Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
The Shadow That Knows My Name
I had always believed that mirrors were harmless — just smooth glass reflecting back what already existed. That belief shattered the day I moved into my new apartment on the outskirts of Peshawar. The rent was suspiciously cheap. The landlord, an old man with trembling hands, avoided my eyes when I signed the lease. “Don’t worry about the mirror,” he said before leaving, “Just don’t stand in front of it after midnight.” I laughed it off. Urban legends, I thought. Every old building had them. The apartment was small but cozy — a single room, a creaking wooden floor, and that antique mirror on the far wall. It was tall, framed with carved roses, its glass slightly faded like it had seen too many years. I tried to move it, but it wouldn’t budge. The frame was fixed to the wall with old bolts, like someone wanted it to stay there forever. The first few nights were peaceful. I worked late, made tea, and went to sleep without thinking much about the mirror. But on the fourth night, something changed. It was 12:17 a.m. I had just switched off the lights when I heard it — a faint whisper. At first, I thought it was the wind sneaking through the cracks. But then I realized the voice was inside the room. “Azaz…” I froze. That was my name. The sound was soft, almost affectionate, like a mother calling her child. I turned on the light — no one was there. But when my eyes fell on the mirror, I saw it. My reflection was smiling. The problem was — I wasn’t. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, convinced I was hallucinating. But when I looked again, my reflection’s grin had grown wider, unnaturally wide, stretching until the corners of its mouth reached its ears. Then, it lifted its hand and waved. I stumbled backward, knocking over a chair. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I grabbed my phone to record it — but as soon as I pointed the camera, the reflection turned normal again. The next morning, I told myself it was stress. Moving to a new place, lack of sleep — it made sense. I convinced myself I’d imagined it. That night, I avoided looking at the mirror. I turned it toward the wall using a bedsheet to cover the frame. But around midnight, I woke up again — to the sound of someone breathing. It was slow. Deep. And it was coming from the other side of the room. I turned on the flashlight on my phone. The sheet covering the mirror was on the floor. And the glass — it was fogged up, like someone had been breathing against it. There was a message drawn into the mist. > “WHY DID YOU TURN AWAY?” I couldn’t move. I just stood there, trembling, watching as a handprint slowly appeared on the inside of the mirror — from the other side. That night, I didn’t sleep. The following day, I called the landlord. “That mirror,” I said, “there’s something wrong with it.” There was a long pause. Then he sighed, voice heavy with guilt. “You should have never looked into it,” he whispered. “It belonged to my wife. After she died, her reflection never left. Anyone who sees her in it… she follows them.” Before I could ask more, he hung up. I packed my bags that evening. I wasn’t staying another night in that place. But as I reached for my phone, I saw a notification — a new photo in my gallery. It was a selfie of me sleeping. Taken at 12:03 a.m. My blood ran cold. I hadn’t taken that photo. I deleted it instantly, heart hammering. Then another appeared — this time, a close-up of my face, eyes open, staring blankly at the camera. That’s when I realized… my reflection had been taking the photos. I left the apartment before sunset, leaving most of my things behind. But the story doesn’t end there. It’s been two weeks. I moved in with a friend, Khairi, and tried to forget everything. For a while, life felt normal again. Until last night. I was brushing my teeth, staring into the small mirror above the sink. For a moment, I saw nothing unusual — until I noticed a second reflection standing behind mine. A shadow with a wide grin and pale eyes. It whispered, “You can’t hide from me, Azaz.” The mirror cracked. My friend rushed in after hearing my scream, but by the time he arrived — the mirror was whole again. Now every reflective surface seems to move when I’m not looking. My phone screen flickers with glimpses of her — sometimes smiling, sometimes standing just behind me. I don’t know how long I have before she crosses over completely. All I know is — when you look into a mirror tonight, make sure your reflection moves exactly when you do. Because if it doesn’t… She’s already watching you too.
By Iazaz hussain11 months ago in Horror
The Hollow March. Content Warning.
Chapter 1: Where Nothing Is Real There is no sound when they wake. No wind, no pulse, no memory of before. They wake in an empty world — hollow and forgotten. Seemingly unnatural, like something pretending to be real but missing the pieces that make it whole. A feeling of looming dread hangs somewhere on the horizon, steady and constant.
By BrennanCorzine11 months ago in Horror
Creepy Dolls
The little gem with whom you are about to become acquainted was a doll my husband’s Grandma Audrey gifted us shortly before her death. Audrey was a tough as nails, feisty woman in her eighties who loved nothing more than shopping at auctions and flea markets. The doll she gave us was a find from one of her endeavors, and what a find it was.
By Tales from the Shadowlands11 months ago in Horror
Watching horror films can burn up to 200 calories, the same as a half-hour walk.. AI-Generated.
Thrills and Fitness: How Watching Horror Movies Can Torch Calories Like a Workout Picture this: you're plopped on the couch for a night of chills but are actually burning calories as if you hit the gym. That's right: watching horror movies can jack up your heart rate and burn as many as 200 calories in just an hour, which is the same burn you'd get from taking a half-hour walk. This secret workout comes from your body's natural fear response, turning passive viewing into active energy use.
By Story silver book 11 months ago in Horror
Meat Lover's Curse
Jason wasn’t a fan of the pizzeria’s latest menu addition: the "Ultimate Meat Lover's Special." It was an over-the-top creation piled high with every type of meat imaginable—pepperoni, sausage, ham, bacon, meatballs, and some unidentifiable ground meat that the manager swore was a "secret blend." Customers loved it, but Jason hated the overwhelming, sickly-sweet smell that clung to the boxes.
By V-Ink Stories11 months ago in Horror
The Haunted Tombstone
Practical minded folks with level heads on their shoulders will tell you that witch’s curses and the like are superstitious nonsense with no basis in reality. While that may very well be true, if one were to pose the question to the good people of Bucksport, Maine, the response probably wouldn’t be to your liking. You see, they know something naysayers don’t, namely that curses are more than just empty threats spewed in the heat of the moment. On rare occasions, these words spoken in anger eventually come to pass.
By Tales from the Shadowlands11 months ago in Horror
The Door That Wasn’t There Yesterday
It all began on a quiet Sunday morning. The kind of morning where the sun filters gently through the curtains and the world outside seems paused in a peaceful hush. I had just woken up in my small apartment — nothing unusual, just another day. Or so I thought.
By sunaam khan11 months ago in Horror
