"The Last Plea":
I never imagined that a simple act of kindness could lead to such horror. It all began one cold afternoon in the park near my house. I was walking my dog when I first saw her—Shakira. She was sitting on a bench, her legs drawn up to her chest, hugging her knees tightly. Her face was pale, and her eyes, though young, seemed so tired. I’d noticed her there several times before, always alone, always distant. Something in her posture, the way she seemed to shrink into herself, made my heart ache.
I hesitated for a moment but decided to approach her. Maybe she just needed someone to talk to. I wasn’t the type to go out of my way for strangers, but something felt different about her. "Hi," I said, trying to sound casual. "I'm Alex. I see you here a lot. Mind if I sit?"
She looked up at me, startled, but then her face softened. "I’m Shakira," she said quietly, her voice almost a whisper.
We didn’t talk much that day. I just sat there next to her, letting the silence stretch out between us. But as time went on, I started to look for her every day. Something about her sadness intrigued me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she needed someone to lean on.
The following week, I brought her a coffee, hoping to break the ice. "You like cappuccinos?" I asked, handing it to her.
She blinked at it for a moment before accepting. "Yeah. Thanks." There was a soft smile on her lips, though it didn’t reach her eyes. But for that brief moment, I saw a flicker of warmth.
"Do you live around here?" I asked, trying to start a conversation.
She nodded but didn’t offer much else. I didn’t press. Slowly, though, she began to open up, just a little. She told me she was living with some friends—Ashana, Lisa, and Shaun. I asked her if she liked it there, but her face clouded over when she spoke of them.
"They take care of me," she said quietly. "They give me a place to stay. But... I don’t know, sometimes I feel like they want something from me."
I didn’t understand what she meant at the time. I thought maybe she was just going through a rough patch. It wasn’t until days later that I started noticing the bruises. Little purple marks on her arms, sometimes on her neck. I asked if she was okay, but she always shrugged it off. "I’m fine," she’d say, but there was always a hint of something darker behind her eyes.
It wasn’t until one evening when I couldn’t ignore it anymore. We were sitting on the same bench, the air growing colder as the sun dipped below the horizon. I noticed a particularly large bruise on her wrist. "Shakira, what happened?" I asked, my voice trembling with concern.
She winced, pulling her sleeve down quickly. "I... I tripped. It’s nothing."
I knew it wasn’t nothing. "Are they hurting you?" I pressed gently.
Her eyes flickered, and for a moment, I saw real fear. "No, Alex. You don’t understand. It’s just how things are."
"Who’s hurting you? Please, tell me."
She shook her head violently. "You don’t know them. They’re not bad people, not really... they just get angry sometimes. I deserve it." Her voice broke, and tears began to well up in her eyes. "I... I can’t leave. If I try, they’ll find me."
I felt a chill run through me, the kind that made my skin prickle. Something wasn’t right. "Shakira, you don’t deserve any of this. Please, come stay with me. You don’t have to go back to them."
She looked at me for a long time, the indecision evident on her face. "I can’t," she whispered. "They’ll hurt me more if I leave. I’ll just be worse off."
I couldn’t stand seeing her like this. I made up my mind then. I wasn’t going to let her go back to those people, whatever they were doing to her. "Come with me, right now," I urged. "You don’t have to go back to them."
Her eyes darted nervously. "No... No, they’ll be watching. They’ll always know."
I didn’t give up. I tried to convince her, tried to assure her that she’d be safe, but she kept shaking her head. "I can’t," she repeated, her voice breaking.
I left the park that day with a sense of dread in my chest. I called the police, told them everything I knew. They assured me they’d look into it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. I felt guilty, like maybe I should have tried harder. But I had no idea what I was up against.
Days passed, and I tried to reach Shakira again, but she never showed up at the park. I called, but she never answered. I drove past her place, but the lights were always off, and the house looked abandoned.
Then one afternoon, a news report caught my eye. They had found a body. A young woman. It was Shakira.
The details were horrifying. She had been tortured—starved, beaten, and left to die in the very house she called home. The authorities found her in a dilapidated room, her body barely recognizable. Ashana, Lisa, and Shaun were arrested, but I didn’t care about their fate. My mind was consumed with the image of Shakira’s eyes when she looked at me that last time, pleading without words.
