Tag Archives: Mystery

TRAGIC ROMANCE: THE BROKEN HEART by Jose Heavena | GBAMLOG.COM

TTRTTThe journey of a kind hearted girl, who has to face lots of difficulties post- marriage.

Kia is a kind-hearted, sensitive and a charming girl. She loves her family a lot. Her parents encorage and pamper her. She had graduated in Biotechnology from a reputed Institution. She had worked as a Lecturer and everyone loves her, because of her helping tendency. Kia  loves adventures and she has lots of ambitions in her life.

Kia wants to pursue PhD, but she gets married at the age of 26. Her marriage is a pure arranged marriage and it takes place in a small town in Tamilnadu. On 9th May 2016, she got married to Krish. Kia’s dad hold her hands and walk towards the aisle. Everyone’s eyes get fixed on Kia as she walks on the red carpet. Kia looks adorable in her beautiful white gown.Her marriage takes place grandly with her friends and relatives.

Krish is an employee,working for IT sales in Mumbai. He is the only son who is loved by his family a lot. Krish is a well of and male egoistic person. He values people based on their money and fame. Kia gets relocated to Mumbai after marriage. Everything seems to be fine and good at the start and she gets conceived and gives birth to an adorable bary girl named Ria, on May 8th,2017. All the members in her family becomes happy.

Days passes and Krish’s parents torture Kia both physically and mentally. They beat and abuse her.Kia bears everything for her daughter, because she does’nt want Ria to separate from her dad.Krish’s mom says to Kia, that she is not capable for her son. Kia’s heart gets broken and she cries terribly. Krish is always busy in his life with his work and watching football matches at night,without even considering Kia. Kia remains all alone in that home.  Kia informs this to Krish, but he tells her to adjust and live.

One fine day, Kia makes her mind and comes to her dad’s house with Ria. Kia’s parents support and encourage her to become an author and she finally becomes an author.Kia works hard to fulfill all her child’s needs. Kia made up her mind that she will not go back to Mumbai to her inlaws house.

When Kia was alone in Mumbai,she used to pray a lot and she believed only god can heal her wounds. Kia wants to give Ria a good life with good moral values and manners. Kia lives for Ria and she hopes Ria would take care of her in the future.

Horror story specials: BRAISED HEART by Grace Treutel | GBAMLOG.COM

When I saw him for the first time, I knew I had to have him for dinner.

It was in the ripe red of his mouth, the plush of his lower lip. The hollows of his cheeks were little inlets for his amusement, surprise dusting his high cheekbones from the shadows of his lashes.

“What, me?” was his answer, a laugh paused at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t even know you.”

I should have been embarrassed, but I wasn’t. I was under a thrall – his thrall. This beautiful, angled boy, with a halo of dark curls and pianist’s fingers. He touched his throat when he spoke, as though nervous I might tear it out with my teeth. As though inviting me to tear it out.

“Please,” I clarified. His prominent knuckles flashed over his sternum with the absent invitation of his hands – rip it out, they said, taste it. He was agreeing to my invitation without words, his hands beckoning even as his red mouth hesitated.

“… Okay. But only because you look posh, and I’m hungry. But I’m not down for anything weird.”

I thought about him the entire subway ride home. It wasn’t until I was three stops from my door that I realized he never gave me his name, nor did he ask for mine. He’d only wanted the address – he’d taken it with those eat me fingers, punching it into his phone as he repeated my words aloud.

“Seven o’clock,” I’d told him, before reconsidering. “Maybe six – seven is dinner time.”

An hour was enough time. An hour to find a recipe, to think of a way to impress him. To honor him.

My fingers ached from my grip when I released the pole at my stop, but it wasn’t the ache of overuse. It was something closer to unsatisfaction – I had been thinking of his throat, the flex of tendons and muscle as he laughed at me with that red, ripe mouth.

I was methodical in my kitchen, thinking back to all the meals I had made before. I wanted to get this one just right – I wanted to impress this boy.

Saffron, for his sensuality. Rosemary, to immortalize our evening. Plums, to mimic the shape of his mouth. A glaze, sticky and spicy, that would shine dark as varnish on his ivory skin, pool into the secret coves of his cheeks.

