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Most recently published stories in Horror.
Things You Can't Say Eight. Content Warning.
When I wake up later, I’m completely alone in our big bed. Our room is dark. Much darker than I remembered it being when I closed my eyes. Since Master had left the light on before we crawled into our bed together. At least that’s what I remember. Getting to my hands and knees, I looked around for any signs of Master. Listening carefully as I tried to think of what time it was. With how dark it was it had to be late. Super late. Maybe midnight? If only I could spot the alarm clock that he had on his nightstand. When I did, I froze. The clock said eleven-thirty. Much later than I thought it was going to be. Why did he let me sleep this long for?
By Raphael Fontenelle12 months ago in Horror
10 elevated horror movies you must see. AI-Generated.
Elevated horror is a subgenre that emphasizes psychological depth, social commentary, and artistic expression over traditional horror tropes like jump scares and gore. This subgenre has gained popularity in recent years, with filmmakers exploring complex themes such as trauma, identity, and societal issues.
By Ninfa Galeano12 months ago in Horror
The Phone That Shouldn’t Ring
M Mehran After her grandmother’s funeral, Nida inherited the old farmhouse at the edge of town. The place was filled with relics—dusty furniture, cracked photographs, and one object that didn’t belong: a heavy, black rotary phone sitting on the hallway table. Her grandmother had lived without electricity for years. There were no lines, no service, no reason for a phone to even work. So when it rang that first night, Nida froze. --- Chapter Two: The First Call The sound was harsh, metallic, echoing through the empty house. Hands trembling, she lifted the receiver. “Hello?” Silence. Then a faint hiss. She was about to hang up when a voice whispered: You came back. Her skin prickled. “Who is this?” But the line went dead. --- Chapter Three: The Photographs The next day, Nida explored the attic. She found a box of photographs—most black-and-white portraits of her grandmother as a young woman. In each one, there was a man standing in the background. His face was blurry, his eyes always on her. When Nida flipped the last photo over, words scrawled in shaky handwriting read: Don’t answer the phone. Her blood ran cold. --- Chapter Four: The Second Call That night, the phone rang again. Against every instinct, she picked it up. “Why did you leave me?” the voice rasped. “I waited.” “I don’t know who you are,” she said, her voice shaking. The whisper grew harsher, more urgent. Look in the mirror. Before she could respond, the line went dead again. --- Chapter Five: The Mirror In the upstairs hallway hung an old mirror. She approached slowly, her flashlight shaking. At first, it was only her reflection. But then, behind her, a man appeared—thin, pale, with eyes like hollow pits. She spun around. The hallway was empty. When she turned back, the mirror was cracked down the middle. --- Chapter Six: The Journal Digging through her grandmother’s chest, Nida found a worn leather journal. Pages detailed strange events: late-night phone calls, whispers, warnings. Her grandmother wrote of a man she had once loved, who had died young under violent circumstances. He doesn’t forgive me, one entry read. He wants me with him. The phone is his voice. Nida slammed the book shut, heart racing. --- Chapter Seven: The Third Call The phone rang at 3 a.m. this time, louder than ever. She almost didn’t answer. Almost. “Hello?” The voice growled: I’m closer now. She dropped the receiver, but the whisper continued—seeping from the phone’s mouthpiece, crawling into the room itself. The mirror upstairs shattered with a deafening crack. --- Chapter Eight: The Arrival Every lightbulb in the house flickered, then burst. The air grew heavy, suffocating. From the hallway, the rotary phone began to ring and ring, faster, shriller, until it became a single unbroken scream of sound. Nida clamped her hands over her ears. The journal slid off the table, pages flipping on their own until it stopped at the final entry: If you answer the third call… he comes through. She looked up. The man from the photographs was standing in the doorway. --- Chapter Nine: The Last Call The phone fell silent. The figure’s grin stretched impossibly wide as he stepped closer. “You shouldn’t have answered,” he whispered, his voice exactly like the one from the line. The last thing Nida saw was his hand reaching for hers, ice-cold, pulling her into the darkness. --- Epilogue: The New Ring The next morning, a neighbor came to check on her. The house was quiet, the hallway table empty. No journal. No Nida. But on the porch, a black rotary phone sat waiting. And when the neighbor touched it, it rang.