The guilt gnawed at me every day. I should have pushed harder. I should have gone to her house, should have done more to convince her to leave. The truth hit me slowly, painfully. She had trusted me. And I had failed her.
When I found out the full extent of what had been happening in that house, I was sick to my stomach. Ashana and Lisa had been manipulating Shakira, promising her safety while abusing her mentally and physically. Shaun was their enabler. They had all worked together to break her spirit, convinced her that she couldn’t survive without them. And when she tried to escape, they decided to make her disappear.
The police told me that I wasn’t to blame, that they had their own plans to investigate the case. But it didn’t matter. Every night, I still saw her face in my dreams, those haunted eyes, that quiet voice begging for help.
I still visit the park where we used to meet. Sometimes, when I sit there, I swear I hear her faint voice on the wind. I know it’s just my mind playing tricks, but I can’t help it. I’ll never forget what happened. I’ll never forget Shakira.
And I’ll never forgive myself for not saving her.
"The River Took Them":
I remember that day as though it were burned into my mind, and sometimes, I still wake up in the middle of the night, heart racing, reliving every single moment of it. It was May 23, 2020, a day that started just like any other in our quiet, little village of Soti. Nestled in the remote hills of the Rukum district, our world was simple—days spent tending fields, helping with household chores, and gathering with neighbors in the evenings to share stories over tea. Life in Soti moved slowly, like the river that wound through our village, but that day was different. That day, everything changed.
It started with the sound of raised voices. At first, I thought it was just another argument—neighbors bickering over land boundaries or someone’s misplaced goat. But as I listened more closely, something about the tone of the shouting caught my attention. It wasn’t casual, it wasn’t friendly. It was… tense. So, I left my chores behind and made my way toward the village entrance, where a small crowd was beginning to form.
As I drew closer, I could see that there were two groups facing each other. On one side were a group of young men—most of them in their early twenties. Leading them was a man named Nawaraj BK. He was a young Dalit from the neighboring district of Jajarkot, a place that was known for its poverty and its deep-rooted caste discrimination. He had been seeing a girl from our village for a while, and that, in itself, had caused a stir. The girl, Rina, came from a respected family in the village—her father was well-known, influential even. And the fact that she had fallen for a man of a lower caste had set tongues wagging.
On the other side, there was a group of angry villagers, many of whom were from Rina’s family. Her father, Bishnu, was there, his face twisted in fury, his fists clenched. There were also a few of the elders from the village, people who carried weight and influence in Soti. They didn’t take kindly to outsiders, especially not someone from a lower caste, trying to steal away what they considered their pride.
I heard snatches of conversation as I stood at the back of the crowd, trying not to draw attention to myself.
“You have no right to take her!” Rina’s father was shouting, his voice thick with anger. “You don’t belong here.”
Nawaraj, calm but desperate, responded, “We love each other. That’s all that matters.”
I could see it in his eyes. He was trying to keep it together, but there was fear there too. He knew what this confrontation could mean, and yet, his love for Rina made him stand his ground. I could see Rina in the crowd too, standing behind her family, her eyes searching for him. Her expression was unreadable—caught between love and fear, but she didn’t speak.
The tension was palpable. More villagers gathered, drawn by the noise. Some were curious, others were eager for a fight. It didn’t take long before the words turned into harsh shouts. Someone in the crowd yelled, “He doesn’t belong here! He’s nothing but trouble!”
Suddenly, someone threw a rock, narrowly missing one of Nawaraj’s friends. That was the spark. Without warning, the crowd surged forward, rushing toward the group of young men. They were outnumbered, outclassed in every way. Nawaraj’s friends tried to retreat, but the villagers pushed forward with violence in their eyes.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” one of the young men, Ram, yelled as he backed away. He turned to Nawaraj. “We need to go! Now!”
But it was too late. The villagers had surrounded them. The air was thick with anger, and I could feel my heart racing. There was no way this would end peacefully. I knew it. But I didn’t know how bad it would get.
In the chaos, I heard someone shout, “They don’t belong here. They crossed the line.”
Another villager grabbed a long stick and swung it at one of the young men, narrowly missing him. In that moment, the young men turned and ran. The crowd gave chase.
