The Disappearing RoomShaina TranquilinoSeptember 9, 2024

The Disappearing Room Shaina Tranquilino September 9, 2024

Daniel Mercer stood before the grandiose facade of Ashgrove Manor, his newly purchased estate. The towering spires and weathered stone walls exuded an air of mystery and history. It was an impulse buy, something that felt right the moment he saw it in a listing online. The price was suspiciously low, but Daniel, newly retired and seeking adventure, found the idea of owning a mansion irresistible.

The real estate agent, a thin man with an unsteady smile, had been eager to hand over the keys. “There’s just one thing, Mr. Mercer,” he had mentioned almost as an afterthought. “This house has a… peculiarity. A room that appears and disappears at will. No one knows when or where it’ll show up next.”

Daniel had laughed at what he assumed was an eccentric marketing ploy, but as he stood in the cavernous entrance hall, he wondered if there was some truth to it. The house was silent, the only sound the ticking of an ancient grandfather clock. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floors.

For the first few days, Daniel explored his new home. It was filled with forgotten rooms, each one more intriguing than the last. He found a library lined with books whose spines were cracked with age, a ballroom with a chandelier that sparkled with forgotten grandeur, and bedrooms filled with antique furniture. But there was no sign of the disappearing room.

On the fifth night, as a storm raged outside, Daniel was awakened by a low rumble. The house seemed to groan in response to the wind. As he climbed out of bed, he noticed a faint light seeping from beneath a door at the end of the hallway. A door that hadn’t been there before.

Heart pounding, Daniel approached the door. The handle was cold under his fingers, and as he turned it, the door swung open soundlessly. Inside was a small, dimly lit room that looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. The walls were lined with old photographs, and in the center of the room stood a table with a single item on it: an old leather-bound journal.

Daniel stepped inside, feeling an inexplicable chill. He picked up the journal and opened it, revealing pages filled with neat handwriting. The entries were dated from the 1920s and told the story of a man named Edward Ashgrove, the original owner of the mansion.

Edward’s journal detailed his obsession with discovering the secret of the house. He wrote of a room that would appear without warning, containing clues to a mystery that had haunted his family for generations. The journal entries became increasingly frantic as Edward described following the room from one end of the house to the other, piecing together cryptic messages left within.

The final entry was particularly chilling: “The room holds the truth, but it comes with a price. I fear what I must do to uncover it.”

Daniel set the journal down, unease creeping into his thoughts. He looked around the room and noticed a photograph on the wall that hadn’t been there moments before. It was a portrait of Edward Ashgrove, standing with a woman and a young child. The woman’s face had been scratched out, but the child’s was clear. It was a boy, no more than six years old, with a striking resemblance to Daniel.

A sudden dizziness overtook him, and when he blinked, the room was gone. He was back in his bedroom, the journal clutched tightly in his hands. The storm outside had intensified, lightning flashing through the windows. Shaken, Daniel realized that the room wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. It was real, and it was playing with him.

Over the next few days, the room appeared and disappeared at random, each time in a different location. Each appearance brought with it new clues—fragments of letters, faded photographs, and strange symbols etched into the walls. The puzzle pieces began to fit together, revealing a dark secret about the Ashgrove family.

Daniel discovered that Edward Ashgrove had been trying to save his family from a curse, one that condemned the firstborn of every generation to a tragic fate. The curse was tied to the house, to the very room that now tormented Daniel. Edward had believed that solving the mystery of the room would break the curse, but he had disappeared before he could finish his work.

The final piece of the puzzle came one night when the room appeared at the very top of the house, in the attic. This time, the room was bare except for a single sheet of paper on the floor. Daniel picked it up and read the words scrawled hastily across it:

“To break the curse, the firstborn must make a choice: Sacrifice the room or themselves.”

Daniel’s blood ran cold. The resemblance between him and the boy in the photograph was no coincidence. He was a descendant of the Ashgroves, the firstborn of his generation. The curse had followed him to the mansion, and now the room was demanding his choice.

With a heavy heart, Daniel knew what he had to do. He couldn’t allow the curse to continue, to let another generation suffer as Edward had. He returned to the room one last time, the journal in hand. As he stepped inside, he felt a sense of finality.

The room seemed to pulse with anticipation as Daniel placed the journal on the table. He whispered a prayer and made his decision.

The next morning, Ashgrove Manor was empty. The neighbors would later claim that they had seen a flash of light from the attic that night, but no one dared investigate. Daniel Mercer was never seen again, and the mansion was left to decay.

