Thriller Narrator Novels & Stories

TRUMP'S POV The loud, blood-curdling scream that pierced the room sent a chill down my spine. Theresa's anguished cry echoed through the house, a haunting sound that seemed to freeze time itself. I rushed to her side, my heart racing with a sense of foreboding. What I saw made my blood run cold. Theresa was kneeling on the floor, her eyes fixed in horror on the body bag that lay before her. As I watched in stunned silence, Theresa's trembling hands slowly unzipped the bag, revealing the lifeless body of Annabelle inside. Her eyes were frozen, her body cold. A single gunshot wound marred her otherwise flawless skin, a grim reminder of the violence that had taken her life.

I’m Elara Quinn, 33, an investigative journalist with three big awards, but I had one secret I’d never print: I came here to record, not to confess. The screen slid open with a quiet scrape of wood on wood. A shadow filled the other side. He was male, with broad shoulders straining the black priest clothes. His cologne was faint—oud and smoke, expensive, and forbidden. His voice came low, familiar, and dangerous. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” I froze. That voice.

A corner of his mouth ticked up. "You sound like me," he whispered. "I learned from the best," I replied. "Can you do it?" He straightened his spine. He took a deep breath, masking the pain behind a wall of pure willpower. "Let’s go." The lobby was a zoo. Cameras flashed the second the elevator doors opened. Questions were shouted like bullets. "Mr. Thorne! Is it true you lost a kidney?" "Who ordered the hit?" "Are the rumors of a mafia war true?"

Every sound made me flinch — the hum of the fridge, the creak of the old pipes. Then the phone rang. Unknown number. I hesitated, then answered. “Hello?” Static. Then a man’s voice — rough, low, urgent. “Run.” My breath hitched. “Who is this?” The line crackled. “You don’t know what he’s hiding. You’re not his first fire… and you won’t be the last.” The call cut. The message burned. MALRIK — POV The first gunshot echoed just after midnight. Malrik didn’t move.

“I wouldn't be so sure. I can tell, just from talking to you that you're a girl that cares deeply, a girl that loved her friends and wanted the best for them. That is not the sort of girl that kills people.” “How would you know?” Her voice had steadied, and her practiced ennui had returned, just a little. Byron was glad to see it. “I write about killers for a living and have interviewed my fair share. Most of them admit to what they've done, even revel in it. The few that don't, well, it's pretty clear just by talking to them that they're either mentally ill or lying.” “Maybe I'm crazy?” “You don't seem crazy.” “That's because you haven't heard my story yet. When you do, you'll be calling th

“Wait second? Can I trust whatever you see or hear in here won’t be heard by any soul from you, and if I’m to hear it somewhere else or even see it on the news. I will make sure that’s your last day on earth “ he threatened Doctor Harris and his assistant almost pee on their pant, they know this man, he’s the king of the business world, ruthless and unfeeling so there is no way this an empty threat. If they have known that they will be uncovering secrets that will endanger their lives, they won’t have bothered coming. ‘Please help us lord’ they both prayed secretly in their heart. They followed him into the living room where Lilly was waiting. She greeted them with her usual expression. Dr H

Charles POV: "Are you telling me there's nothing? No credit card pings? No ATM withdrawals? No signal from his burner phone? He didn't just evaporate, Thompson!" I slammed my hand down on the polished surface of my desk, the sound sharp in the otherwise silent office. The penthouse felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage, the walls closing in, amplifying the frantic pounding in my chest. "Sir, we're tracking every lead," Thompson's voice crackled through the speakerphone, calm, infuriatingly professional.

“This isn’t a corporate buyout. This is a man who once cornered a Chechen warlord in his own panic room and administered a neurotoxin that caused fatal paranoia. The coroner ruled it ‘heart failure due to extreme agitation.’ The man doesn’t have a moral compass. He has an aesthetics of violence. He wants clean stories, Anton. And today, the story goes like this: Anton Rogers, betrayed and grieving, escaped London following a shooting trauma—and tragically died in an accident unrelated to London, in Geneva. A closed loop. A clean narrative.” Sabatine walked towards the cot and knelt so he could be at eye level with Anton, who couldn't help but be confronted with the fear. “You are, as of toda

He was wearing a tactical vest, and his hand was resting openly on the grip of a sidearm. I stepped out of the Corolla, my legs shaking. "Miss Thorne," the man said. "Don't go in there." "My name is Eloise Miller," I said, my voice surprisingly cold. "And you’re trespassing on private property, Mr...?" "The name’s Miller, too. Call me Saul. I’ve been doing this for thirty years, kid. I’ve seen gangs, I’ve seen cartels, and I’ve seen cults. But what happened in that building last night... that wasn't human. The sounds coming through those walls? The way the structure was shaking? You’re in over your head."

"But he didn't see you. I told him I tripped. He didn't seem to care much; he had... other things on his mind." I felt a sharp, familiar jab of pain at the reminder of what was happening behind that door. I opened my eyes to find him watching me with a look of growing suspicion. "So," he said, crossing his arms. "Who are you spying on? The man in that room is Tyler Rider. High-profile, wealthy, and currently the subject of about a dozen different rumors. Are you a journalist? A private investigator? Because what you were doing was incredibly risky. If security had caught you instead of me, you wouldn't just be standing here with a wet dress. They’d have you in a holding cell until we docked.