“Run, Nawaraj!” someone shouted.
I watched, frozen, as they bolted toward the Bheri River, which bordered our village. The water was high that time of year, and the current was fast. Some of them leaped into the water, desperately trying to swim across. The rest followed, but the river wasn’t forgiving. I could hear their screams over the sound of rushing water. “Help! Please, someone help us!”
But no one did.
Instead, the crowd watched from the riverbank, yelling insults and taunts. It was as though they were enjoying their suffering. I didn’t understand it. How had it gotten this far? What had started as a confrontation over love had turned into something far darker, more dangerous.
“Let them drown!” someone shouted from the edge. “Let them pay for their arrogance!”
The cries for help continued for what felt like an eternity. I could see Nawaraj and his friends struggling against the current, some of them slipping under the water. They were too weak to fight it. There was no chance.
I wanted to do something. I wanted to scream at the villagers to help them, but I couldn’t move. Fear held me in place, a horrible mix of confusion and terror. The scene was unfolding right before my eyes, and all I could do was watch as six young men were swallowed by the river, their bodies carried away by the water.
The night that followed was the longest of my life. The villagers, who had once celebrated the day with laughter and tea, now sat in silence. The weight of what had happened hung over us like a storm cloud.
In the morning, authorities arrived—police, journalists, and investigators. Word of the massacre had spread quickly, and soon, it was national news. The bodies of Nawaraj and five others were found downstream, their lives ended by a senseless act of violence.
The days that followed were a blur of arrests and court hearings. The village was divided—some stood by the actions of the villagers, calling it justice for the wrongs committed by a young man who had dared to defy tradition. Others, like myself, saw it for what it truly was: an atrocity born from deep-rooted prejudice and hate.
Eventually, 24 villagers were arrested and sentenced to life imprisonment for their roles in the killings. Two others were convicted for discrimination, and the trial drew attention to the caste-based violence that still plagued our country. The girl, Rina, was left to grieve in silence. No one really knew how to comfort her, and no one dared speak of it.
I still think about that day, especially in the quiet hours of the night when I can hear the rush of the river in my mind. It’s a constant reminder of the darkness that can fester when people let their hate and fear rule them. That day wasn’t just a tragedy for Nawaraj and his friends—it was a tragedy for all of us, for everyone who was caught in the wake of that violence. And sometimes, I wonder if we’ll ever fully understand what happened, or if the scars will ever heal.
"The Man":
It was late October, one of those crisp, cool nights where the air bites at your skin, and everything seems a little too quiet. I’d just spent the evening at a friend's place, having dinner and catching up, and now I was heading home. The moon was barely visible, hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, leaving the road ahead shrouded in darkness. I lived in a small town, and the drive back was along narrow, winding country roads. You know, the kind where the trees almost seem to reach out over the asphalt like they're trying to swallow the car whole.
The silence in the car was broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of tires on gravel. The headlights cut through the darkness, and everything outside of their reach was just shadows. I’d driven this road countless times, but tonight, there was something different about it. Something uneasy, like the quiet before a storm.
I was coming up to a bend in the road when I saw it. A car parked on the side, the emergency flashers glowing faintly in the dark. I slowed down instinctively, my eyes scanning the scene. There was a man standing next to the car, waving his arms frantically, trying to catch my attention. My heart skipped a beat, and I instantly felt a pang of unease.
I hesitated for a moment, a voice in my head urging caution. But I couldn’t just leave someone stranded out here. The nearest town was miles away, and there was no way anyone would see him out here in the middle of nowhere. I pulled over just a little ways ahead of his car, rolling down my window slightly to call out.
“Hey, you alright?” I asked, trying to sound calm, though I was already uneasy.
The man turned to face me, his features barely visible in the dim light. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, wearing a dark jacket and jeans. He had a rugged look, but there was something about him that didn’t sit right. Maybe it was the way he stood—too still, too deliberate, like he was waiting for something.
“My car broke down,” he said, his voice tinged with a sort of desperate exhaustion. “I’ve been out here for hours, and my phone’s dead. Can you give me a ride to the gas station? It’s about ten miles up the road. Please.”