Years later, when the estate was auctioned off, the new owner discovered a small, dusty room hidden in the attic. Inside was a single photograph of a man standing before the house, a man who looked strikingly familiar. Beside it was a leather-bound journal, its pages blank, as if waiting for the next chapter of the story to be written.

The Golden Key Shaina Tranquilino September 21, 2024

In the small, quiet town of Eldenford, nestled between misty hills and shadowed woods, stood the old stone church of St. Agnes. The townspeople spoke little of it, save to warn the children away. It was said to be the oldest building in the town, far older than any of the records could confirm. Its heavy wooden doors were always shut, and the gargoyles perched above seemed to watch the streets with their hollow, knowing eyes. Laurel was not like the other children. While most her age ran through the fields or played by the river, she found herself drawn to St. Agnes with a fascination she couldn’t explain. Every day after school, she would pause on the way home to gaze at the church’s weathered stones, her eyes tracing the intricate carvings that adorned the arched entrance.

One rainy afternoon, as she walked by the churchyard, a flicker of gold caught her eye. Buried half in the mud at the base of an ancient oak tree was a small key. Laurel knelt and picked it up. It was cold to the touch, heavier than it looked, and engraved with symbols she didn’t recognize. A sense of importance buzzed around it, as though it hummed with some forgotten power.

Her heart raced. Could this be the key to the church’s locked door? She had never seen anyone go in or out, and no one seemed to know where the key to St. Agnes was—or if there even was one.

That night, long after her parents had gone to bed, Laurel slipped out of the house with the golden key clutched tightly in her hand. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and gleaming under the pale moonlight. Her breath fogged in the cool night air as she made her way to the church. The ancient stones loomed before her, and the gargoyles seemed to tilt their heads ever so slightly as she approached.

With trembling hands, Laurel inserted the key into the door’s heavy lock. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a slow, creaking groan, the door swung inward, revealing the dark interior of the church.

Laurel stepped inside, her heart pounding in her chest. The air was thick, not with dust as she had expected, but with something else—something old, something forgotten. She glanced around. The nave was dimly lit by the flickering remnants of long-burnt-out candles, but everything else seemed untouched by time. The pews stood in perfect rows, the altar gleamed faintly at the far end, and the stained glass windows glowed with muted colours in the moonlight.

But it wasn’t the sanctuary that drew Laurel forward. There was something more, something hidden. Her feet seemed to move on their own as she walked deeper into the church.

Behind the altar, in a shadowed alcove, was another door. It was small, barely noticeable, as if the stone walls themselves were trying to swallow it. It had no handle, no visible lock—except for a small, circular indentation near its center.

Without hesitation, Laurel pressed the golden key into the indentation. The door clicked softly and swung open, revealing a staircase that spiraled down into the earth.

Her pulse quickened, but curiosity overcame fear. She descended, the stone steps cold beneath her feet, the air growing thicker and warmer with each step. Faint sounds reached her ears—whispers, like a distant chant, though the words were unintelligible.

The stairs ended in a vast chamber, far below the church. Torches flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows across the floor, and in the centre of the room stood an ancient altar, surrounded by strange, twisting statues. They were not like the saints or angels Laurel had seen in pictures. These figures were distorted, their faces wild and terrifying, their bodies frozen in unnatural poses.

And yet, they seemed alive.

Laurel took a hesitant step forward. The air felt electric, as if the chamber itself was breathing. Before the altar lay a pool of black water, perfectly still, its surface like glass. Above it, suspended in the air, hung a golden thread—thin and delicate, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light.

The whispers grew louder. Laurel could almost understand them now—names, maybe, or prayers in a forgotten language. They beckoned her forward, urging her to touch the thread.

Her fingers hovered above it. As soon as she made contact, the room shifted. The statues’ eyes glowed with life, and the water in the pool began to ripple. Slowly, impossibly, figures began to rise from the water—shapes of gods long forgotten, their forms vast and incomprehensible.

They were not like the gods of the stories Laurel had heard. These were beings of shadow and light, of stone and flame, their faces both beautiful and terrible. She could feel their presence pressing down on her, ancient and powerful.

"Who calls us?" one of them spoke, its voice a rumble that seemed to shake the very foundation of the earth.

Laurel's mouth went dry, but she could not speak. The gods’ gaze fell upon her, their eyes burning with a hunger for recognition, for worship.

"You have the key," the voice continued. "You have unlocked what was meant to be forgotten."

The weight of their words crushed her. She wanted to flee, to escape back to the safety of the town above, but her legs would not move.

Another figure spoke, its voice softer, more insidious. "We are the gods before gods. The ones the world has turned away from. But you, child—you can bring us back."

The key in Laurel's hand pulsed with warmth, as if urging her to make a choice. The gods awaited her answer, their forms rippling with barely contained power.

