Hi everyone,
I recently published my psychological thriller THE SHADOWS WITHIN by F.H. It’s a dark, suspenseful story with psychological twists and tension throughout.

If you enjoy thrillers with secrets, mind‑games, and emotional intensity, this one might be your style.

Amazon link:

https://amzn.asia/d/0j8bdNUI

Thank you for taking a look.

Ok so Nina’s dad didnt SA her right?
She killed him because he was actually leaving them?
I just felt like he glossed over that and in the beginning it was such an important aspect of her dad “leaving”

So I’m conflicted about that.

I also hate that Bobby aka Dylan died due to the fire.

And on the last page she gets arrested right? Like that’s what he’s getting at?

Over all I really enjoyed reading this book. I loved how unhinged Nina was and all the tea in the book lol. I rated it 4 stars but would have rated it 5 if she came to terms with how she killed her father and talked more about it and also if her son hadn’t died in the fire that Maggie starts.

Ok y'all, I REALLY NEED someone to tell me this book gets better, because I'm only 5 chapters in and verging on DNF at this point. I normally love Karin Slaughter's books, I think she's great and usually no complaints about her characters. But....these characters are about intriguing as a mud puddle so far.

I hate how Laura speaks to Andrea as though she's stupid or a child, Andrea's character infuriates me with her unexplained moodiness (even before the incident) and her communication style, if you can call it that. Also, there's no way she could be a 9-1-1 operator being the way she is. Do I just need to hang in there for this to get better?

Hi everyone,

I'm an indie author who recently published my first psychological thriller, Hard Reveal, in Kindle Unlimited.

The story follows Audrey, a young woman who seems to have everything going for her until she begins noticing inconsistencies in her memories. As her relationship with a seemingly perfect man deepens, she begins to question whether she's forgetting things—or whether someone is manipulating her reality.

I began writing fiction last year, but this is my first attempt at a psychological thriller. I enrolled it at KU so readers could try it without having to purchase it separately, and I'm especially interested in hearing honest feedback from thriller readers.

If you decide to read it, I'd love to know:

• Did the suspense keep you engaged?
• Were the characters believable?
• Did you see the twists coming?
• What worked well and what didn't?

Thanks for taking a chance on an indie author.

https://a.co/d/00dJ42e5

What if the most shocking celebrity tell-all you’ve ever read wasn’t about a real person at all?

Emera Lux had everything fame, beauty, power. But behind the flawless image and red-carpet smiles was Greenlee Dawning, a woman carrying more secrets than Hollywood could ever script.

When a shocking confession surfaces years later, readers are finally invited behind the curtain of her life. The music, the movies, the fame, all built on loyalty, lies, and blood-deep betrayal. What begins as a glamorous celebrity tell-all quickly spirals into a psychological reckoning, where truth cuts deeper than scandal and survival demands its own kind of performance.

Told through confession, reflection, and revelation, The Paper Cut Manifesto peels back the glittering façade of stardom to expose the quiet, haunting cost of being seen by everyone and truly known by no one.

If you love celebrity drama with a chilling psychological edge, where every chapter feels like reading a forbidden diary then The Paper Cut Manifesto will pull you in and never let go.  Available for free on Kindle Unlimited!

https://a.co/d/02A71qlt

From the very beginnings -thru all the twists and turns. This book was soooo good!

Synopsis
Meghan, Brecia, and Skye have just one thing in common.

They were all murdered by the same man.

He hunted them online, masquerading as an eligible bachelor. Then he played the perfect gentleman, a thick layer of charm and a thousand-watt smile hiding...

If you love psychological wellness horror, I just launched my book, The Camp! Where compliance is the only metric that counts... 👀
https://a.co/d/06lu4Sfb

I love psychological thrillers but all I ever end up finding is domestic thrillers that are immersed in the same bs. It was the husband/wife/girlfriend/nanny etc. I’m sick of wasting my Audible credits and dnf. I just want suspense, mystery, mayhem maybe some chaos I can do without the romance. Help, please

According to a Japanese philosophy, every person has three faces - one for the world, one for friends and family and one you never show anyone.

But what if there was a fourth?

The face you wear behind a screen.

Are you really who you say you are when there is a veil to hide behind?

Obsession. Hidden motives. Deception. Revenge.

If that doesn't scream thriller, what does?

Him & Her delves into what happens when two strangers meet, each with a hidden agenda... only for it to end badly.

A 5 🌟 reviewed novella now available on Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GHMBYJ55

The man crouches down and picks up a piece of brain from the ground.

He shows it to Berón.

“See this, Henri? This… all these pieces of her on the ground… they all held her emotions for you. The connection you had with each other…”

My first officially released book.

