There is no Way Out
A Collection of Short Stories
by AndrewZolt
Copyright © 2025 by Andrew Zolt
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic ormechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage andretrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, except inthe case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.
First edition, 2025
A chilling collection of psychological and mysticalhorror stories that explore the edges of the human soul, the terror of theunknown, and the darkness that always lingers nearby.
The world of shadows and forgotten fears has alwayswhispered at the edges of our perception. These stories are my attempt tolisten more closely—to lean in, to open the door that most keep shut.
Welcome to a journey through realms where the uncanny breathes and the soultrembles.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are usedfictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real eventsis purely coincidental.
Warning: This collection contains maturecontent and is recommended for readers aged 18 and older.
AndrewZolt is a writer of psychological horror, mysticalfiction, and dark folklore. Inspired by dreams, personal supernatural experiences, and the works of authorssuch as Stephen King and H.P. Lovecraft, Zolt explores themes of spiritualdread, inner ruin, and the thin line between sanity and madness.
His stories blend shadowy myths with modern fears,often leading readers into places where the rational mind fails—and somethingolder, deeper, and darker begins to whisper.
There Is No WayOut is his first English-language collection.
• Just by Writing a Name
• To the Final Stop
• Ambrilith – The Tree of the Dead
• The Night Choir
• They Wanted to Die Beautifully
• The Silence Keeper
• The One and Only Remedy
• She Died Again Yesterday
• The Portrait of Skulls
• The Weaving of Evgir
• The Mask
• I Shouldn’t Have Looked There at Night
• The Prayer Beads
• Don't look there
• City of Radiant Springs
• The Remnant of The Banished
• The Painting
• The Price of Flesh
• Daayan
• Meat Parchment
• Don’t Eat Sweets in The Grave
Cole had been trudging alone through the jungles of Cambodia for three days now, as if the devil himself were leading him through the suffocating greenery and the sweltering, humming buzz of insects.
The guide he had hired in Phnom Penh had fled in the night, leaving behind only an empty canteen and a crumpled, hastily scribbled note in Khmer. Cole didn’t know the language, but from the trembling lines and smudged ink, he understood: fear. Panic. Something had gone terribly wrong.
At dawn, when the mist still breathed cold over the canopy, he stumbled upon an ancient temple – one that existed on no map, mentioned by no local tongue. The temple seemed to have grown straight out of the earth, wrapped in moss and roots, hidden deep within the folds of time. Stone faces loomed over him – colossal, cracked, empty. They were everywhere: on walls, columns, even strewn across the ground. It was as if the jungle had sprouted through the hollow eyes of dead gods.
The walls were covered in symbols, a strange mixture of runes and scars.
Inside: a cool, dusty hall. The air was unnaturally still, as if any movement might disturb something that should never be woken.
At the center – an altar. And on it – a book.
Cole felt it immediately. It wasn’t just lying there. It was waiting.
The cover was made of leather, stretched and cracked like parched earth, with metal corners darkened by time. Symbols, alien and somehow alive, squirmed faintly across its surface.
He opened it.
Inside – portraits. Horrifyingly realistic. Not drawings. Not etchings. True faces: the wrinkles, the glint in tired eyes, the tiny details that spoke of a life lived. Men, women, children, the old and the young. As if someone had captured not just their appearance – but their very souls.
Some of the faces seemed to be looking right at him. One child, it even seemed, was smiling.
And then – blank pages. White as fresh canvas. Waiting.
Cole, who had survived dozens of expeditions and cursed ruins, felt a chill creep down his spine. He was no novice when it came to ancient relics. But he had never seen anything like this.
He flipped back to the first page. There – a line of text, written in Sanskrit.
Cole snapped a photo and ran it through a translator. The words slowly materialized on his phone screen, as if the book itself were speaking to him:
“The name inscribed into the fabric of the Book shall be woven into the depths of Oblivion. The image will be sealed. The body will vanish. The final page – a mystery. You will learn it in time.”
“The body will vanish…” he whispered.
And then he understood. Suddenly, sharply. As if someone had leaned over his shoulder and whispered directly into his ear.