Laurel took a breath, steadying herself. Her mind raced. She had found something wondrous, but it was also terrifying. Could she release these beings back into the world? Could she bear the consequences?

Slowly, she turned and ran.

The golden key fell from her hand, clattering to the floor as she fled up the stairs, through the door, and back into the cold night. Behind her, the church door slammed shut with a thunderous boom, sealing the hidden world once again.

Laurel never returned to St. Agnes. But every now and then, she could feel the pull of the golden key, the weight of what she had uncovered. The gods still lingered beneath the church, waiting for another to find them.

The Crimson River Shaina Tranquilino September 19, 2024

Dr. Kenton Laverdiere stood at the edge of the Crimson River, his breath misting in the cool evening air. A full moon hung heavy and bright in the sky, casting a silver glow over the water. It looked ordinary now, dark and still, as if waiting. But by midnight, it would run red like blood—just as it had every full moon for over two centuries.

Kenton had spent months studying the river, documenting its unusual behaviour. He was a man of science, a geologist by trade, and he had dismissed the local legends when he first arrived in the small, isolated village of Harrington. The villagers spoke of curses, of ancient tragedies that stained the water. But Kenton believed there was a natural explanation. There had to be.

He glanced at his watch—11:48 PM. Twelve more minutes. He adjusted the lenses of his binoculars, scanning the area. The trees lining the riverbank stood tall and silent, their shadows long and eerie. Everything seemed normal, but he could feel something—an oppressive weight in the air that tugged at his nerves.

Kenton had set up a series of instruments along the riverbank: water samplers, cameras, spectrometers. He was determined to capture every detail, hoping this would be the night he unraveled the mystery.

At precisely midnight, a soft breeze stirred the leaves. The river began to move. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the water darkened. Kenton leaned in, eyes wide, heart racing.

The river turned crimson.

He snapped a series of photos and bent down to collect a water sample. It was thick, viscous, like fresh blood. His mind raced. Could there be an underground vein of iron deposits, seeping into the water during the full moon? It was a possibility, though an improbable one.

Just as he straightened, a cold wind swept through the trees, howling like a distant scream. His breath caught in his throat. The air had changed, felt heavy and electric.

Then, he heard it—a faint whisper, a distant murmur that seemed to rise from the water itself. Kenton turned, scanning the riverbank, but saw nothing. Just the dark, rippling water.

The whispers grew louder, swirling around him. He took a step back, his pulse quickening. Logic told him it was the wind, the way it echoed through the forest. But deep down, he knew it was something else.

Then, the river began to move in ways it shouldn't. It churned violently, the crimson water bubbling and foaming. In the midst of the chaos, shadows began to rise from the depths—dark, indistinct forms that slowly took shape.

Figures.

Kenton froze, his blood turning to ice. One by one, the figures emerged from the water—men, women, and children, their eyes hollow and their faces twisted in pain. They floated just above the surface, their translucent bodies shimmering in the moonlight.

They were the dead.

The massacre.

Kenton had heard whispers of it from the locals, but no one spoke of it in detail. The village of Harrington had been founded over two hundred years ago, built by settlers looking for a new life. But one night, during the height of a bitter land dispute, a group of men had slaughtered an entire family by the river—men, women, children—all to claim their land. The river ran red with their blood that night, and it had never stopped.

Kenton stumbled back, his heart pounding. The ghostly figures hovered there, staring at him, their eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it chilled him to his core.

A woman stepped forward, her hair dripping wet, her dress torn and bloodstained. She raised a pale, trembling hand, pointing directly at Kenton.

"Why have you come here?" her voice echoed, cold and hollow.

"I-I’m here to understand," Kenton stammered. "To learn the truth."

The woman's face twisted in agony. "The truth was buried long ago. Forgotten. But the blood never fades. It remains, as we remain, bound to this river."

Kenton felt a sudden pressure in his chest, a suffocating weight. He realized now why the villagers feared this place, why no one dared come near the river at night. The spirits were trapped, tethered to the site of their slaughter, and the river ran red as a reminder of the atrocity that had condemned them.

"I can help," Kenton said, his voice shaky. "I can tell the world what happened here. I can—"

"You cannot help," the woman interrupted. "You cannot undo what was done. No one can."

The other spirits began to whisper again, their voices rising in a cacophony of despair. The river churned violently, as if the earth itself were weeping for the lost souls trapped within it.

"Go," the woman said, her voice softening. "Before it’s too late. Leave this place, and never return."

Kenton hesitated. He wanted to stay, to ask more, to learn. But the weight of their suffering, the overwhelming sense of hopelessness, pressed down on him like a vise.

