Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
I Found a Hidden Camera in My Airbnb, But It Wasn't Recording Me.
I Found a Hidden Camera in My Airbnb, But It Wasn't Recording Me. I’ve always been paranoid about travel. Maybe it’s because I work in cybersecurity, or maybe I’ve just read too many horror stories on the internet. Whenever I check into a hotel or an Airbnb, I have a routine. I turn off the lights, close the curtains, and use my phone’s flashlight to check for the reflection of camera lenses in smoke detectors, alarm clocks, and vents.
By Noman Afridi9 months ago in Horror
My New Night Shift Job Has 3 Simple Rules. I Just Broke Rule #2.
My New Night Shift Job Has 3 Simple Rules. I Just Broke Rule #2. I needed the money. That is the only sentence that can accurately explain why I took this job without asking enough questions. When your landlord is knocking on your door for rent and your bank account is in the negatives, you tend to overlook the red flags.
By Noman Afridi9 months ago in Horror
The Glitch in the Loom of Night
Unit 734’s optical sensors always registered the world with unwavering precision. Every dust mote’s trajectory, every flicker of a faulty fluorescent tube, every minute tremor in the building’s foundation – all processed, categorized, and filed within its vast, unblinking data banks. Its primary function, ‘Environmental Regulation and Maintenance,’ was performed flawlessly, its metallic limbs moving with the oiled grace of a perfect machine. Its internal chronometer marked the passage of cycles with sterile accuracy, each nanosecond accounted for, each operational parameter within optimal range. There was no room for error, no capacity for deviation, and certainly no concept of the illogical.
By The 9x Fawdi9 months ago in Horror
A Summer Alone in the Dorm
The summer break was just a few days away. Trains were already full to the brim, buses tickets were sold out at a fast rate and the campus looked as if it was going down with the ship since it was getting emptied very quickly. Everyone was in a hurry to get home. Clara, a second-year literature student at St. Agnes College in northern England, didn’t feel like going with the crowd. She was suffocating with her coursework and the silence of the nearly empty campus was like a lifeline to her. She made a decision to stay. When the last suitcase was taken out, only two girls were left on the whole third floor of Willow Hall: Clara and a girl from the room next door whom Clara had talked to a couple of times. Her name was Sarah. Sarah had a nice smile and a bit of a limp that she never told the cause of. Since both of them were staying back, Clara proposed that they become each other’s company. “If you want you can come and live with me,” she said. “It’ll be less lonely.” Sarah’s face was covered with light. “I would really like that,” she answered. “I can’t stand being alone.” At 2:47 a.m. that night, Clara was wakened by an urgent need to go to the bathroom. There was absolute silence in the corridor except for the low humming of the vending machine at the far end. Sarah was sleeping on the spare bed and her breathing was even. Without turning the light Clara went out. The bathroom was located at the very end of the corridor, after a series of closed doors. She pushed it open—and stood there motionless. The whole floor was very slippery with blood. It was not that the blood was splattered. It was poured. As if someone had take overturned the whole buckets of it. The disgusting smell of blood hit her like a fist. She lifted her eyes. Suspended from the ceiling was a severed leg, the point of the cut was immediately above the knee. The skin looked very pale, almost see-through, and a thin silver anklet shone in the dim emergency light. Clara could not scream. She was completely unable to do so. She took a step back, the door hit the wall with a loud bang, and she ran off. She came running to the room and was trembling all over. “Sarah… Sarah, wake up!” Sarah immediately sat up, very composed and collected. “What is the matter?” “There’s… there’s a leg in the bathroom. A real one. Hanging from the ceiling.” Sarah neither laughed nor panicked. She simply reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and gave it to her. “Drink. Then tell me exactly what you saw.” Clara drank the water very quickly, her whole body was shaking. “It was… pale. And it had this little silver anklet.” Sarah didn’t say a word for a moment. Then, very slowly, she uncovered her legs with the blanket. The right one was amputated just above the knee. It was the place where the cut had been, precisely. Clara’s eyesight got very narrow. The glass of water that she had just taken from her hand fell to the floor and broke into pieces. The last thing that she could remember was Sarah’s gentle, almost pitying smile. Cold water was very effective in waking her up. She was laying on the carpet. Mrs. Dawson, the cleaner during the night shift, was kneeling next to her, and there was a look of concern on her face. “Clara? Are you able to hear me?” Clara wanted to sit up with her own strength. “The leg… Sarah… she...” Mrs. Dawson’s face changed. She looked around the empty room and then changed her expression. “Sarah, who?” “The girl next door. She was with me.” Mrs. Dawson spoke in a lower tone of voice. “Just listen to what I am telling you. No student has lived in 3B for three years. Not since the accident.” Her blood turned very cold. “Three years ago,” Mrs. Dawson explained, “a girl named Sarah Kelly fell from the fire escape. Her body was found on the concrete below… but her right leg was missing. It was the railings that cut it off cleanly. Some say that she walks the corridor at night, looking for it.” Clara looked at the empty bed in the spare room. The bedclothes were untouched. There was no indentation. No warmth. Mrs. Dawson told her to get ready and leave the next morning with her first train. “Some doors are better kept closed during summer break.” Clara decided not to spend any more nights at Willow Hall. When she came back in September, she asked the maintenance people to take off the silver anklet that, for some reason, was still hanging from the ceiling of the bathroom. They said that nothing had been there. Sometimes, on very quiet nights, students from the third floor can still hear one foot dragging softly along the corridor… and then a faint, almost apologetic whisper: “Have you seen my leg?”
