Thriller Writing Prompts

Jordan had always hated the flickering streetlight outside their house. It buzzed like a dying insect, and its erratic blinking cast unsettling shadows in their living room. Night after night, the light would stutter, as though it were gasping for attention, and night after night, Jordan cursed it under their breath.

One particularly sleepless evening, armed with a mug of cooling coffee and too much frustration, Jordan found themselves staring at the offending lamp through their window. They noticed something unusual—the blinks weren’t random. There was a rhythm to them. A long flash, then two short ones. Another long. Three more short. It clicked in Jordan’s mind: Morse code.

Jordan sat up straighter, their annoyance morphing into curiosity. They grabbed a notebook and a pen, their fingers trembling slightly as they began to write down the sequence of long and short blinks.

“Okay,” they muttered, pulling up a Morse code chart on their phone. “Let’s see what you’ve got to say.”

The translation was slow work, and the message made no sense at first. T-H-E-R-E-.-I-S-.-S-O-M-E-T-H-I-N-G-.-I-N-.-T-H-E-.-B-A-S-E-M-E-N-T.

Jordan blinked, the words sinking in. They lived alone.

“Nope,” they said aloud, their voice wobbling. “This is ridiculous. Just a prank.”

But their basement door creaked faintly at that exact moment, as though stirred by an unseen draft.

The notebook fell from their hands. Their gut told them to leave, but their legs carried them to the basement door instead. The light in the hallway buzzed in sympathy with the flickering streetlamp.

Gripping the doorknob, Jordan hesitated. The streetlight blinked furiously outside, its message repeating. T-H-E-R-E-.-I-S-.-S-O-M-E-T-H-I-N-G-.-I-N-.-T-H-E-.-B-A-S-E-M-E-N-T.

Against their better judgment, Jordan pushed the door open. The basement stairs loomed below, shrouded in darkness. They fumbled for the light switch, but nothing happened. The streetlight’s frantic flashing filtered through a small window at the top of the stairs, illuminating the gloom just enough to guide their steps.

At the bottom, the air was damp and heavy, smelling of mildew and something faintly metallic. Jordan scanned the basement. It was empty.

Relief washed over them—until their foot brushed against something soft. Looking down, they saw the corner of a large tarp, slightly dislodged. Swallowing hard, Jordan pulled it back.

Beneath the tarp was an old chest, its metal surface riddled with scratches. Carved into the lid, in jagged letters, was a single word: HELP.

Jordan’s breath hitched. The streetlight outside went dark for the first time in years.

And then, the chest began to rattle.

Jordan stumbled back, their heart pounding. The chest rattled violently now, the sound echoing off the basement walls like a trapped animal fighting to escape. They wanted to run, to leave the basement and never return, but something rooted them in place—curiosity, terror, or maybe the desperate plea etched into the chest itself: HELP.

The rattling stopped. Silence pressed in, heavy and oppressive.

Jordan’s trembling hand reached out, almost as if guided by an unseen force. Their fingertips brushed the cold metal of the chest. The moment they touched it, the streetlight outside flickered back to life, its glow casting faint patterns through the basement window.

Jordan pressed the latch. It gave way with an eerie, almost reluctant creak.

Inside was a pile of old photographs. Dozens of them, yellowed and curling at the edges, all showing the same thing: a small child standing in front of a familiar house—their house. The child’s face was smudged and distorted in every photo, as though it had been erased or blurred out deliberately.

Jordan’s hands shook as they flipped through the stack. On the back of each photo, written in spidery handwriting, was the same message: DO NOT FORGET ME.

At the bottom of the chest lay a folded piece of paper. Jordan unfolded it carefully, revealing a crude map of their neighborhood, with a single red X marked over the streetlight in front of their house. Next to the X were three words: DIG. FIND ME.

A cold sweat broke out on Jordan’s forehead. They rushed back upstairs, grabbing a flashlight and a shovel from the closet. Against every instinct screaming at them to stop, they stepped outside into the chilly night.

The streetlight flickered, slow and steady, almost like a heartbeat, as Jordan began to dig.

The shovel struck something hard. Jordan knelt down, brushing the loose dirt away with their hands, and uncovered a small wooden box, weathered and cracked with age. They hesitated, their breath clouding in the cold air, before prying it open.

Inside was a tiny, leather-bound diary. The first page was dated December 8, 1974, the handwriting messy and uneven:

“My name is Emily. If you’ve found this, please help me. He locked me in the basement. No one hears me. No one looks for me. Please don’t forget me like everyone else did.”

The streetlight blinked one last time and went out. Behind Jordan, the basement door creaked open.

And from the darkness came a voice, faint and broken, but unmistakably a child’s:

“You found me.”