Then, the river surged violently, the water rising to his ankles. The spirits’ whispers grew into a deafening roar. Panic surged through him.

He turned and ran, his heart pounding in his chest as he fled the riverbank. He didn’t stop running until he reached his car, gasping for breath, his clothes drenched with sweat and the river’s eerie mist.

As he drove away, he glanced in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see the figures still standing there by the water’s edge, watching him. But there was nothing—just the dark, winding road leading back to Harrington.

Kenton never returned to the Crimson River. He wrote his report, cataloging the strange phenomenon in scientific terms, but he left out the ghosts, the whispers, the forgotten massacre.

Some truths, he realized, were better left buried with the dead.

And still, on every full moon, the Crimson River runs red.

The Lost Journal Shaina Tranquilino September 1, 2024

Lilian had lived in the old family house for as long as she could remember. A sprawling, vine covered estate on the outskirts of town, it was filled with memories and secrets passed down through generations. On a cool autumn afternoon, while rummaging through the dusty attic, she stumbled upon an ancient, leather-bound journal. Its cover was worn and cracked, the pages yellowed with age.

Curiosity piqued, Lilian gently opened the journal. The handwriting was elegant but faded, the ink barely legible in places. It belonged to Isabella Hawthorne, an ancestor she’d heard whispered about in family stories—rumours of a mysterious disappearance and an even more enigmatic life.

As Lilian read, she discovered that Isabella had been a woman of immense intelligence and ambition, living in a time when such traits were often suppressed. But it wasn’t just Isabella’s character that fascinated Lilian; it was the secrets the journal revealed. Isabella had documented her life in vivid detail, describing strange visitors, hidden rooms, and most intriguingly, a treasure buried somewhere beneath the estate.

According to the journal, the treasure was no mere chest of gold coins. It was something far more valuable—a collection of rare, priceless artifacts from around the world, acquired by the Hawthorne family over centuries. Isabella had taken it upon herself to hide these items when she suspected that a betrayal within the family threatened their safety.

The final pages of the journal were filled with clues: cryptic riddles, symbols, and a map that was barely discernible. Isabella had written that the treasure was buried deep underground, beneath the house itself, in a place “where the past meets the future.”

Determined to uncover the truth, Lilian spent days poring over the journal, deciphering its secrets. She mapped out the house, comparing it with the drawings Isabella had left behind. Finally, she identified a spot in the basement, beneath the old stone floor, where the treasure might be hidden.

Armed with a shovel and a flashlight, Lilian descended into the basement late one night. The air was cool and damp, and shadows danced on the walls as she chipped away at the stone. Hours passed, and just as she began to lose hope, her shovel struck something solid. Heart racing, she cleared away the dirt and uncovered a large, ornate chest, its wood still surprisingly intact after all these years.

Quivering like a leaf, Lilian pried open the chest. Inside, she found relics from across the globe—intricately carved statues, ancient manuscripts, and a crown encrusted with jewels. But there was something else, something that sent a chill down her spine: a second journal, this one addressed to her, as if Isabella had known she would one day find it.

The journal’s message was brief but profound. Isabella warned of the burden that came with such a discovery, urging Lilian to protect the treasures from those who would misuse them. She spoke of a legacy not just of wealth, but of responsibility—one that Lilian was now a part of.

As she stood in the dim light of the basement, holding the journal close, Lilian knew her life had changed forever. The secrets of her ancestors were now hers to keep, and the weight of the Hawthorne legacy rested squarely on her shoulders.

But Lilian was ready.

The Whispering Trees Shaina Tranquilino September 2, 2024

In the small town of Willowbrook, nestled between rolling hills and a thick, ancient forest, the trees had stood for centuries, their twisted roots and gnarled branches a testament to the passage of time. The townspeople regarded the forest with a mix of reverence and fear, for strange things had always been said about the woods—strange and unsettling things.

It began on a warm summer night when young Tara, a curious and adventurous girl of ten, first heard the whispers. The sound was faint, almost imperceptible, like the rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze. But as she lay in bed, the sound grew louder, filling her room with a soft, eerie chorus. She sat up, her heart pounding, and strained to listen. It was coming from the forest.

The next morning, Tara couldn’t shake the feeling that something was calling to her. She tried to ask her parents about the whispers, but they dismissed it as just the wind playing tricks on her. Yet, Tara knew better. She had heard words in the whispers, though she couldn’t quite understand them. They were soft, pleading, as if the trees themselves were trying to tell her something.

Determined to uncover the truth, Tara decided to venture into the forest that night. She waited until her parents were asleep, then slipped out of bed, grabbed her flashlight, and tiptoed out of the house. The moon was full, casting long shadows across the fields as she made her way to the edge of the woods.