When the doorbell rang, the air was thick with the opiate scent of aromatics sizzling in pans. My heart felt hot and swollen. I decanted a bottle of dark wine into two glasses and imagined.

“Hey,” he said when I opened the door, glancing over my shoulder with naked curiosity. “I don’t usually do this, but you seem okay – damn, what are you making in there? It smells fantastic.”

I stepped aside and summarized my efforts for him. I wondered how my house looked through his eyes – old-fashioned, expensive. Dark. He was a smear of brilliance against my carefully curated backdrop, the thing that didn’t fit. Watching him move across my canvas made me feel drunk.

“What’s the dish?” he asked, shrugging off his coat. The wings of his shoulder blades shifted beneath his thin t-shirt, straining against the fabric like trapped, living things. I didn’t answer him.

Instead, I handed him the wine and tried not to stare as his throat clenched with every swallow.  My jaw ached like my fingers had, petulant with disuse.

I let him finish the entire glass before.

It was a wet, red thing, and I held him close as I obeyed the invitation of his fingers. My own against his chest and felt his heart beat up to meet their press. His glass shattered on the stone floor, the dark red of his wine kissing the dark arterial shade in a violent swirl. It was over quickly – six fifteen. Dinner was at seven. I moved with purpose.

It was a complicated dish, but I had gotten the sense that he was a complicated boy.

I worked until it was perfect. I plated it to perfection. I set out the dishes, one for me, one for him. I helped him into his seat, careful to avoid the ribbons of red spilling from his chin, arranging him until he was comfortable and patting his lovely knuckles once.

I sat down and he was staring at me, wide-eyed. It made me smile, bashful, but only just – I wasn’t used to the unbridled attention. He made me feel exposed in a way that I liked, his mouth parted slightly like overripe fruit that had burst a seam.

“Thank you,” I told him with a hint of nervousness, the inevitable bloom of self-consciousness that came with a first date. “For joining me for dinner.”

He said nothing, but the sweet drip drip of sentiment from his throat onto his plate was answer enough.

I smiled down into my plate and took a delicate bite of his braised, silent heart. He tasted like new romance.

Despite the earliness of the evening, I felt confident there would be a second.

HORROR CLASSICS:THE DARK SHADOW by Vidal Martinez |GBAMLOG.COM

To the sound of the air brakes something catches my eye.

“Mike, I see something,” I whisper.

“What?”

I point to the second floor. “Up there in the window.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I saw something.”

Mike turns the steering wheel and parks the fire truck on the edge of the road. He then looks up at the second floor window. “There’s too much smoke.”

I look again. “I swear I saw something.” I tighten the straps on my air pack, open the passenger door and jump off Engine 13.

“Fidel, wait for backup,” Mike says.

“There could be someone in there.” I walk toward the old abandoned home.

“Don’t go inside. It’s just you and me, remember?”

I look up at the abandoned house as black smoke covers the bright moon.

Mike steps off the fire truck. “Wait for Engine 7. They’ll be here soon.”

Ignoring Mike, I make it to the porch, take a deep breath, and slowly push open the front door. I walk into a cold, dark, smoky house. “Hello is anyone in here?” I then crouch, trying to breathe, moving cautiously, looking for any signs of fire, but the smoke is too thick. I panic, lose my sense of direction and bump into a staircase. “Is anyone up there?”

I cough, pushing smoke out of my lungs, about to run out the front door, when I hear heavy footsteps above on the second floor. “Hello!” I shout, hearing footsteps again. “I’m a firefighter, and I’m here to help!” There is silence. I then think of Julia and how proud she would be if I saved a life from a burning building. I surely would make the front page of the newspaper. I hear a thump, and with what courage I have left, I run up the stairs, stumble, and fall to the floor. I stand up, when I see a glimmering light coming from underneath a door at the end of a hallway. “Hello, it’s the fire department!”

