Latest Stories

Most recently published stories in Horror.

Warm Gouda and Weed
There was a tap on Mark’s shoulder. He turned in his chair to see Kathleen standing in the opening of his cubicle. “Hey. What are you doing tomorrow night?”
By Gene Lass5 years ago in Horror
Cold House
Cora never remembered waking or sleeping. She simply was awake or not. Nor was she aware of taking steps as she moved. She just moved in a direction and stopped as she chose. This time she chose to stop on the landing overlooking the foyer.
By Gene Lass5 years ago in Horror
‘Army of the Dead’: A (Mostly) Earned Victory Shamble for Zack Snyder
It’s safe to say that no American filmmaker working today is quite as polarizing as Zack Snyder. Detractors renounce the Watchmen, 300, Man of Steel et al. director as the hack creator of one dour, bloated action epic after another. His fans either adore him unreservedly or appreciate his films as the work of a cynical vulgar auteur with an unflappable so-uncool-it’s-actually-cool aesthetic. Some claim he’s perversely patriotic; others argue he unearths the twisted, destructive core of American patriotism.
By MovieBabble5 years ago in Horror
The Day I Saw The Ghost
"Srinidhi Ranganathan" is my name and I don't believe in ghosts. I was looking for a place to stop by during Christmas time. It was snowing heavily as I walked on the ice-covered street with a bag hanging on my shoulder. I suddenly saw a house that had a light glowing in the distance. Was it a haunted house? It looked like one, after all. I went near it and knocked on its door, but no one answered. I stood there with my heart beating loudly. I believed that no ghosts exist on earth and I may not find any. It was only like a boogeyman that we sometimes see in our dreams.
By Srinidhi Ranganathan5 years ago in Horror
Refuge
Blistering snow hurls around me, tarring over my pupils with a thick and constant caustic white paint. From the little vision I have left, my eyes focus solely on my deep brown boots that penetrate the snow repeatedly, each step polluting a shard of my memory in its wake. Behind me should lay thousands of soil diseased footprints laying as corpses in the beautiful, vile baron desert. But no, the scars of the mountain ripped by my very steps had been buried long ago, the monstrous blizzard hysterically hiding any hopes of finding salvation back down this inescapable path. Like a disease of the brain, the sinister snow claws and gouges at my mind relentlessly, ripping any sense of sanity that I may claim to have once possessed. We both know one day he will slash its way in and take refuge in my puny, weak human mind, a fate worse than death.
By Ben Cardy5 years ago in Horror
The cult of Broken Gate
Blood curdling shrieks pierced the quiet night, invading the army of silence that had been present for the many hours before. The clock read 22:22, as I knew it would, of course it would, ‘it’ happens at this time every year. Terrifyingly this rude awakening had actually become quite monotonous over the last decade and I was growing sick of it, however, if I had known then what I know now I would have ran away the first time, I should have ran away the first time.
By Ben Cardy5 years ago in Horror
I belong to the marshes now
Empty voids of immense nothingness fled my mind as quickly as they had appeared. I have awoken and groggily I rise like a zombie clawing its way up tooth and nail from the cold hard soil. Bewildered I recoil and turn in awe and fear of what surrounds me, I find myself trapped in what I can only assume is the dampest and most isolated sorry pit of the Earth. Surrounding me is drowned marshes, trees draped in moss and suffocated by the inevitable unstoppable force of rot, always creeping forwards, pushed solely by time on its way to claim another victim. Bodies of water lay dormant around me, an even deeper shade of green then that on the trees clings tightly to the surface like a deadly parasite bleeding it’s prey of any life. It creates a film of waste. It hides all that is beneath it, leaving only darkness and harsh secrets below.
By Ben Cardy5 years ago in Horror
American Tourists
Across the British Isles, Elijah and his cousin, Liam, went backpacking, accompanied by their girlfriends, Amelia and Madison. They hailed from New England, and were still young—not one older than twenty-two.
By Charles Robertson5 years ago in Horror
The Man and His Routine
Oh how The Man did enjoy life; each morning a clear summer sky he could see, a perfect setting for his simple breakfast meal of two crispy bacon strips, an egg and a slice of fried bread. To stab his fork in to a piece of bacon, then the white of his egg, and finally some of the fried bread – which had a hint of bacon itself, as it was fried in the bacon fat left behind in the pan – brought such a joy to the man, as he truly loved his breakfast, which he had each and every morning. And after each breakfast would come his daily routine, a simple one yet he cherished it so: first he would go to walk around the neighbourhood, often greeting many a familiar face; secondly, he would watch television, oh how he would laugh at comedy, edge on his seat at thriller, and so on; then lastly came simple, but vital, task—sleep.
By Charles Robertson5 years ago in Horror
The Man Caught in a Loop
Thud! That, along with some prior tugging of his feet, was the noise which woke a man, and in his mind-aching tiredness he heard a shortly following chinking sound. The man laid on his stomach; he had dazed vision gradually coming to clear sight, which allowed him to see what caused the second chink sound—a clear, glass bottle, with some papers rolled as one within the bottle. Letters and numbers alike could be spotted graffitied all over these papers, which hooked the man’s attention on to the bottle, he lifted himself to inspect further, noticing that what notes could be read formed a string of beauty, only to very fastly grow dull in his vision. While his interest in what was written on these papers lessened, he still decided to carry the bottle in non-dominant hand by the neck.
By Charles Robertson5 years ago in Horror
The Investigation of Mr. Blakesly
I: The Evidence My suspicions began on a Monday after I had been sent to the headteacher’s office for a small fight in class, one that I won, mind you. Whilst waiting to be seen to, I couldn’t help but overhear his conversation with two police constables; a pupil two years below me—I was in year 10—had been killed on Friday, mutilated even, presumably walking home from school as he was in uniform still. Horrifying was the information I had heard, and queer I found it how Mr. Blakesley seemed to be in control of the conversation, riddling and questioning the police himself at times; he even managed to get information out of them, when one would think it ought to be vice versa.
By Charles Robertson5 years ago in Horror
The Haunted Cottage
There is a place somewhere on earth, in the farthermost reaches of a labyrinth of trees, an ancient cottage possessed by creatures of old, spiteful creatures forsaken by man.
By Benjamin Bratz5 years ago in Horror