Short Story
Beyond Reflection
I still remember that morning when I looked in the mirror and it felt like a stranger was staring back at me. The sun was bright, streaming through my window, and I should have felt alive, confident, whole. But instead, all I saw was a dull face with tired eyes—a reflection that didn’t match the events inside.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silent Witness
Rain lashed against the windows of Senator Gregory Harrow’s office, the sound like a thousand whispered secrets. Detective Elias Vorne stepped inside, his sharp gray eyes missing nothing—the too-perfect placement of the gun in the senator’s hand, the lack of powder burns, the faint scent of cologne that didn’t belong to the victim.
By Md. Muzammal Rahman Pirabout a year ago in Fiction
Perception
The graffiti I would often admire flashes by in a blur, as I race down the corridor to catch the last subway train. The smell of piss and hobos intensifies the deeper I make my way down to the tracks. The sound of screeching brakes in the distance alerts me that it's just arrived and will be leaving again soon. There’s no time to waste. Carrying this bag really slows my pace but I move as fast as I can across the dirty concrete tiles to get there before it pulls off. Coming down the final flight of stairs I hear “doors closing” in the distance. “Hold the door! Please hold the door!” I shout to any soul willing to be a saint. The two metallic doors unfold and begin to shut but a black leather spiked boot meets them and holds them open.
By Kenneth Boutteabout a year ago in Fiction
Deadly Desperation
On a Saturday night, Cassie Crandall was on the phone with her wife, Janine Templeton, who is the sheriff of their small town. They had been married for 10 years, but things had been contentious to say the least. Divorce was inevitable, and Cassie wanted out, feeling that things couldn't be repaired.
By Clyde E. Dawkinsabout a year ago in Fiction
Seeing Is Believing
Joanie pulled her threadbare wool coat tighter around her as she walked, rubbing her numb, red nose with a sniff. Her feet were killing her after being on them all day, but sadly she couldn't go home yet. She still had one more shift to go. One more long, exhausting shift, to cap off the longest, most exhausting day of her life so far.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Fiction
I Am The Gift
They never ask where I came from. They only ask if I come with batteries. I don’t. There was a time when I was ash, scattered beneath a black tree struck by lightning. Before that, I was a name spoken in a language no one remembers. Before that, I was just... waiting.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
Blossom. Honorable Mention in You Were Never Really Here Challenge. Content Warning.
“Do not stand by my grave and weep. I am not there; I do not sleep.” The starting lines from a well-known bereavement poem by Clare Harner, read by old Louis Wright up at the church pulpit. His left hand trembles around his wrinkled order of service while he reads off the rest of the poem, his right clenches and unclenches in his pant pocket.
By Lark Hanshanabout a year ago in Fiction
Mr. Belly
It started on a Thursday. Lily screamed in the middle of the night. I bolted out of bed, heart pounding, and ran to her room. Mom and Dad were already there, clutching their robes, panic etched on their faces. Lily sat on her bed, trembling, her blanket pulled up to her chin. Her wide eyes were locked on the window. “There’s someone at the window,” she whispered. I turned and looked. Nothing. The backyard was still. The wind barely moved the trees. “I saw him,” Lily insisted, her voice shaking. “He was big. Really big. His skin was oily and sagged like melted wax. His belly... it growled. Loud. Like a monster. He tapped on the glass and said, let me in, little one... I have sweets just for you.” Dad flicked on the porch light and stepped outside with a bat. Nothing. Just grass and silence. “She probably had a bad dream,” Mom said, brushing Lily’s hair. “No more scary stories before bed.” But I saw her eyes. That wasn’t a dream. “I’ll stay with you,” I told her, climbing into her bed. She gripped my hand until she fell asleep. I waited a while before slipping out. I was tired. I thought she'd be okay. I was wrong. At 2:43 AM, her scream tore through the house like a knife. I flew down the hallway with my parents. Her room was empty. The window was open. Curtains flapped against the breeze. Her blanket was on the floor. No sign of struggle. No blood. Just an open window and silence that pressed into my chest like a weight. Mom collapsed to her knees, screaming Lily’s name. Dad called the police. They searched the woods. They searched the neighborhood. Dogs, flashlights, helicopters. Nothing. That was five days ago. Now I sleep with my light on. My door locked. But I still hear it. The tapping. Soft. Patient. Last night, I heard the whisper outside my own window. Let me in, little one... I have sweets just for you. And then, the growl. It wasn’t a dream. Mister Belly is real. And now, he’s hungry again. Tags: horror, scary story, vocal horror, bedtime terror, creepypasta, missing child, monster at window, urban legend, horror fiction, suspense thriller
By CreepVille Horror Storiesabout a year ago in Fiction
Box of Discarded Moments. Content Warning.
Just a note, this is part of a queer character's backstory. There is brief mention of Domestic Violence and Depression. Yesterday I found a box under my bed, and when I opened it up, I found old photos that I forgot I had. It seems fitting that I found them at the start of summer, most of them were from previous childhood memories when I was on summer breaks from school.
By C.M.Dallasabout a year ago in Fiction