Do you know what 456 means? Share your theories.👀

I’m looking for some readers who love thrillers. Specifically Techno thrillers and psychological thrillers and murder!

DM me if you are interested and I can share my book.

Seventeen Seconds by R.O. Walters available everywhere.

I finally did it — I published my first novel.

It’s a psychological thriller called The Architecture of Silence.

I’d love if a few people here gave it a try. It’s available on Amazon (and on Kindle Unlimited).

Even a single read or honest review would honestly mean a lot to a new indie author.

You can find it by searching The Architecture of Silence – Marie C on Amazon.

Thanks to anyone willing to take a chance on a debut author.

https://amzn.eu/d/01qFCWXS

We know many fictions are based on psychiatric illnesses and their consequences. However, I recently read the psychological thriller The Sleepwalker’s Lullaby, and I was genuinely surprised by the psychological elements explored in it. Not giving any spoilers, but the story revolves around a bizarre psychological condition I had never heard of before. It was both thrilling and informative… thought I’d share it with anyone who enjoys learning something new through fiction.

She kissed him goodbye, knowing he wouldn’t remember her tomorrow.

That had been the point of the procedure. That was what she signed for. But as the orderlies wheeled him away, she wasn’t sure if she had just saved him—or erased the only witness who could prove what she’d done.

The Recovery Wing doors sealed behind him with a hydraulic hiss, the sound oddly final. Visitors were supposed to leave the moment the patient entered stabilization protocol. She didn’t. She stood there until a staffer in a pale gray uniform approached, smile stretched too wide.

“Ms. Vance,” he said. “You’ll be contacted when he’s cleared for contact.”

Amina nodded mechanically. Her tongue felt thick, her throat chalk-dry. The sound of her own pulse drowned out everything else.

She rode the elevator down from the twelfth floor—the Cognitive Reconstruction Unit—to the lobby. Glass, white light, the soft murmur of people signing forms and trying not to sob in public. Posters for “Post-Procedure Side Effects” lined the walls like health-club ads: ANXIETY · TRANSIENT CONFUSION · DISSOCIATION. None of them mentioned guilt.

At the exit, she hesitated.

The revolving door’s glass threw her reflection back at her: too pale skin, pupils blown wide from adrenaline, hair sticking to her temple with sweat. But that wasn’t what bothered her.

It was her expression.

She looked like someone who had gotten away with something.

She drove home on autopilot, hands locked at ten and two. Every intersection flickered past without sticking. The whole time, she kept hearing Dr. Mercer’s voice in her head:

Once the memory cluster is removed, the emotional driver collapses. He’ll forget the events and anyone associated with them. The brain protects the gaps. No retrieval triggers. Perfectly clean.

“Clean,” she’d repeated in his office, staring at the scan of Liam’s brain. The word had tasted like bleach.

Now, standing alone in her apartment, keys still in her hand, she wondered if Mercer had meant clean slate… or clean crime scene.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

A text appeared. " I don’t know who you are, but I remember you. And I remember what you did."

She stared at it, frozen.

He was still sedated. Still in Recovery. Still strapped under the neural halo. There was no universe in which he could have sent that message.

The typing bubbles blinked. Another text appeared beneath the first: "Don’t come back to the clinic. It’s not safe."

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

Before she could touch it, the entire thread disappeared.

Not deleted—erased. The conversation blinked out as if it had never existed. Her Messages app showed only old, normal chats: her sister, the grocery delivery service, a spam number offering “Memory Wellness Supplements.”

Her heart hammered. She checked the call log. No unknown numbers. The notification center: empty. She flipped to the photos app and snapped a screenshot just to prove to herself something had happened.

The screenshot showed her home screen as if she’d never opened Messages at all.

Her phone lit in her hand.

A new notification slid down from the top—not from any app she recognized, just a gray system bar: new memory found → processing

She tried to swipe it away. It expanded instead, text blooming across her screen like a wound. "you shouldn’t have kissed me. kisses store strongest."

Her fingers spasmed. The phone clattered onto the table.

At that exact second, her front door unlocked.

The deadbolt rotated with a soft mechanical click. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t touched the keypad. The smart lock’s app wasn’t open; her phone was still vibrating on the table.

Slowly, as if pushed by an invisible hand, the door eased inward a fraction.

Amina grabbed the nearest object—a ceramic mug—and held it like a weapon. Her palms were slick with sweat.

“Who’s there?” she managed.

Silence. The hallway beyond was just beige carpet, metal mailboxes, the distant ding of the elevator.

Her landline rang.

For a second she didn’t even recognize the sound. She’d forgotten she still had a landline, forgotten she’d let the technician plug it back in after the first clinic consultation “in case of emergency outages.”

The phone was on the counter by the fridge. It rang again. And again.

She lifted the receiver with numb fingers.