By Muhammad Mehran12 months ago in Horror
The Mirror at the End of the Hall
M Mehran When Laila’s grandmother passed, she left her an old country house. It was filled with antiques—oak furniture, porcelain dishes, and, in the upstairs hallway, a tall standing mirror with an ornate silver frame. “It’s been in the family for generations,” her mother said when they moved her in. “But don’t cover it. The mirror doesn’t like being hidden.” Laila laughed it off, assuming it was just one of those strange old superstitions. --- Chapter Two: The First Glimpse The first night, Laila noticed something odd. Passing the mirror on her way to bed, she saw herself—only, not quite. Her reflection lingered a half-second too long, blinking slower than she did. She rubbed her eyes. “I’m just tired.” But later, in the dark, she swore she heard faint scratching, as though nails dragged lightly along glass. --- Chapter Three: The Second Reflection The next evening, she returned from work late. As she passed the mirror, she froze. Her reflection was smiling. She wasn’t. The grin stretched wider, unnatural, teeth too sharp. Laila stumbled back, nearly dropping her keys. The image immediately mimicked her, lips pressed tight, innocent again. Her heart hammered. She told herself it was a trick of the light, nerves, imagination—anything but real. --- Chapter Four: The Whisper By the third night, she avoided looking at the mirror. But avoidance didn’t help. As she walked past, a whisper tickled her ear: Laila… She spun around. Empty hall. When she dared glance, her reflection was leaning closer to the glass, lips moving silently. She couldn’t hear the words, but she could see them forming: Let me out. Her stomach dropped. She threw a bedsheet over the mirror, breath ragged. --- Chapter Five: The Warning That night, she dreamed of her grandmother. The old woman stood in the hallway, pointing to the covered mirror. “You can’t hide it,” she said sternly. “It doesn’t forgive being ignored.” When Laila woke, the sheet was crumpled on the floor. The mirror stood bare, polished, waiting. --- Chapter Six: The Bargain Desperate, Laila called her mother. “What’s with the mirror?” she demanded. Her mother was quiet. Finally, she said, “It’s part of the house. Every generation keeps it. It… takes something from us. A piece of us. That’s the price for living here.” Laila’s skin crawled. “What happens if I don’t pay?” Her mother’s voice cracked. “Then it takes everything.” --- Chapter Seven: The Pull The days blurred. The mirror grew harder to resist. Whenever she passed, her reflection beckoned, fingers tapping on the inside of the glass. One night, exhausted, she stopped in front of it. Her reflection tilted its head, grinning, then lifted a hand to the glass. Without thinking, Laila raised hers. The surface rippled under her touch, warm, like skin. And then the reflection grabbed her wrist. --- Chapter Eight: The Trade She screamed, but the glass swallowed the sound. The reflection yanked hard, pulling her arm into the mirror. Her other self’s face twisted with hunger, eyes black as pitch. “No!” Laila shrieked, clawing at the frame. But her strength faltered. The reflection climbed out—her own body, her own face, but wrong. It stepped into the hallway, perfect and smiling, while she was dragged inside. --- Chapter Nine: The Other Side The last thing Laila saw before the glass sealed shut was herself—no, the thing—smoothing her hair, picking up her keys, and walking away. She pounded against the inside of the mirror, but the surface only rippled faintly. Her reflection turned once, smirking, and whispered: Your turn. The house fell silent. --- Epilogue: The Inheritance Continues A month later, neighbors noticed Laila seemed… different. Brighter. Happier. Always smiling. And at night, if you walked past her house and looked closely through the upstairs window, you might see her old reflection. A woman trapped behind the glass, hands pressed against it, mouth opening and closing soundlessly—begging someone, anyone, to let her out. But no one ever does.
