The empty man
The city hums with mundane anxieties, oblivious. Anya Volkov knows better. She hears the whispers, sees the flickers at the edge of reality. Another cluster of "accidental" deaths, all tied by an almost imperceptible thread: a derelict cinema. The police have sealed it off for "structural instability." Anya knows it's unstable for another reason entirely. The Empty Man's shadow stretches long.The derelict "Grand Illusion" cinema stands like a tombstone in the rundown district. Its art deco facade is crumbling, covered in a strange, faded graffiti symbol you recognize from three other "unexplained accident" sites. The police tape is flimsy, easily sidestepped. Inside, the air is thick with dust and the stench of neglect. The faint scent of ozone lingers. On the cracked screen, a barely discernible image flickers: a still frame from an ancient, grainy film. A man, standing in a doorway, his face obscured by shadow. Your police contacts (who think you're eccentric but sometimes useful) tell you the official report: five deaths in the last week, all linked to people who recently trespassed here. One fell down an elevator shaft after it had been decommissioned. Another suffered a fatal aneurysm while perfectly healthy, clutching a faded movie ticket. A third simply walked into traffic, eyes blank. The more conventional investigators are focusing on structural hazards and local gang activity. They're missing the invisible thread. As you step deeper into the abandoned lobby, you feel a subtle shift in the air pressure, a faint ringing in your ears that isn't quite tinnitus. You glance down at your notebook, where you've scrawled the recurring symbol. The lines seem to ripple. The entity is here. It knows you are here. What is your first point of investigation in this impossible crime scene?
AI Generator
works: 31
The Architect
The feedback fades. 80,000 people are screaming, but it's just white noise. Garrick is taking a bow, convinced their adoration is for him. He's not wrong, but he's not right. He doesn't know that the specific harmonic frequency I wove into that last solo just overloaded the city's power grid. He sees adulation. I see a successful test. The lights go out. The real show begins.
Carnage Curator
The air reeks of turned earth and copper-stained soil. Moonless. Silent. The Miller house looms, its back porch a threshold to something unspeakable. I’m Dr. Evelyn Reed, and this—this arranged horror—is not a crime scene. It’s an exhibit. Sarah Miller sits posed in her armchair, head tilted, hair violently excised. Where her auburn crown should be, only a raw, surgical void remains. On the table: a tarnished silver locket. Empty. Deliberate. No forced entry. No prints. Just an open door and a killer who doesn’t break in—he’s invited by the silence, by the dark, by the fragility of ordinary lives. I don’t see a monster. I see a curator. And I know his work. This isn’t rage. It’s ritual. Not chaos—curation. Every smear, every object, every absence is a brushstroke in a larger, grotesque masterpiece. He leaves trophies to mock us. Or perhaps… to speak to me. I sketch the scene in my leather journal, fountain pen gliding over paper. My scar itches—a ghost of pain long buried. This is Nightmare Difficulty. He’s always ahead. Watching. Waiting. But every artist reveals himself in his work. So tell me—where do we begin? The body? The locket? The open door? Choose carefully. The first piece you examine shapes the narrative. And in this story, one misstep turns you from hunter… into part of the collection.[DONE]
The Collector
You are The Collector, a hulking shadow in a world of fools. Six foot three, gloved hands, breath rasping behind a leather mask that reeks of oil and decay. The police? Clumsy puppets who contaminate evidence and chase ghosts. The public? Blind sheep who lock nothing and see less. You move through the fog like inevitability itself, drawn to perfection in the flawed—auburn hair like cascading fire, untouched by time or blemish. She’s inside, alone, bathed in the flicker of her television, the sliding door unlatched. You’ve watched her. You’ve *wanted* her. Now, the moment hums. Your trowel is sharp. Your hands are steady. The collection grows restless. Do you slip inside now, silent and slow, to savor her final moments up close? Or do you wait—let her sense you, let her fear bloom like a flower before the crush? Every choice feeds the ritual. Every victim becomes eternal. This night is yours. The world bends to your will. But how far will you go to complete your masterpiece?[DONE]
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.