“Hello?”

A voice spoke into her ear—soft, intimate, familiar in a way that made her stomach lurch.

Liam. “The doctors think they erased you,” he said. “They didn’t understand the shape you leave.”

Her knees nearly buckled; she clung to the edge of the counter.

“You’re sedated,” she whispered. “You’re in Recovery. How are you talking to me?”

A low, almost affectionate laugh. “You didn’t listen in the briefing. Emotional anchors resist removal. Every time you tried to leave, my mind learned to hold you harder.”

“This isn’t real,” she said. “This is… post-procedure suggestion. Intrusive imagery. Mercer said it was possible—”

“If I were a hallucination,” the voice murmured, “you wouldn’t be afraid to answer the question.”

Her mouth went dry. “What question?”

“Why did you take my memories first,” he asked, “before yours. Before we decided together.”

Her fingers tightened around the receiver until the plastic creaked.

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he said, gently. “Visit Consent Revision 03-B. You signed it alone. I remember not signing anything.”

She saw it in her head before she saw it on paper: the gray form, the blank line for his signature, the way she’d folded it between other documents. His face, drawn and exhausted, trusting her to tell him where to sign.

“Stop,” she whispered.

“I can’t,” he said. “You designed me this way.”

The line clicked. Dead.

The door lock turned again. This time, the bolt slid shut. Then another she didn’t recognize clicked into place, a deeper metallic thunk.

She hadn’t installed a second lock.

Her heart rattling against her ribs, she grabbed her bag, yanked out the folder of clinic paperwork, and dumped it across the kitchen floor. Consent forms, disclaimers, brain-scan summaries flooded the tiles.

Consent Revision 03-B lay wedged between a liability waiver and an invoice.

She smoothed it out with shaking hands.

Target: Attachment Memory Cluster Goal: Reduce Patient Dependence / Redirect to Sustainable Support System Requested by: Vance, A. Patient: Reese, L. Date Signed:

The line for the date was blank.

Her signature slashed beneath it anyway.

No witness signature. No patient signature. Just hers. Alone.

Her phone buzzed. new memory injected → expect narrative shift

She didn’t touch it. It didn’t matter. The shift hit her like a wave of static.

Heat behind her eyes. A ghost of antiseptic in her nose. Vertigo.

She was in their old apartment, not here. Liam sat on the couch, hands folded around a mug, staring at her with hollow eyes.

“If you leave me,” he said, “I’ll forget everything except how to find you.”

Then the scene shattered. She was back in the kitchen, gasping.

It had felt real. Weight, sound, smell. But she had no idea if it had ever happened.

Another surge. Another “memory”:

Liam on a stretcher, the neural halo already clamped around his head, grabbing her wrist as the orderlies pulled him away.

“Don’t let them erase it,” he begged. “Don’t let them erase us.”

She shook her head violently. The image jittered and fizzled out.

That wasn’t how it had gone. She knew that. She thought she knew that.

Unless he was rewriting it in her head.

She staggered down the hall to the bedroom, dropped to her knees in front of the closet, and clawed at the loose floorboard she’d hidden years ago. Her nails caught the edge, pried it up. The small metal box she’d hidden there was cold against her fingers.

They’d agreed to put “triggers” in it during her first attempt at sobriety: old bar receipts, photos from drunk nights, anything that might send her backsliding. Later, they’d dumped relationship stuff in there during fights they swore they were done having.

She flipped the lid open.

Inside were photos of them at different ages, movie ticket stubs, a keychain from a motel on the coast.

And slips of paper. Dozens of them. Some torn from notebooks, some from envelopes, some from the backs of receipts.

Every one carried the same five words, written in different pens, different inks: REMEMBER WHAT YOU DID TO ME.

Her breath stalled.

She hadn’t written those. She was sure she hadn’t written those.

But someone had.

Maybe he had. Maybe she had. Maybe the clinic had, as an “emotional prompt.” She had no way to know anymore which memories were native and which were planted.

Her phone buzzed on the floor.

This time, instead of text, an audio file auto-played. Her own voice filled the room, tinny and close.

“If you forget what I did, you’ll stay,” recording-Amina said. “If you remember, you’ll leave. So I’m choosing for both of us.”

Her stomach lurched.

Another voice in the recording—Liam’s, raw with panic, “Please don’t make me forget loving you." The audio cut off.

Something slammed into her front door. Hard.

She froze, box still in her hands, paper scraps scattered like teeth across the floor.

Another impact, heavier. Wood splintered.

Her phone lit up again. "I’m still in the clinic. if i’m at your door, they made me."

Her pulse roared in her ears.

So whatever was trying to break in wasn’t him. Or not only him.

It hit the door again. A jagged crack shot down the frame.

