt – Seelen, gezeichnet von schrecklichen Entscheidungen, die ihr eigenes Schicksal der Verdammnis besiegelten. Stimmen des Windes versammelt voneinander unabhängige, doch durch einen gemeinsamen, gespenstischen Faden verbundene Erzählungen: Jede der beschriebenen Gestalten ist in einem endlosen Zwischenreich gefangen, einem Ort, an dem die Zeit stillsteht und Reue zur ewigen Folter wird. Dort erleben die Toten ihre Fehler immer und immer wieder, während sie verzweifelt versuchen, die Grenze zu durchbrechen, die sie von Erlösung… oder Vergessen trennt. Doch sie sind nicht allein. Etwas anderes haust in diesem Grenzraum. Etwas, das sich von dem Leid nährt, das sie einst über sich selbst gebracht haben. Und wenn der Wind erneut aufkommt, verwandeln sich ihre einst kaum hörbaren Flüstern in Schreie – Schreie, die einen Zeugen unter den Lebenden suchen. Jede Geschichte offenbart ein Geheimnis, ein Verbrechen, einen Verrat… und eine Präsenz, die aus der Dunkelheit lauert, geduldig, hungrig, bereit, das einzufordern, was ihr gehört. Hör genau hin. Der Wind spricht. Und seine Stimmen wollen nicht vergessen werden.

Every year, the village had to choose a girl of age to become the Blossom Bride. The girl who was chosen would be sent into the cave as the village god’s wife. She would spend the entire night with him. If she came out alive, she would be honored for the rest of her life as a village elder. Any child she bore was said to be blessed, destined for a life of effortless fortune. If she died, the village would simply wait for the next year, when another Blossom Bride would be chosen. The blessing of the Blossom Bride was believed to pass on to her parents and elders as well. However, no one wanted to be chosen. To escape the ritual, families quietly left the village, one after another. I was the only one who volunteered. I had a lust problem, and I had always wondered what it would feel like to be with a god.

Because I was a cheapskate, I rented a cheap apartment. The catch? Someone had died in it. The soundproofing of the house was bad, and I could hear my neighbor’s wife moaning every night. But my other neighbor told me that there was no one living in the apartment next to mine.

My husband, Hank, is dead.  On our wedding anniversary, he ventured out in the pouring rain to buy me a cake, only to be hit by a truck. His body was badly mangled in the crash.  My sister-in-law, Lyra, called me a killer, claiming that I did not deserve Hank’s inheritance.  My mother-in-law, Judy, kicked me out of the house.  Overwhelmed by grief and guilt, I often wondered if he would still be alive had I stopped him that day. Eventually, emotions gripped me, and I was diagnosed with cancer.  Judy came to visit me on my deathbed. “You’re an idiot to believe everything!”  She threw a family photo in my face.  The shock and anger were more than I could handle, and I breathed my last.  It turned out that Hank was never dead. He had a child with his old flame.  When I opened my eyes once more, I returned to the day my husband faked his death.

While exploring the wilderness, my younger sister—Charlotte Forrester—and I accidentally stumble onto the territory of supernatural beings. She grabs the hand of the noble, elegant male elf, her posture coy and intimate. Before I can react, a wolfman with a scar on his face wraps his arm around my waist and leads me away. Charlotte, who judges others by appearance, is unaware that the male elf—Elwin Duskwood—belongs to a tribe of half-elves. Half-elves are beautiful but possess no real capabilities. They are considered a marginalized group among elves and struggle to make ends meet every day. On the other hand, the wolfman—Morgan Nightshade—is a mid-tier wolf tribe's Highlord. After giving birth to an extremely rare silver wolf for him, I have become the Highlady of the tribe. I'm respected by everyone in the tribe and feast on delicacies every day. Meanwhile, Charlotte becomes emaciated after suffering from starvation for several months. When she sees how plump I am, she goes insane from jealousy. While the wolf tribe is entertaining guests at a banquet, she uses poison to kill me. The next time I open my eyes, Charlotte and I are back at the moment we first entered the supernatural beings' territory by mistake. Charlotte immediately hugs Morgan by the waist and kisses him. She showers him with flattery about his strength, calling him the man of her dreams. I can't help but laugh out loud. Silly Charlotte. As a wolfman, Morgan is ill-tempered, and he easily loses control of his emotions. He also becomes even more bloodthirsty after transforming. It's not all sunshine and rainbows being his mate. But I never imagined the elves could be so… in that regard.

After the evening study session, I was just about to return to the dorm when my first boyfriend, the school's valedictorian and undisputed top student, suddenly tore across the courtyard toward me. Before I could react, he grabbed my wrist and, in full view of a crowd of stunned students, dragged me into a frantic run toward the front gates. I exclaimed, "Julian, have you lost your mind? Graduation's six months away. Are you really trying to run off with me now?" I struggled the whole way, twisting and pulling against him, but his grip never loosened. "Autumn, don't ask any questions. Just come with me. Hurry!" he said, his voice trembling with panic. We fled the school, jumped into a taxi in the middle of the night, and rushed to another city, where we checked into a rundown budget motel. Arms folded and brow furrowed, I glared at him. "So you hauled me out of school like a lunatic just to hole up in a cheap motel?" His cheeks turned bright red. He flailed his hands in frantic denial, then thrust a phone into my hands. I barely had time to unlock the phone and start dialing my parents before a breaking news alert flashed across the screen. My eyes locked on the screen, and I went rigid with shock. The headline reported, 'Mass Death at Blackwood High: All 5,000 students and faculty found dead last night after experiencing catastrophic bleeding. Only two students who skipped the study session survived.' I looked up at Julian in horror. He was staring at the screen too, his face white as paper, cold sweat running down his forehead. "You knew, didn't you?" I asked. "What the hell is going on?"

To celebrate Halloween, our company booked an immersive “rural horror” escape room. My boss said whoever could make it to the end without screaming would get a ten-thousand-dollar reward. As a seasoned horror movie fan, I was instantly tempted. The core character in the escape room was a scarecrow wearing an oversized pumpkin head. I admired how well the props were made, but the chainsaw noise was too loud, so I slipped into a hidden compartment, put on my headphones, and scrolled through reels. The next day, I woke up to a strong metallic stench mixed with the sickly-sweet smell of rotting pumpkin. The police told me our boss had canceled the booking at the last minute, and the actor originally assigned to play the character had gotten food poisoning. That pumpkin-headed figure wasn’t one of their staff.