Thriller Narrator Novels & Stories

So apprehensive he was and so quiet the room had become that he heard the phone in Noah's pants pocket buzz. He shut his eyes, mentally hearing the clock's tick; he was wasting time, for it seemed Conti had fulfilled his promise for Noah to leave the podium, oblivious to the stares accompanying him to the exit. The gunman was nowhere in sight; not even a whiff of him was anywhere, making it more deadly. At least this time, he'd not know where the bullet was coming from. He drew in his breath, taking his last view of the place that had owned everything about him, before he leaned in again and spoke in the lowest voice he could find, "I was Don Nicholas in the recording; I killed Fabio Conti."

Not enough to remove the threat—just enough to let the danger breathe. “I believe you.” The shock on her face is immediate; she thought she was gone. Something else flickers in her eyes—not fear. Not really. Something else entirely. Exhilaration? Is she… turned on? “Did you like that, Brynn?” I whisper, the gun still warm against her skin. “Of course not. You’re psychotic,” she spits. “Oh, Brynn,” I say, tracing the silencer down the length of her exposed neck, then past her breast, letting the silencer rest right above her panty line. “Your body doesn’t lie.”

“You’ll want to read this.” As I skimmed the text, a chill ran down my spine. The anonymous blogger described the murders in chilling detail—details only the killer could know. “This is insane,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why would a hitman write about his crimes?” “To control the narrative,” Natasha explained. “Think about it. If the public sees these as random killings with no connection, no one suspects Gabriel.” “But why risk exposing himself?” I questioned, pacing the room now, the tablet still in my hand.

I heard him shout that’s why with all my might, I began running and running but then I saw him. Outrage, he stands there, holding the knife like he is going to kill me, right now. I am not afraid to die, but I do not need to die now. I began running again but then suddenly everything went black. “Good morning citizens, the infamous serial killer who drains the blood of his victim and harvest all of their organs of his 10 victims have been captured this morning says police report”

He looked at Nelly, who sat like a stone statue, still whispering lies to her legal team, and he laughed—a jagged, broken sound. ​"You're still lying, Nelly?" Raymond snarled, turning to the judge. "I'll tell you everything. I pulled the trigger in 2009. I drove the car that brushed John’s wife. I killed the reporter. But every single drop of blood was shed on her orders. She was the mind; I was just the hand." ​For hours, Raymond detailed every bribe, every clean-up, and every threat, effectively burying Nelly under the weight of her own greed.

She was trying to kill us. The ambulance takes her away. The sirens fade into the distance, swallowed by the city noise. The police ask questions. I answer. My voice is steady. My hands are steady. I tell them everything. The threats. The roses. The photographs. The fire at the institute. The sonogram hidden in the basement. The car crashing into the pillar. They write it all down in their notebooks. Nathaniel takes my hand. His fingers are warm. His arm is bleeding where the mirror hit him. A nurse bandages it.

Fading felt like slipping into a room where lights never turn on again. Yet someone had killed me. Still, it was true. Systematically. Those who caused it remained at large inside that house. Her eyes moved slowly across my features. A pause came before she spoke again. “Are you in danger now?” she asked. Her gaze caught mine. “Yes. But I’m not the same woman they killed before.” One slow dip of her head, thoughts running deeper than words showed. “I can provide a full report with supporting medical literature. Destroy it after you read it. And be extremely careful. Thallium isn’t the kind of poison amateurs use. Whoever ordered this knew exactly what they were doing.”

He ignored the cup of coffee someone had nervously placed nearby. He didn’t look at the agents. He looked at the photos, then his gaze turned inward. When he began to speak, it wasn’t to the room. It was a cold, quiet narration, as if he was reading from a script only he could see. His voice was detached, yet horrifyingly vivid. “He doesn’t take them from parks. Too much noise. Too many variables. He needs control. A threshold… a place of trust.” Zhedya’s eyes were distant, seeing a different scene. “A part-time job offer. A tutoring ad…Yes…He meets them there.”

But as I'm about to exit, not even bothering to get my drink anymore, Ryan utters a sentence I never thought anyone would say about Max Blackwell: "Did he tell you about his involvement in human trafficking?" I freeze instantly, my unruly hair smacking me in the face from the abrupt halt. "Guess that would be a 'no,'" Ryan's icy voice chills my veins, and even though I'm not facing him, I can imagine the smirk on his face. He wanted my attention all along, and he's certainly achieved it with that rhetorical question. But I know better... don't I? It's Max, for heaven's sake. There's no way... "Not so loyal after all, huh?" He continues his wicked game as I feel his gaze intensify on my back

Well, even I don't know about 'The Experience. But I know one guy, who is a master of masters...,? I'm not pretty sure if he is or not but one thing that comes to my mind every time is when I saw that person for the first time. He was killing people like it's his daily job. Welp... No more spoilers. I have seen somewhere once the most dumbass man said, "True Narrator never narrates the whole story in the right order...,?"