A curated collection of domestic thriller short stories to read.
By Jamie F. Bell
A group of youth and community members are at a kitchen table, excitedly brainstorming plans to convert an old, disused recreation hall basement into an arts and culture space, while an underlying sense of mystery and unease slowly builds for one of them.
By Eva Suluk
David arrives at a secluded, high-end property during a stifling summer night to meet an estranged friend, intending to resolve a dangerous conflict.
By Eva Suluk
The world was a study in whites and greys. Snow, impossibly deep, had swallowed the last of the autumn scrub, turning the edges of the base into a soft, undulating drift. A heavy, colourless sky pressed down, sealing in the cold, making every breath a visible plume. Distant, the barracks and support buildings of Fort Resolute hunkered down, dark rectangles against the white, their windows like unblinking eyes. The only sound was the wind, a low, persistent sigh through the spruce, and the almost imperceptible thrum that seemed to vibrate up through the soles of Frank's boots.
By Leaf Richards
A biting spring wind whips off the churning river, tugging at Rory's worn jacket. Beneath a sky the colour of bruised plums, she picks her way along the muddy bank, the damp chill seeping through her trainers. The air carries the faint, metallic scent of damp soil and something indefinably industrial from upstream. It is a walk she takes to clear her head, but today, the landscape feels less like a refuge and more like a stark, gritted mirror.
By Jamie F. Bell
The air, already brittle with the sharp edge of late October, seemed to carry an extra weight downtown. Every gust of wind off the river brought not just the scent of wet leaves and exhaust fumes, but something else, something indefinable yet heavy, like static electricity before a storm. The usual rumble of city life, the brassy clang of the bus brakes, the distant drone of traffic, felt muted, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Yellow and rust-coloured leaves, caught in the endless churn of concrete and brick, skittered across the pavements, gathering in damp, forgotten piles in the sheltered corners of building entrances.
By Jamie F. Bell
The city had shed its autumn cloak abruptly, trading crisp leaves for a sharp, biting cold that promised snow. Christmas lights, premature in their glow, had begun to dot the avenues, casting a pale, electric cheer against the deepening twilight. The air itself seemed to hum with an unspoken tension, a mix of holiday rush and the inevitable quietude of Canadian winter.
By Jamie F. Bell
The first truly bitter breath of December clawed at the city, a cold that seeped through layers of wool and Gore-Tex. Streetlights, still struggling against the stubborn twilight, began to shimmer with haloes of moisture. Already, the festive decorations, strung like hopeful arteries across Portage Avenue, felt less like cheer and more like a desperate, flickering defiance against the encroaching white. A bus groaned to a halt, exhaling a plume of frosted air that briefly swallowed a cluster of bundled figures waiting on the pavement, their shoulders hunched, faces tucked into scarves, each lost in their own interior world as the city began its annual, reluctant transition.
By Jamie F. Bell
The first true bite of December had arrived, a cold that seeped into the very bone, carrying with it the faint, tinny scent of distant exhaust and, incongruously, pine. Snow, fine as confectioners' sugar, dusted the streetlights, blurring their yellow halos into soft, imprecise smudges against a sky the colour of unwashed slate. Winnipeg, a city often stoic in its northern resilience, had begun its annual, hesitant bloom of festive lights, a fragile luminescence against the deepening, almost oppressive, grey.
By Jamie F. Bell
The wind howled a low, mournful tune against the brick and glass of downtown Winnipeg, a prelude to the deeper cold. November had bled into December with a swift, brutal elegance, coating the branches of elm trees in a thin, crystalline glaze that sparkled briefly under the weak afternoon sun before dulling to grey. Storefronts, for weeks now, had begun their annual, almost aggressive, adornment – strings of LED lights, plastic holly, and frosted window decals promising discounts and cheer. It was the first true breath of the Christmas season, an invisible pressure settling over the city, touching everyone differently, like a cold hand on a warm window pane.
By Jamie F. Bell
The air in the community centre's meeting room always felt thin, tasting faintly of institutional cleaner and stale coffee. Tonight, a particular chill clung to the corners, despite the faulty thermostat, making the usual drone of budget discussions feel heavier, more opaque. Silas, hunched over his sketchbook, felt an inexplicable prickle on his neck, his mind drifting from the mundane agenda to the unsettling sensation that he wasn't truly alone, or rather, not alone with the living.
By Jamie F. Bell
The 'Desert Star Oasis' gas station was less an oasis and more a flickering fluorescent mirage in the vast, inky blackness of the Nevada night. Inside, the air was still and smelled of warm plastic and old coffee. Dale was methodically scanning the jerky selection, assessing protein content versus sodium levels, when the door creaked open. A man walked in, and the fragile peace of the empty store was shattered. Not by a sound, but by a signal. The man was wearing a t-shirt with a blurry silhouette of Bigfoot on it. A clear, undeniable sign. He was one of them.
By Jamie F. Bell
Arthur liked his work. He enjoyed the quiet ritual of it, the methodical transformation of chaos into order. He was a cleaner. A specialist. Tonight's job was a 'level three spillage' in a 24-hour convenience store just off the M4. He entered through the back, the manager having been paid handsomely to close for 'emergency plumbing issues.' The 'plumbing issue' was currently being arranged in neat, black bags in the walk-in freezer. Arthur's job was to erase the process.
By Jamie F. Bell
The rain wasn't just falling; it was a solid, percussive thing, hammering on the flat roof of the 'Last Chance Gas & Go' with a fury that made the windows vibrate. Inside, the four of them were marooned in an island of fluorescent light, surrounded by a world that had dissolved into grey water. The road was gone, the car park was a lake, and the only sound besides the storm was the gentle hum of the drink cooler and the anxious tapping of Mrs. Gable's pen against her crossword puzzle.
By Jamie F. Bell
The 'Stop & Shop' hummed. It was a low, constant thrum from the rows of refrigerators lining the walls, a sound that Chloe insisted was 'masking the residual spirit energy.' Raj, crouched over his laptop on top of a stack of unsold newspapers, called it 'the sound of electricity doing its job.' Brenda, who was methodically checking the expiry dates on a family-sized bag of pork scratchings, didn't call it anything. She just wanted to be sure their stakeout snacks were fresh.
By Jamie F. Bell
The bell above the door of the 'Quik Snax' hadn't so much chimed as it had given a weary, metallic sigh. Leo, who was in the middle of a profound study of a grease stain on the counter, didn't look up. Tuesdays were for the ghosts of the night shift, the people who moved through the world on a different frequency. This one felt different. The air tasted of ozone and burnt sugar, a combination that wasn't on the store's usual olfactory menu of stale coffee and industrial floor cleaner.
By Jamie F. Bell
The air in Winnipeg had thinned to a razor's edge, each breath a crystalline shard in the lungs. Early December had draped the city in a premature, glittering blanket, the kind that promised a long, deep winter. Shop windows along Portage Avenue already bled warm, golden light onto slushy pavements, and the faint, sweet-sickly scent of pine and cinnamon hung precariously in the sharp gusts of wind, battling the pervasive smell of diesel and damp concrete. It was the sort of cold that burrowed into the bone, demanding layers, demanding acceptance.