Jordan froze, the soft, trembling voice sending chills down their spine. Slowly, they turned toward the house. The basement door was ajar, a faint glow emanating from the darkness beyond it. The night felt unnaturally quiet, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

“Emily?” Jordan whispered, clutching the tiny diary tightly to their chest.

The voice came again, this time clearer, closer. “You found me… but I can’t leave.”

Jordan’s heart hammered as they stepped toward the house. “What do you mean? How can I help you?”

The glow from the basement grew brighter as they approached. The air grew colder, heavy with the weight of something unseen. Jordan descended the stairs once more, flashlight trembling in their hand.

At the bottom, the chest was open again, but this time, it was empty. The photographs, the map, everything was gone. Instead, standing in the middle of the room was a figure. A girl, no older than eight, her translucent form flickering like the streetlight outside. Her dress was torn and faded, her eyes wide and sad.

“You’re… Emily,” Jordan said, their voice barely above a whisper.

Emily nodded. “He buried me here. No one came to find me.”

Jordan’s breath caught. They looked down at the floor where the chest had been. The dirt beneath it seemed disturbed, loose and uneven.

“I’ll—I’ll call someone,” Jordan stammered. “The police, an investigator—someone who can—”

“No!” Emily’s voice cracked, sharp and desperate. “They can’t help me. Only you can. You’ve seen the signs. You’re the only one who listened.”

“What do you need me to do?”

Emily pointed toward the far corner of the basement. Jordan followed her gaze to see a patch of bricks along the wall that didn’t quite match the rest.

“Behind there,” she said softly. “That’s where he put me.”

Jordan’s stomach churned, but they nodded, adrenaline pushing them forward. Grabbing a crowbar from a nearby shelf, they chipped away at the bricks, the sound echoing in the small space. Each brick revealed more of a small, dark cavity behind the wall.

Finally, Jordan uncovered a bundle wrapped in tattered cloth. They froze, their hands trembling.

“Open it,” Emily urged, her voice both pleading and firm.

Jordan unwrapped the cloth, revealing the brittle remains of a small skeleton. A sob caught in their throat as they realized the truth. Emily had been here, forgotten, for decades.

Tears streamed down Jordan’s face. “I’m so sorry,” they whispered.

Emily knelt beside her remains, her translucent form flickering more violently now. “It’s not your fault. You’ve done more than anyone else ever did.”

The glow around her grew brighter, warmer, as though she were finally at peace. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice fading. “I can rest now.”

The streetlight outside flared to life one last time, its steady beam cutting through the night. Jordan felt a wave of calm wash over them as Emily’s spirit dissolved into the light, leaving behind only the faint scent of lilies.

The basement grew quiet. The oppressive cold lifted. Jordan stood there for a long moment, staring at the small remains.

The next morning, they called the authorities. Emily’s story made the news, her remains finally laid to rest in the town’s cemetery.

And for the first time in years, the streetlight outside Jordan’s house shone steadily, casting a warm and unwavering glow.

It was considered unholy.

The reprimand we would receive for this would be earth shattering. We were going to suffer for this.

I don’t even know what we were thinking. You don’t think when you’re a kid.

We were all just way too hyper. The view of the city, the soft dusk signalling the first shadows of the night. And we all figured, well…why not?

No one would know anyway.

But now, sitting in front of my parents, heart thumping through my rib cage,

I regret my decision.

I feel deep, organ crushing fear.

I already know what they are about to say.

“How could you do this?”

Here it comes.

“How could you pee on our city’s landmark?”

I mean, it wasn’t much of a landmark. But there’s a lot of history surrounding that telephone box, so naturally they weren’t exactly over the moon to hear that kids had urinated on it for a laugh.

My brother can’t resist the smile climbing to the front of his face, which is swiftly removed by the burning tone of my mother.

“You think this is some sort of perverted joke? You’re the one who joined him! At least one of you were honest enough to…”

I don’t hear the rest.

He snitched on us?

I look upon my brother with horror and disgust.

We swore to not tell Dad or Mum.

We swore upon our brotherhood.

And this mouthy swine dare stab my trust in the back?

Never again, I said in my head, my thoughts a raging whirlwind of anger.

Never again I will pee anywhere with my brother.

I’ll never share another happy moment with this stinky, lowly traitor.

“Everything I do… I do it for YOU!”

“Please, Adrian… Please, just- just put the knife down!”

Every time she took a step back, he took one step forward.

“But I love you, Cammy… I love you, why won’t you believe me?” His tone was calm, but his eyes were crazy, and the sweat that had been gathering at his hairline was beginning to slowly trickle down his face. It was getting dark outside, but the sliver of moonlight that peaked through the kitchen window reflected off the knife in his hand. A quick glance at her full knife block told her everything. He had brought it with him…

… He had planned this.