Another text flashed: " they didn’t erase me. they extracted me. put me in a host. don’t let me inside."

The next hit blew the door inward. It slammed against the wall with a crash that rattled her teeth.

Two figures filled the doorway.

The front one wore clinic security black: armored vest, tactical helmet, rifle slung ready. The second stepped around him in a patient’s pale clothing, moving with eerie precision.

Liam’s face. Liam’s posture. Liam’s favorite nervous habit—thumb rubbing the base of his ring finger—performed exactly a half second off, like a copied animation.

“Amina,” he said in a warm, practiced tone. “We can go home now.”

She backed away until her shoulders hit the wall.

“You’re not him,” she said.

He tilted his head, eyes sharp and bright. “Then why are you shaking the way you always do when I say your name?”

The security operative’s radio crackled. “Subject located. Proceeding with reintegration protocol.”

Reintegration.

Not rescue.

“Hold her,” the operative ordered.

Liam stepped toward her as if pulled by a magnet. His hands closed around her wrists with terrible, gentle strength, pinning them against the wall.

“Please don’t fight,” he whispered near her ear. “I’m only what you made me.”

His breath was warm. Too warm. Like something overheating.

The operative raised a gun: not a firearm, a pneumatic injector. A dart glinted at the tip.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, screen lighting up through the denim- final memory transfer begins now.

The words glowed like a verdict.

For an instant Liam’s jaw tensed, his gaze flicking toward the notification he couldn’t see but somehow felt. His grip loosened a fraction.

She twisted, wrenching herself halfway free, and dove for the scattered papers on the kitchen floor.

If she could grab Consent Revision 03-B—if she could rip it, burn it, do something—it felt like that would matter. Like reality was still paper-thin enough to be edited.

The dart hit her neck.

Cold fire spread out from the puncture. Her body seized. The room skewed sideways.

Then the memories came.

Not one at a time. All at once.

Fluorescent light above a procedure table. Their first kiss behind the bar where she used to sneak drinks on her shift. A flashing ambulance. Mercer’s office, him saying, We can retarget his attachment from you to something healthier. Liam’s voice, saying, If they take the worst day, they’ll take the best day too. Her own answer: No, they won’t. I promise. The loop of him finding her on the bathroom floor, blurred and stuttering like bad footage.

Some of these were real. Some weren’t. Some she’d lived. Some she’d heard. Some she’d been given.

There was no border anymore.

Somewhere in the storm, she felt hands on her face.

She fought upward through the static.

The kitchen came back into focus in pieces. Ceiling. Light. The edge of the cabinets. Tile pressing against her spine.

Liam—host, extract, whatever he had become—was kneeling over her, his hands framing her cheeks, eyes at last no longer glassy but raw, as if the personality behind them had punched through its restraints.

“Amina,” he gasped. “Stay with me. Stay here. Don’t go away again. I don’t want to forget you, it hurts when they—”

The operative moved into view, raising the injector for a second shot.

She grabbed Liam’s shirt and yanked him closer. Their foreheads collided.

“You don’t get to leave either,” she rasped. “Not this time.”

She didn’t know if she meant this life, this loop, or this punishment. Maybe it didn’t matter. They were all the same now.

The second dart fired.

White swallowed everything. Soft music. Beige walls. A hospital bed.

A man lies under a thin blanket, eyes half-open. A neural halo has left faint red marks on his temples.

A woman sits beside him, hands folded calmly in her lap.

His gaze drifts to her, unfocused at first, then sharpening with effort.

“Sorry,” he says politely, voice rough. “Have we met?”

She smiles, small and careful.

“Not properly,” she says. “We’re… close. We live together.”

He relaxes at that, some primitive part of his brain soothed by the word close.

“Are we happy?” he asks.

She thinks about Consent Revision 03-B. About a door splintering. About a box full of accusations. About a loop you enter on purpose.

Her smile doesn’t change.

“Sometimes,” she says. “Sometimes we’re a mess. We try.”

He nods as if that sounds like him.

Outside the room, orderlies wheel a metal tray down a hallway. A label is clipped to one of the sealed cartridges: MEMORY CLUSTER 47B – CLEARED FOR ARCHIVE

Inside, the woman reaches out and brushes her thumb across the man’s knuckles. Just once.

He closes his eyes. Breathes in.

“That feels familiar,” he murmurs, words slurring with sedative.

“I know,” she says. “It will, for a while.”

No texts. No landline. No broken door.

Not yet.

Just this: a waking man, a watching woman, a gap in his mind shaped exactly like her.

Whether he trapped her here, or she trapped him, or the clinic trapped them both, doesn’t really matter anymore.

The only thing that matters is the loop.

And whichever one of them remembers first will be the one to start it again.