By Rubaiat Tanzim9 months ago in Horror
A Stranger Outside My House Started Calling Me (True horror story). Content Warning.
The story you’re about to read is not fiction; it was shared anonymously with us, and we’ve chosen to share this message with everyone. While the content of the confession may be unsettling to some, it serves as a powerful testament to the experiences faced by individuals who choose to remain anonymous. We believe in providing a platform for diverse narratives, even those that may evoke strong emotions or discomfort. It is a reminder that everyone’s journey is unique, and sharing these stories fosters understanding and empathy within our community.
By 18 plus home9 months ago in Horror
The Ghost in the Voicemail
the first voicemail came on a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of gray, unremarkable day when nothing feels real anyway. I had just parked my car outside the grocery store. There were melting frozen dinners in the backseat and a half-finished coffee that had gone cold hours ago. I wasn’t really paying attention to anything—certainly not my phone.
By TariqShinwari9 months ago in Horror
The Silence at Blackmere House
Blackmere House stood at the edge of a forgotten coastal cliff, where the wind howled through broken railings and the sea beat against sharp rocks like a restless heart. It was the kind of place people in the UK whispered about, a house with a history so dark that even local tour guides avoided telling the full story. Ethan Carter first heard about Blackmere House through an online urban legends forum. As a freelance content creator targeting audiences in the USA, UK, and Australia, he was always searching for stories that felt real — stories that crawled under the listener’s skin. And this one promised exactly that. The house had been abandoned for over fifty years. Locals said the last family who lived there disappeared in one single night, leaving behind food still on their plates and lights still burning. Police reports found no signs of struggle. No blood. No forced entry. Only silence. Ethan booked a late-night visit with a local caretaker who was paid by the council to keep trespassers away. The caretaker, an older man named Harold, warned him before unlocking the rusted gate. “Don’t answer if you hear your name,” Harold said quietly. Ethan laughed it off. He shouldn’t have. The house smelled of damp wood, mould, and something faintly metallic. The floorboards groaned like they were tired of carrying secrets. Ethan switched on his torch and started recording audio for his vocal media channel. “This is Ethan Carter, inside Blackmere House,” he whispered. “Locals say no one stays here after dark.” At first, everything felt normal. Just an old, crumbling house. Then he heard it. A soft knock. Not on the door — but from inside the walls. He paused the recording and held his breath. Knock. Knock. Knock. Slow. Careful. Like someone tapping from the other side of the plaster. Ethan moved towards the sound, his heartbeat loud in his ears. The wallpaper peeled away at his touch, revealing old wooden panels beneath. That’s when he heard it. His own voice. “Ethan…” The sound wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry. It sounded… curious. He turned around fast, expecting a prank. No one was there. He laughed nervously, turning his recorder back on. “This place is playing tricks on me,” he said, trying to convince both himself and his listeners. The temperature dropped suddenly. His breath turned visible. And the knocking returned — louder. Now it wasn’t from the wall. It was from upstairs. Each step on the staircase creaked like a scream. Halfway up, the air grew thick, heavy, and cold. The torch flickered, and for a split second, in the beam of light, he saw wet footprints on the wooden floor ahead of him. They weren’t human. They were too long. Too thin. As if something had dragged itself across the floor. A door at the end of the corridor stood slightly open. Inside, the room was empty — except for an old mirror. The mirror was covered with dust. Cracks crawled across the glass like spiderwebs. But when Ethan stepped closer, the dust began to slide away on its own. As if something on the other side was wiping it clean. He raised his torch to his reflection. But the reflection didn’t raise its hand. It smiled. And Ethan didn’t. The reflection’s mouth opened wide, far wider than a human jaw should stretch, and it whispered: “Stay.” The door behind him slammed shut. Darkness swallowed the room. No torch light. No phone signal. No sound — except breathing. But it wasn’t his. The mirror cracked violently, and a thin, pale hand pressed through the glass like it was made of water instead of solid. Ethan screamed as the hand grabbed his wrist. Its skin was ice-cold, tighter than any human grip. “Stay with us,” the voice echoed, now coming from everywhere. Ethan fought with everything he had, pulling, kicking, screaming into the empty air. The glass shattered, cutting into his arms as he tore free. The door burst open. He ran. He didn’t stop until he was outside, crashing through broken doors and overgrown weeds, collapsing at the rusted gate. Harold was waiting. Smoking calmly. “You heard your name,” Harold said. Ethan couldn’t answer. His hands were bleeding. His camera was still recording. Later, when he uploaded the audio, he listened to it alone. At the end of the recording, after his screams… there was something else. A calm, familiar voice. His own voice. Whispering: “He stayed.” And to this day, viewers across the UK, USA, and Australia comment the same thing under his story: They can hear breathing in the background — and it isn’t Ethan’s.
By Iazaz hussain9 months ago in Horror
