Horror

The Stroke of Midnight 2
There I was laying in my bed and I heard "You're next." whispered so hauntingly. For some reason I was not really just afraid I was terrified for I also heard a growl. I got up and believe or not I faced the fear and grabbed the crucifix I had on the dresser. I slowly opened the door, and it seemed quiet and I proceeded quietly looking around all corners. The whispering started again and carried the crucifix higher and spouting "Get out Evil." Whispering continued as I continued to the end of the hallway and then went downstairs slowly.
By Mark Graham20 days ago in Fiction
Hypochondria
It all began somewhere in Metepec, a place whose name I shall not remember. Not long ago, there lived there a brave and gallant young man, old-fashioned in his ways, with a skinny nag and a swift greyhound—and quite a greyhound he was, too. Now that I think about it, he was actually very skinny himself, despite eating like a caveman.
By iASuarezV20 days ago in Fiction
Ice Cream. Top Story - September 2026.
The town of Wickley practically closed down during the autumn/winter seasons. It wasn’t exactly a bustling tourist attraction in peak summer, but it managed to entice enough holidaymakers, weekenders and those from neighbouring towns and villages during the warmer months to sustain a number of businesses, including This and That.
By Matthew Batham20 days ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Flash-Freeze of '96
While the rest of the riders at the Orlando regional track were choking on dust and chasing brackets, Bane was trying to drown out the oppressive, ninety-two-degree Florida heat. It was late October of 1996, and the air behind the staging lanes smelled heavily of sunbaked asphalt, race fuel, and hot metal. He leaned his shoulder against the rusted frame of a tool trailer, spinning a pedal with the toe of his skate shoe. To everyone else, he was just another local kid killing time before the next moto. In reality, he was completely detached, exhaustion pulling at his eyes.
By Syl De'Vil20 days ago in Fiction
The Stroke of Midnight
At the stroke of midnight when things start to go eerily quiet. You are sitting wherever at your desk, in your favorite chair, or maybe even in bed all nice and cozy. Then it starts the scratching, the whining, the whispering. You sit or lie there hoping and praying that the sounds stop. It goes eerily quiet again. The clock still shows midnight, but it seems later and at that time the footsteps plod along, stopping at your door, whispers you can't make out, but you try to understand. There's a screaming howl just then and you hear "You're next."
By Mark Graham20 days ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Scent of Rain
You smell jasmine first. Not the soft, powdery kind that blows through open lace curtains in the spring. This jasmine is sharp, almost bitter, tangled with the thick, oily perfume of crushed neroli and the heavy, metallic scent of rain. It is the exact sensory loop that has haunted your sleep since childhood, a phantom aroma that always wakes you up with your pulse hammering against your throat. It is the only warning you get before you step into the clearing.
By Syl De'Vil20 days ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Wire Song.. Content Warning.
The winter hunger isn't a rumble in your belly; it is a hollow, driving madness that consumes your entire mind. For six grueling months, you haven't been a girl named Sara. You haven't worn your heavy hiking boots or thought about a home back in Maine. Something deep and unexplainable broke inside your psyche under the weight of everything that you carry, and you fled, trapped entirely inside the thick, striking coat of a fox.
By Syl De'Vil21 days ago in Fiction
No Exit. Top Story - September 2026.
Jerod and Micah are jostling you as you saunter up the packed dirt road to the corn maze. Jerod’s wearing the elongated white mask from the movie Scream under his black hooded cloak - he keeps yelling “Whazaaaaa!” at the groups of kids and families heading to the fall festival. Micah has on a creepy scarecrow costume with a fake pitchfork, its tines dipped in vivid red paint. Your mom says you are too old for costumes, but you kind of wish you’d put one on anyhow. When Micah teases you, asking what you are dressed up as, you tell him “A werewolf” and when he says “where’s yer fur and teeth?” You grin and point upwards. “No full moon, dumbass.” Micah guffaws and spits his chewing gum by the row of gourds and pumpkins that line the road.
By Angel Whelan21 days ago in Fiction
Stitch:The Alpine Crimson
The biting, sub‑zero wind howling across the Swiss Alps didn’t just freeze the skin; it carved straight into the bone. For miles in every direction, the landscape was a blinding, desolate canvas of white and jagged grey peak. The winter air was so thin it felt like breathing shattered glass, carrying nothing but the lonely roar of the wind and the constant threat of an avalanche.
By Syl De'Vil21 days ago in Fiction
Stitch: Winter Freeze of '96
The regional BMX track outside of Orlando was a chaotic, dust-choked ring of adrenaline and family friction in late October of 1996. The heat was sitting at a sweltering ninety-two degrees, the thick Florida air smelling heavily of fried concessions, melting tire rubber, and copper-rich dirt. Ted sat on a folding lawn chair near the starting gate, a pair of dark aviators hiding his critical gaze as he watched the brackets warm up. Next to him, Lisa was meticulously organizing the cooler, ensuring the sports drinks were perfectly packed in ice.
By Syl De'Vil21 days ago in Fiction
Stitch. Out of Season
After four weeks of trying to stitch herself back into a life she barely remembered, Sara Foxgrave starts to realize that whatever followed her home isn’t done with her. Maine is supposed to be safe. Normal. Predictable. But when a summer flower blooms in the dead of October, Sara learns that reality has no intention of staying in its lane.
By Syl De'Vil21 days ago in Fiction
Nothing To Lose Part 8
Unable to find their second victim, Jonas and Danny split their focus, and Jonas ends up in a dangerous situation. Part 8 Footsteps echoed through the building, bouncing against the vaulted ceilings as the sounds rose from the marble floors. There was only one person sitting in a pew. An older woman, come to pray for her ailing husband. The priest was at his altar, working on a sermon and barely acknowledging the door to the church opening. He looked up, just long enough, that he could see that it was Michael. Father Michael had returned.
By Jason Morton21 days ago in Fiction