I thought for a moment. I could see how much he needed help, but there was a little voice in my head telling me to drive away, to keep going. But I couldn’t do that. It felt wrong. I’d been taught to help people when they were in need.
“Alright,” I said, unlocking the passenger side door. “Get in. It’s not safe out here.”
The man gave a relieved sigh and moved toward the car. As he slid into the seat beside me, I couldn’t help but notice how he seemed to invade my personal space. His movements were quick, almost too quick, like he couldn’t get in the car fast enough.
“Thanks so much. You don’t know how much this means,” he said, his voice softening. “I was starting to think I’d be stuck out here all night.”
I nodded, keeping my eyes on the road, but my mind was racing. There was something about him that I couldn’t shake. He was too eager, too quick to trust me. As I drove, I tried to make small talk, something to ease the tension.
“So, uh, what brings you out this way?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, just visiting some family in the next town over,” he replied, staring out the window, his voice drifting. “Haven’t seen them in a while, you know? They’re about an hour away. It’s been a long day.”
I glanced over at him briefly, wondering why he wasn’t looking at me. He seemed distant, like his thoughts were elsewhere. But I didn’t press the issue, trying to keep the conversation light.
“So, do you live around here?” I asked, attempting to steer the conversation in a more comfortable direction.
“No, just passing through,” he answered quickly, then added, almost too casually, “You know, it’s not always safe to pick up strangers, especially at night. People could be anyone.”
I froze. My grip on the steering wheel tightened, and I forced myself to keep my eyes on the road. It was just a strange comment, I told myself. But the way he said it, like he was testing me, made my skin crawl.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “But sometimes it’s just the right thing to do.”
The man chuckled darkly. “Or it could be the last mistake you ever make.”
My heart hammered in my chest. The air between us seemed to thicken, and I could feel the tension in the car rising. I glanced at him again, this time more sharply, but he was staring straight ahead, his expression unreadable. I had no idea what to make of it. Was he joking? Or was he hinting at something more sinister?
Minutes ticked by in uneasy silence, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional creak of the car as it navigated the winding road. My thoughts were racing, trying to figure out what to do. Every instinct told me to get away, to drop him off at the next safe place and leave, but I was still miles from the gas station, and I wasn’t sure how to do it without drawing attention to myself.
Suddenly, he shifted in his seat, and I noticed he was reaching for something in his jacket pocket. My heart skipped a beat. My mind screamed for me to act, but I was frozen. What was he doing? What was he pulling out?
“Stop the car,” he suddenly said, his voice sharp and cold.
My blood ran cold, and in a panic, I slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching in protest as the car skidded to a halt.
“Get out,” I demanded, my voice trembling with a fear I couldn’t hide. “Get out of my car right now.”
He paused, staring at me, his eyes narrowing, like he was deciding whether to argue or just leave. For a moment, we just stared at each other, the silence stretching between us. Then, slowly, he opened the door and stepped out. He didn’t say a word, just stood there for a moment, watching me, before closing the door behind him.
I didn’t wait. I sped off, not daring to look back, my heart pounding in my ears. The only thing I could think about was getting away as fast as I could. Every part of me screamed to drive faster, to put as much distance between myself and that man as possible.
When I finally reached the gas station, I was a shaking mess. I told the attendant everything that had happened, and he immediately called the police. They came and took my statement, assuring me that they would look into it. I didn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face, and the words he’d said echoed in my mind.
A few days later, I got a call from the police. They had tracked down the man. He wasn’t just a random stranger; he was a wanted criminal, suspected of several assaults and robberies in the area. He had been using that same tactic—pretending to be stranded, luring people in, and then robbing or worse. They’d found his vehicle abandoned, but they hadn’t caught him yet. He was still on the run.
The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I had almost become one of his victims. I had been one bad decision away from a nightmare I couldn’t have even imagined.
To this day, I’m more cautious than ever. I trust my instincts, always, because I know how close I came to something truly horrifying. The world is full of dangers we can’t always see, but sometimes, the most terrifying ones are the ones who look just like us.
"The Silent Stalker":
I never imagined I'd be the one recounting this tale. It was a quiet Tuesday evening when I received a call that would change my life forever.
"Hello?" I answered, my voice betraying my fatigue from a long day at the office.