Curious, I creep up to the door. As I push it open, I’m blinded by a small flickering light coming from the corner of the room. I walk in while the light starts to take shape. My mouth drops, I’m about to run away, when small flames burst out from the flickering light, leaping toward the walls, reaching the ceiling, and rolling over each other like dancing angels.

I step back, and slowly the flickering light disappears, leaving a dark shadow lurking in the corner of the room. I move away as the rolling flames from the ceiling start to fall on the floor. I reach for the exit, but several flames jump from the ceiling to the door, forcing me to the center of the room. I stumble, trying to catch my balance but hit the floor, twisting my ankle. The flames surround me in a ring of fire as I realize what the dark shadow is.

“Get away from me,” I mumble.

I hear a deep growl.

“Get away,” I insist.

As the room becomes engulfed in flames the dark shadow moves away from the corner of the room.

“What do you want?” I ask.

In a whispering voice the dark shadow replies, “You.”

I panic and force myself against the ring of fire. “No,” I cry.

“Then you will burn to death.”

“No.”

“I can save you.”

“Then save me,” I beg.

“Tell me that I can have your soul.”

I push up my shield from my helmet, staring into his eyes.

“What are you waiting for? Speak the words before you burn,” he insists.

I think of Julia, my sister, mother, and then I shout, “I don’t want to die.”

“Then say it before it is too late,” he whispers.

I’m about to utter the words when the floor starts to crack. The dark shadow moves frantically around the room. Suddenly the floor inside the ring of fire starts to cave in. I cover my head and fall through, landing on a table on the first floor. I roll over and crawl toward the exit. I look behind me as the dark shadow falls on the table, spreading fire everywhere.

“Get back here,” he demands.

“Fuck no!”

As the dark shadow is about to grab me, I close my eyes, but instead of death, cool water splashes against my face. I look up, and it is Mike with the fire hose.

“Hurry up!” he yells, spraying water at me.

I crawl to the front door.

“Hurry,” he says.

I reach the door and Mike drops the fire hose, pulling me out of the house. We stumble to the street.

“Are you okay?” Mike asks.

“Did you see that?”

“What?”

I am hesitant to answer.

“I saw fire and smoke,” he says.

I grasp his bunker jacket and glare into his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

I’m about to tell him what I saw, but I know he won’t believe me. He will laugh, think I’m crazy, and make fun of me in front of the other firefighters because they already hate me.

“Well?” he insists. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

I let go of his jacket and fall to the curb. “There was nothing in there,” I mumble.

“I told you. I can’t wait to tell the guys that I saved your skinny ass.”

I pull my helmet off and unbutton by bunker jacket, thinking I almost gave my soul away.

“Fidel, you’re lucky you’re alive,” Mike says.

“I know.”

We both look up to the crackling sound of the burning abandoned house. Engine 7 arrives.

Mystery Classics: NIGHTMARES by Saul Greenblatt

George Downs stood bent slightly forward in front of an officer. “You’re supposed to stand at attention, soldier, not tilted forward.”

“I have arthritis, sir, and it prevents me from standing up straight.”

“Likely excuse.”

“Sir, I’m eighty one years old. Why am I still in the Army?”

“We need all the able fighting men we can get, soldier, – so you will not be discharged from the Army.”

“This is crazy. I was discharged from the army almost sixty years ago. How could I possibly be standing here in an Army uniform. I must be dreaming. I must be having a nightmare,” he said and slapped himself in his face several times.  “What’s going on? I’m still here. I should be in my bed waking up  from this nightmare, but I’m not.”

“You will be sent to an infantry outfit where you will train for the next war.”

You don’t want someone as old as I am. I couldn’t endure the physical training.”

“We’ve dealt with soldiers like you before. We’ll make sure you endure the physical training if it takes five years.”

“Five years? I’ll probably be dead between now and five years from now.”

“The new Army doesn’t allow death unless death happens in combat.”

“No, no, no. This isn’t happening,” he yelled and sat up in his bed after being shaken by his wife. “George, you were having a bad dream. Are you okay?”

“Oh, it was terrible, Mary. I dreamt I was back in the Army, and they were going to send me to an infantry outfit. It was so real. I told them that I was eighty one, but it didn’t matter. The officer said I was going to be trained for the next war. Mary, it was terrible.”