“I-I believe you, Adrian, I do. I believe you-“

“THEN WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?!” The sudden shift in his demeanour caused her to jump, and she instinctively held her arms up in surrender, tears tickling the corners of her eyes. She answered back meekly, barely above a whisper;

“I’m s-sorry… I’m sorry, Adrian…” she didn’t dare look at him. She kept her head down, willing the tears back into her head and praying to whatever deities she could think of that he would come to his senses. He hadn’t always been like this.

When they first met, he was as kind as a kitten and wouldn’t dream of laying a hand on her, but something changed… One day, as if possessed by some unholy entity, he had snapped. He was a different person. He was cold.

He was distant…

He wasn’t the person she had fallen in love with… Not anymore.

“I can’t live without you, my love… I won’t.”

Suddenly, her back was up against the wall. She grasped blindly at the table beside her, hoping to grab something, anything, to defend herself. Her eyes squeezed shut tightly, she could hear his slow footsteps closing in on her.

“You’re all I want… you’re all I need.”

Unable to reach anything, she braced herself, one hand on the table, the other against the wall, and waited. He was so close now, she could feel his sweat dripping onto her head, she could smell his breath. She could hear his heart racing, or maybe it was her own…

“I’ll love you for a thousand years, and a thousand more…”

“Please, don’t…” was all she could muster up the courage to utter before a sharp pain radiated through her entire body. Her legs buckled underneath her and she collapsed to the floor. Her vision was hazy, but through the searing agony and blurry vision, she could see him crouch down beside her, the knife, now dripping crimson, still in his hand. He spoke, his tone now hushed and deranged;

“I’m sorry, Cammy, but if I can’t have you… no one can,”

She tried to speak, but no words would come out. As her eyes drifted shut, she heard him speak one last time;

“Oh Camilla… why couldn’t you see…”

“… you belong with me.”

There’s four song lyrics in this short story, can you guess them all? 
Thanks for reading! ❤️😊

Sophie did not like working with thieves, they were sticky fingered, conniving, backstabbing lunatics who only looked out for themselves. Upon telling people this she was often met with weird stares — after all she was a thief herself. However, she was also a thief low down in the criminal food chain and therefore had no control over who she worked with when her boss dictated that she must take someone else on this mission with her. But just because she had to didn’t mean she wouldn’t resent it.

Sophie had put in all of the hard work, scaled down the wall from the roof with nothing but a rope to keep her from falling to her untimely death, she had rolled through unforgiving lasers that had leaped to try and graze the slivers of her skin exposed to their wrath — almost singeing off her eyebrows! And yet here he was, strolling arrogantly through the brooding corridors, prize in hand as though he had done a thing! He had all but snatched it from her grasp as soon as her silent feet had hit the floor, after she had done all the dirty work and he had just watched like some incappable moron. Told her he would “keep it safe” for her. She knew what that meant, it meant he would hand it to their boss and get all of the credit for it. He had caught her on a bad day though, because it’s not like Sophie wasn’t used to this happening, it was the reason she despised working with other thieves. Normally she would let it go, would limp back to their headquarters ignoring the pain in her legs, the strain in her back from all the work she had done and let them claim it as their own. But tonight she had decided she had just about had enough. He was whistling as he swaggered along, swinging the necklace around the tip of his finger its long chain dangling lazily from his hand. She trailed slowly behind him, studying him as he walked, waiting for a sign of weakness, an opening. Despite being a sinner, God seemed to have heard her prayers and decided to answer them because the sound of heavy footsteps came from the other end of the corridor. Security. The other thief turned to her, eyes wide in alarm, and so she too masked the panic upon her face. She grabbed his arm, dragging him into a shadowed corner as they watched the security guard stroll by. The guard was coming closer and closer and Sophie always felt that nervous thrill of excitement at almost being caught. When you knew you were doing something bad and there was a chance you’d get away with it. It had her on edge. And just when the guard was a heartbeat away from them, when she could see every pore and wrinkle marring the man’s face she grabbed the necklace from the thiefs hand and before he had time to object she kicked him in the back of the leg and watched as his knees buckled and sent him stumbling to the ground. “Hey!” The security guard yelled but Sophie was already running, running for the rope attached to the ceiling, running to freedom running like hell on earth. At first the guard was too busy tackling the other thief to the ground to go after her, not realising it was she who possessed the stolen item. Upon reaching the rope she hastily put the necklace around her neck, and using two hands began climbing like hell. By the time the guard came over to her he just stared helplessly up at the mountain of a rope in defeat, a rope he was never going to climb in time for she had already reached its top. It led to a window on the roof and she clambered through letting the cold evening breeze kiss her face. Let it unfurl her hair and coddle her in praise. Untying the rope to ensure she couldn’t be followed, she allowed herself a moment to pause on the rooftop. Her boss would kill her when she returned for leaving her partner behind, letting him get caught despite him being stupid enough to turn his back on a thief.