By Muhammad Mehran12 months ago in Horror
The House That Breathed
M Mehran It began with a dare. On the outskirts of town stood a house no one wanted to claim. The windows were boarded, the paint peeled, and weeds grew like claws across the porch. Kids called it The Breathing House, because on quiet nights, some swore they heard it exhale. Maya never believed in ghost stories. She laughed when her friends dared her to spend one night inside. “It’s just rotten wood and bad plumbing,” she said. But deep down, she wanted to prove something—to them, and maybe to herself. So, on a Friday evening, flashlight in hand, she pushed open the creaking front door. --- Chapter Two: The First Breath The smell hit her first—mold, dust, and something sour beneath it. Her light cut through layers of cobwebs as she stepped onto warped floorboards. The silence pressed heavy, until—creeeak. Not from her feet. From the walls themselves, groaning like something shifting inside. She froze, her breath clouding in the cold air. And then she heard it: a long, low sigh. Maya’s laughter caught in her throat. “Just the wind,” she whispered, but her voice sounded thin against the dark. --- Chapter Three: The Portrait In the living room hung a portrait, tilted slightly on the wall. A family of four stared out—father, mother, two children. Their eyes were wrong. Too dark. Too sharp. She shone her light closer, only to find the glass smeared, as though someone had pressed their face against it from the inside. She backed away, uneasy. That’s when the frame rattled. Once. Twice. Then slammed to the floor, though no breeze stirred. Her flashlight flickered. And for a second—just a second—she saw the family smiling wider than before. --- Chapter Four: The Whispers Upstairs, the air thickened. Her skin prickled as whispers floated down the hallway, too soft to make sense, too many to count. She thought of leaving, but pride shoved her forward. The door at the end of the hall was half-open. She nudged it with her foot, revealing a child’s bedroom. Toys lay scattered, but they were wrong—stuffed animals with missing eyes, dolls with cracked porcelain faces, all turned toward her as if waiting. The whispers rose. She swore one of the dolls mouthed the words: Stay. --- Chapter Five: The Walls Midnight crept in. Maya sat in the corner of the bedroom, hugging her knees, flashlight trembling in her hand. That’s when she noticed it. The walls. They were moving. Slow, steady, expanding and contracting, as though the house itself inhaled and exhaled around her. The floor shuddered with each breath. She scrambled to the hallway, heart hammering. The walls here moved too, pulsing like veins under skin. From between the cracks oozed a dark, wet substance, dripping onto the floorboards. Her stomach churned. The house wasn’t haunted. The house was alive. --- Chapter Six: The Stomach The whispers grew louder, forming words now: Hungry… hungry… Maya ran for the stairs, but the steps stretched, lengthening beneath her feet. She slipped, crashing to her knees. The wood beneath her hands was warm, slick. When she pulled away, her palms shone red. Blood. The house groaned, louder this time, like a belly rumbling. The whispers turned to chants. Hungry. Hungry. Hungry. She realized too late—she wasn’t in a house. She was in something else. And it wanted to feed. --- Chapter Seven: The Mouth The front door loomed ahead, but as she sprinted toward it, the floor split open. A gaping crack stretched wide, lined with jagged splinters like teeth. From the depths came a stench of rot, and the whispers howled in triumph. She tried to leap across, but the floor buckled, hurling her back. Her flashlight skittered into the darkness. The “teeth” began grinding shut. Maya screamed, clawing at the floorboards. Her nails tore, her breath ripped from her chest. And then she saw it—on the wall beside her, the portrait of the family. They weren’t trapped behind the glass anymore. They were watching from the room itself, smiling wide, their mouths moving in sync with the house: Hungry… --- Chapter Eight: The Last Breath The crack swallowed her whole. Outside, the house stood silent again. No lights, no screams, only the faintest sigh slipping through the cracks of its walls. The next morning, Maya’s friends came looking, laughing nervously as they pushed open the door. They found only her flashlight, cracked in two on the floor. But when they glanced at the portrait on the wall, their laughter died. The family of four had become five. And the newest face was smiling with familiar eyes.
By Muhammad Mehran12 months ago in Horror
Jacob Elordi Talks Playing “Shockingly Beautiful” Creature In New Frankenstein Movie
Guillermo del Toro has long been celebrated for his unique ability to find the humanity in monsters. From the conflicted heroes of Hellboy to the romantic amphibian man in The Shape of Water, his filmography is a testament to his deep empathy for the grotesque and the misunderstood. It comes as no surprise, then, that his long-awaited adaptation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is one of the most anticipated cinematic events of the year. Stepping into the iconic role of the Creature is Jacob Elordi, who offers a glimpse into a portrayal that promises to be both terrifying and beautiful.
By Total Apex Entertainment & Sports12 months ago in Horror
