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Ever met someone who just didnât feel right? Maybe it was the way they movedâtoo smooth, too careful. Or how they spokeâtoo rehearsed, like they were wearing a mask.
This weekâs writing challenge: Bring the Mysterious Stranger to life.
đ How to Play:
1ď¸âŁ Create a Stranger
Imagine someone who doesnât belongâa figure who steps into a familiar setting (a cafĂŠ, a train station, a quiet street at night).
Give them one small but unsettling detail that hints at something deeper.
Maybe they never blink.
Maybe their reflection is a second too slow.
Maybe their hands are too clean, as if they scrub away secrets.
2ď¸âŁ Describe Their Arrival (250 words)
Write from the POV of someone noticing the stranger for the first time.
Focus on atmosphereâhow does their presence change the mood of the place?
Use body language, clothing, and the reactions of others to build tension.
3ď¸âŁ Hint at a Mystery
Something isnât right. Whatâs the first clue?
Maybe they know your name before you say it. Maybe they leave no footprints in the rain. Maybe they never order anything, just sit and watch.
4ď¸âŁ End with a Question
Leave your reader unsettled and wanting more.
What happens next? You decideâbut donât tell them. Let their imagination run wild.
đ Bonus Challenge: No horror, no monstersâjust pure, human unease. Can you make us shiver without resorting to the supernatural?
đĽ Drop your entries in the comments! Letâs see who can craft the most unsettling stranger. Who knows? Maybe theyâre already watching⌠đ
The Man Who Was Not David Jones
Simon Mackay stared with increasing anxiety at the man sitting in David Jonesâ usual chair. To the other drinkers in the Green Man pub, there was nothing out of place about this individual. He was wearing David Jonesâ grey shirt and brown, corduroy trousers and drinking David Jonesâ customary afternoon pint of bitter. He was the same height as David Jones â an imposing 6â2â â had the same burly physique and ropey, knotted muscles beneath his half-rolled sleeves. He sported the same commanding mutton-chop mustache as David Jones, from which he brushed the foamy head of beer when he supped by spreading a practised forefinger and thumb apart then wiping the residue on the leg of his trouser. For all intents and purposes, this man was perceived by the rest of the pub-goers as David Jones, 42 years of age, laborer and part-time constable in the Tuttledon village police force.
But Simon Mackay knew that couldnât be the case, because he had only two hours earlier received a confirmation text, two simple words â âJob done!â â that told him the man he had paid (and handsomely too) had successfully murdered David Jones and buried him in his own allotment. Which was why the man now sitting in David Jonesâ chair and drinking David Jones pint had to be someone else. It was while he was contemplating this certainty that the man who was not David Jones curled his index finger in Simon Mackayâs direction and summoned him over to the chair opposite.Â