That was if she decided to return at all….

Looking down at the jewel around her neck Sophie decided she liked the way that it looked hanging between her collarbones, the jewel bright against the flushed skin of her neck. Why should she return the necklace when she was underpaid and definetly underappreciated. She was a thief after all and it was incredibly stupid of her boss to trust a thief with something so expensively shiny and pretty. She decided her boss had brought it upon himself, after all she was only what he had perfected her to be. You don’t train a dog to bite and withdraw your hand in shock when it finally does. So Sophie looked out into the cloudless night, at the endless possibilities suddenly presenting themselves before her and decided she was going to be a very rich woman indeed

As I staggered through the rusted gate, the air was like a blade, slicing through the remnants of my composure. The path, a tortuous route through an overgrown nightmare, seemed to feed on my despair, each thorn a sharp reminder of my jagged thoughts.

The garden, once a haven, now mirrored the desolation in my soul, a place where hope had withered into sorrow. My heart pounded, not in rhythm, but in chaotic spasms, echoing the disarray within. At the path's end lay a sunken pond, its murky waters a dark abyss reflecting the despair clouding my eyes.

Before me, a derelict and abandoned greenhouse, its old form more a mausoleum of glass than a sanctuary of life. Its opaque windows veiled its heart, like how my mind cloaked my anguish in shadows. Pushing open the iron door, its screech was a symphony I’m used to, a cacophony of the screams I swallowed in my darkest hours. Inside, the remnants of life twisted in grotesque mimicry of joy, a visual echo of the decay festering in my heart.

A cloaked figure stood in the core of the glass crypt, an embodiment of my deepest fears, before an altar of blackened flowers, each wilted petal a whisper of my lost dreams. As it turned, its obscured face mirrored the darkness in me.

The earth trembled violently as if resonating with my internal chaos. The glass walls shattered, like the breaking of my mental barriers. Blinding light flooded in, a cruel contrast to the gloom within me. Amidst the chaos, the figure uttered my name – a chilling echo of my unvoiced fears, dragging me deeper into an abyss of despair.

Night falls.

Diana sits on the couch. She watches TV. She throws a piece of popcorn in her mouth and chews it slowly. She looks happy, relaxed, and content. She looks vulnerable.

I hear a loud sound in another part of the house.

Diana jumps, and I know that she heard it too.

“What if it’s a monster?” I ask.

Diana looks back at the TV. “Maybe it is,” she says, “and maybe it isn’t.”

“But what,” I ask, “if it is?”

“It never is,” she says.

Diana tries to watch the TV, but I can tell that she is distracted. She is thinking about it too.

“What if this is that one time,” I ask, “that it’s really a monster?”

I have to convince Diana. I am sure that there is a monster, and I have to protect her from the monster. If I can’t convince her to heed my warnings, I will feel like it’s my fault when the monster gets her.

I haven’t always been able to protect Diana. I have failed her sometimes. I have failed to warn her about real danger. That is why I can never fail her again.

Diana doesn’t get up, but she starts to fidget in her seat. She squirms around. She can’t sit still.

I can tell that Diana is thinking about it, so I push her over the edge.

“Let’s just make sure,” I whine.

“Okay,” Diana says. “I’ll just do this for you, and then I can go back to watching my show.”

I don’t agree to that.

Diana gets off of the couch. She walks around the house. She opens doors and cabinets. She looks everywhere. She doesn’t find any monsters.

She goes back to the couch. She sits down. She starts to watch her show again.

“What if you didn’t look closely enough?” I ask. “What if the monster was right in front of your eyes, and you just didn’t see it? What if…”

Diana stares at the TV.

I talk over her show. I talk louder. I talk the whole time. I have to convince her. I need to make her listen.

Diana ignores me, but she doesn’t absorb any of her show either. She turns it off early and goes to bed.

“What if the monster is still in the house?” I ask. “What if it gets you in your sleep?”

Diana lays awake in bed.

I continue to try to convince her to go and to find the monster. I tell her there is a monster in the house. “What if it gets you in your sleep?” I ask. “What if you never wake up?”

Diana doesn’t put in ear plugs. But still, she finds a way to tune me out or to sleep through my chatter. She falls asleep.

I am livid. I wasn’t able to protect Diana. I growl in anguish and then go silent. Even I can’t see the point in trying to convince her while she is asleep.

But I was wrong about the monsters.

Diana wakes in the morning.

I might have been wrong about the monsters getting her in her sleep. But I’m sure the monsters are still in the house, and I need to protect her from them.

But will she listen to me?

I keep my mouth shut for now. I’ll wait. I know the monsters will reveal their presence eventually. The next time we hear a sound in the house, I’ll speak up again. This time, I’ll really convince her that there are monsters in the house.