Making life crispy since 2011
This blog contains free online short stories to read of different genres but the home page/archive shows only the latest posts. The above menu gives you chapter wise lists of my stories. If you are familiar with the blog then go ahead and read the latest chapter of my latest story. If you want to read the stories chapter wise, go through the menu above and choose the story you would like to read.
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The house had long since rotted into the earth, swallowed by moss and ivy, the wood blackened with mildew. What remained was a scarred lot, ringed with rusting fences and half-collapsed warning signs that flapped in the wind. Locals whispered about the cursed land, about the amusement park that once burned with screams. The government had sealed it off, but people always came.
And tonight, two groups crossed the threshold at the same time.
Fifty years had passed since the tragic demise of the family who once unknowingly brought home the cursed chair and desk. Time had dulled memories, but the locals who lived near that block never forgot the screams that echoed on windless nights, or the faint cackling of a woman’s laughter that would sometimes seep through the silence. Fear bred abandonment, and one by one, the neighbors left until the entire area became a ghost town. Houses rotted. Streets cracked and split. Nature crept in, swallowing the neighborhood whole.
No one dared to step inside, until him.
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The chair and table sat abandoned in the darkened ruins of the old house for weeks, gathering dust and the whispers of passing wind. Strangers avoided the property, and even stray animals scurried past, unnerved by the lingering sense of dread. But fate has a way of luring the unsuspecting.
One morning, an antique dealer named Mr. Sharma arrived with a battered truck. He was a man in his late fifties with a thick mustache and eyes that had seen enough hardship to make him pragmatic rather than superstitious. Where others saw shadows, he saw opportunity.
The furniture, though scarred with age, held craftsmanship that was unmistakable. The ornate carvings of vines and serpentine figures twisted across the wood in grotesque but strangely beautiful patterns. To Mr. Sharma, they were not frightening, only rare. He pried the chair and table from the dust, loaded them onto his truck, and drove away, humming as if he had just struck gold.
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The chair creaked like it had been waiting for someone to sit in it for decades. The desk, smothered in a thick coat of dust, looked as though it might dissolve into powder at the lightest touch. The mirror was scarred, its silvering peeled away in patches that left behind black gashes, as though something had clawed its way across the glass.
It had been left outside, exiled, on the rooftop of the old tenement where the wind could gnaw at it and rain could chew into its bones. But no matter how much nature tried to strip it down, the furniture clung on, like a skeleton that refused to crumble into dust. Rowan stood staring at it.
He hadn’t intended to be here tonight. His friend Kristy had dared him: “Spend an hour on the rooftop with that creepy old vanity and chair, and I’ll pay for your drinks the whole weekend.”
It was meant as a joke. Everyone in the building knew the story of the rooftop furniture. Some said it had belonged to a woman who lived in appartment 4C fifty years ago. Others whispered she had slit her throat in front of the mirror, right on that very desk. Children in the building swore they could hear the chair rocking on its own during monsoon nights. The older tenants only shook their heads and muttered about “bad luck clinging to old things.”
Rowan didn’t believe in bad luck. He believed in easy dares and free alcohol.
But now, standing here with the night wind howling around the rooftop, the city below hushed into a blanket of uneasy silence, the dare didn’t feel funny anymore.
Read moreJoanelle and Anabeth got up from the ground and went into a cave nearby. They noticed that a wooden torch was taken and assumed Divya was right ahead. They were only a few steps ahead when Anabeth noticed something on the ground. As soon as she picked it up, she felt a burning sensation in her hand. It looked like a pouch and she called out Joanelle to examine it and figure out what was. Joanelle knew what it was, the moment she saw it. She hit it out of Anabeth’s hand and said, “Don’t touch that! It looks like a hex bag. Witches use it to curse people.”
Read the first chapter : Goddess Hecate’s Curse – The Secret Key
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