The forest loomed before her, dark and silent, the trees like towering sentinels guarding secrets long forgotten. Tara hesitated, but the whispers were louder now, urging her forward. She took a deep breath and stepped into the woods.

As she walked deeper into the forest, the whispers grew clearer, forming words she could finally understand.

"Help us," they seemed to say. "Find us."

The voices guided her through the tangled underbrush until she reached a small clearing. In the centre stood an enormous oak tree, its bark worn and weathered, its branches stretching out like skeletal arms. The whispers were coming from the tree.

Tara approached the oak, her heart racing. She could feel the air around her grow colder, the whispers more insistent. She knelt by the tree and noticed something odd about the ground at its base. The soil looked disturbed, as if someone had recently dug there.

Feeling scared and anxious, Tara began to dig. The earth was soft, almost as if it wanted to be moved. After a few moments, her fingers brushed against something hard and cold. She pulled it out and gasped—a small, rusted tin box lay in her hands.

Tara opened the box, revealing a bundle of old letters. As she unfolded one, she realized it was a confession, written in shaky handwriting. The letter spoke of a terrible crime—a murder that had been covered up, the victim buried beneath the oak tree. The whispers, she understood now, were the voices of the dead, crying out for justice.

Tara ran back to town, the box clutched tightly in her hands. She told the authorities what she had found, and soon, the entire town was buzzing with the news. An investigation was launched, and the truth of the long-forgotten crime was finally brought to light. The remains were exhumed, and the perpetrator, an elderly man who had long been considered an upstanding citizen, was arrested.

The whispers in the forest ceased after that night. The trees stood silent once more, their secrets laid to rest. But Tara would never forget the voices that had guided her, nor the feeling that she had been chosen to bring justice to the forgotten.

In Willowbrook, the legend of the whispering trees would be told for generations—a tale of a curious child, a haunted forest, and the truth that can never stay buried forever.

Exploring Mysteries Unveiled: The September 2024 Short Story Series Shaina Tranquilino September 1, 2024

As the leaves begin to turn and the days grow shorter, we find ourselves entering September—a month often filled with transitions and new beginnings. In the spirit of embracing change, I’m excited to introduce the latest theme in my year-long short story series: Mysteries Unveiled.

For those new to this journey, each month in 2024 has been dedicated to a different theme, offering a unique lens through which we explore the depths of storytelling. From tales of love and loss to explorations of the fantastical and the surreal, each month has been a distinct chapter in a year-long narrative experiment. Now, as we step into September, we delve into the world of mysteries, where hidden truths, enigmatic characters, and surprising revelations take centre stage.

What to Expect from Mysteries Unveiled

Mysteries have always captivated our imagination, drawing us into a world where the unknown beckons. In this month’s series, you can expect to be pulled into stories where nothing is as it seems, and every detail could be a clue waiting to be unraveled. Whether it’s a small-town secret that’s been buried for decades, a detective’s race against time, or a seemingly ordinary individual discovering an extraordinary truth, the tales in Mysteries Unveiled are designed to keep you on the edge of your seat.

This theme offers a chance to play with a variety of genres. Some stories may have the gritty realism of a noir thriller, while others might dip into the supernatural or the psychological. The common thread? Each story will challenge you to think, question, and ultimately uncover the truth—whatever that truth may be.

Why Mysteries?

Mysteries hold a unique place in the world of literature. They engage our curiosity and challenge our perceptions, often leading us to confront our own assumptions and biases. A good mystery isn’t just about the twist or the reveal; it’s about the journey—the slow unraveling of layers until the core is finally exposed.

In many ways, writing a mystery is like constructing a puzzle. Every piece must fit, every red herring must serve a purpose, and the conclusion must satisfy the reader’s quest for answers. It’s a challenge I’m eager to take on, and I hope these stories will offer you the same thrill of discovery that I feel while crafting them.

Join the Journey

As always, I invite you to join me on this creative journey. Throughout September, I’ll be sharing new stories every day, each one adding another layer to the theme of Mysteries Unveiled. I encourage you to share your thoughts, theories, and reactions in the comments—after all, part of the fun of a mystery is trying to solve it before the final page.

If you’ve been following along since since 2023, thank you for your continued support. If you’re new here, welcome! There’s a whole year’s worth of themes and stories to explore, each one offering a different facet of the human experience.

Let’s dive into September with open minds and curious hearts. The mysteries are waiting to be unveiled—are you ready to discover them?

Stay tuned for the first story of the month, coming soon!

Happy reading, and may the mysteries keep you guessing until the very end.