“You go back to sleep, dear. Think about your great grandson, and you’ll have pleasant dreams.”

The next night was a repeat of the night before.  George was sleeping in a barracks, and a sergeant entered the barracks at 4:00 and screamed. “Okay, scum, everybody up. After breakfast we’re going on a nice twenty-mile march,” he yelled. “We have to be combat ready.” Then he went to George’s bunk, which was a top bunk. “What are you still doing in the sack, private,” he yelled.

George opened his eyes and looked around. “What am I doing here, and how did I get in this top bunk?”

“You’d better get moving, private, or you’ll  miss breakfast. You won’t  like to go on a twenty-mile  hike on an empty stomach. You can’t fight a war on an empty stomach.”

“Twenty-mile hike? Are you crazy? I can barely walk twenty feet.  Jesus, I’m eighty one. Look at me. Do I look like a kid?”

“Do you want special treatment because your eighty one? Ha. You’re in the Army. Age doesn’t get you special treatment, now get out of the sack,” he yelled.

“I don’t know how I got in this top bunk, and I’m damn sure I’m not going to be able to get out of it.”

“I’ll show you how,” the sergeant said and grabbed George and lifted him out of the bunk and put him on the floor. “Now get your walker, get dressed and get to the mess hall.”

“My walker? How did my walker get in my night mare? Why am I having this night mare?” he complained and looked around at all the young soldiers cleaning their rifles. “Why are you cleaning your rifle?” he asked a private.

“They keep telling us we gotta be ready for the next war, old man.”

“I’ve been watching too much news.”

The sergeant entered the barracks and screamed at George. “Why aren’t you cleaning your rifle? Why? Why?”

“George, wake up. You’re having another night mare,” Mary said and shook George, who sat up.

“It was like the night mare I had last night. I thought I stopped dreaming Army dreams years ago. For twenty years after I got out of the Army, I dreamed that the Army wouldn’t let me out. I don’t understand why they’re starting again. They don’t care that I’m eighty one. One more night mare like these and I’m going to see a shrink.

The next night, he was holding his walker as he walked in a field.  Where am I? Why are bombs falling? Who are those people running toward me? They’re shooting at me. I can’t get away, they’re shooting and…oh, my God, my stomach. They shot me in my stomach. I’m falling. I can’t move. Now, everything is black. I’m dead.”

Mary woke up in the middle of the night and reached over to touch George and felt wet. She jumped up and looked at George, who was bleeding from his stomach. “George,” she yelled and fainted.

MYSTERY CLASSICS: The Enchanted Wood by REKHA VISMANATHAN

The boys are on a trip. A trip into the woods. Accompanied by their family they trudge along a narrow path, a route that had obviously been traced by human footsteps, a trail that had been trodden many a time.

 

They walk cautiously, startled by the snap of a twig or crunch of dry leaves under their feet, the irritating buzz of insects and the far away roar of the waterfalls.

 

Mesmerized by the quiet of the jungle, they look around and smile at each other. Their mother warns them of any pranks. The local guide smiles and assures the mother that these woods do not tolerate any pranks for the prank would be on the prankster eventually. The boys laugh hysterically hearing the local guide. Such naive locals! They wink at each other, mission accomplished the wink says.

 

Reaching the waterfalls, soaking the dust off, the family heads back home. A wonderful weekend, a memory to cherish and for the boys a memoir to hold onto.

 

The next week at school, the geography teacher summons the boys, a paper in his hand and a cringe on his face. The boys know the paper is their essay ‘ A trip into the enchanted woods’. The teacher doesn’t utter a word, nor is there any admonition. The paper has a note written on it. “return what is not yours, u have sinned. Nature always has the prankster pinned”. The boys recoil from the laughter of the teacher, an unmistakable relieved laughter, for all these years, he’s never for once smiled.

 

They race back home, take out the beautiful transparent pebble they found at the woods. The horror on their face when they see the reflection on the smooth face of the pebble replace the face of the teacher with the twins’ faces.