"Is this Detective Harris?" The voice on the other end was shaky, almost pleading.
"Yes, speaking. How can I help you?"
"I need to report a missing person," the caller said, his words rushed. "My wife, Emily. She left this morning and hasn't returned. Her phone's off, and I can't reach her."
I scribbled down the details: Emily Thompson, 32, last seen leaving their home at 7:30 AM.
"Stay where you are," I instructed. "I'll be there shortly."
When I arrived at the Thompson residence, I found Mark pacing nervously in the living room.
"Detective Harris," he greeted me, his face pale. "Thank you for coming."
"Tell me everything," I said, taking a seat across from him.
Mark recounted the morning's events. Emily had kissed him goodbye, as usual, and left for her job at the local library. They had a routine: she would call him during her lunch break, but today, the call never came.
"Has she ever done this before?" I asked.
"No," Mark replied, shaking his head. "She's always been punctual. This isn't like her."
I examined the house. Nothing seemed out of place. Her purse was on the kitchen counter, her car was parked in the driveway.
"Do you have any idea where she might have gone?" I inquired.
Mark hesitated. "Well, there's this old diner on Route 9. She used to go there when she was younger. I don't know if she still does, but it's worth checking."
I nodded. "I'll look into it."
As I drove to the diner, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the empty road. The diner was a small, run-down place with flickering neon lights.
Inside, the bell above the door jingled as I entered. The smell of stale coffee and grease hit me immediately. A lone waitress wiped down the counter.
"Evening," she greeted me. "What can I get you?"
"I'm looking for someone," I said, showing her a photo of Emily. "Have you seen her today?"
The waitress studied the photo for a moment. "Can't say I have. Sorry."
I thanked her and left, my mind racing. If Emily wasn't at the diner, where could she be?
I spent the next few hours canvassing the area, speaking with locals, but no one had seen Emily. Frustrated, I returned to the station to review the case files.
As I sat at my desk, a thought struck me. Emily had mentioned a book club she attended on Monday nights. Maybe someone there knew something.
I called the library. "Hello, this is Detective Harris. I'm looking for information on a book club that meets on Monday nights. Do you have any records of such a group?"
The librarian paused. "Yes, we do. It's a small group, but they meet regularly. I can give you the contact information for the organizer."
I thanked her and hung up. The organizer's name was Sarah Mitchell.
I called Sarah. "Hello, this is Detective Harris. I'm investigating the disappearance of Emily Thompson. She was a member of your book club. Can you tell me if she mentioned anything unusual recently?"
There was a long pause before Sarah spoke. "Emily... she was a bit distant lately. She mentioned feeling like someone was watching her. She was scared."
"Did she say who?" I pressed.
"No," Sarah replied. "But she was convinced someone was following her."
I felt a chill run down my spine. "Did she say anything else?"
"She... she said she was going to confront whoever it was," Sarah added. "She was determined to find out who was following her."
I thanked Sarah and ended the call. Emily had been scared, and she had planned to confront her stalker. But now she was missing.
I spent the next few days retracing Emily's steps, interviewing friends and family, but there were no new leads. Then, a breakthrough came.
A local pawn shop reported that someone had tried to sell a woman's engagement ring. The description matched Emily's.
I rushed to the pawn shop. "Can you tell me who sold this ring?" I asked the owner.
He nodded. "Yeah, a guy named Tom. He comes in here sometimes. Real shady character."
"Do you have a last name?" I pressed.
The owner thought for a moment. "No, but he always pays in cash. Never leaves a name."
I left the shop, my mind racing. Tom. Could he be the one Emily had been afraid of?
I dug deeper into Tom's background. He had a criminal record for assault and harassment. He had been stalking Emily for months, sending her threatening messages and showing up at her workplace.
I obtained a warrant and arrested Tom. During interrogation, he confessed to abducting Emily.
He had been following her for weeks, watching her every move. When she confronted him, he panicked and took her.
We found Emily in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. She was alive but traumatized.
As I sat in my office, reflecting on the case, I couldn't help but think about how easily someone could slip through the cracks. Emily had been brave, but not everyone is.
I made a promise to myself that day: I would never stop looking for the missing, and I would always listen to the ones who were too afraid to speak.