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Most recently published stories in Horror.

Art
New York city, the big apple; it looks like a paradise in all those romantic comedy movies. The reality is, this place is where the devil comes to piss. The streets are rotten with degenerates and filth, drugs are rampant, especially in the Bronx, where I, Henry Stark, always end up investigating. Tonight is no different, there's been another murder, one of many, but this one is particularly sick. Just like the rest of this god forsaken place, where it always rains and the sun never shines. Among the graffiti the body lay, cramped up against a wall, the poor victim's skin was full of cuts depicting triangular shapes all over his body, he was bloody, beaten, naked and slaughtered for all to see. Stripped of his clothes and dignity, a twisted art piece for passersby to gawk at. Disgusting, but believe it or not, I've seen worse! However upon seeing this sad display, even I found myself gagging slightly. The body had rotted by the time we found it, giving off a foul stench I'm unfortunately far too used to. Of course it was up to me to do all the dirty work, as always. I began examining the cuts, they had a red slice in the middle of each triangle, perhaps it was a symbol of the Illuminati. I later came to discover that it was the mark of the so-called artist, the one who had done this terrible murder and proudly, shamelessly projected it to the scared public. Was it to scare the people of New York or inspire them? My job is to solve murders, not evaluate the minds of sick fucks like this psycho. So not even I could tell you what was wrong with them. Not long after, another murder was spotted, this time in Manhattan, it was a female body on this second occasion. She had her corpse snapped in a number of disturbing and unnatural ways, her head and neck had turned towards her back, arms and legs bending to create a triangular shape that stood up like some kind of statue or fucked up art exhibit. The killer had placed this up in the middle of Times Square. Hundreds, if not thousands of people saw it. Most people ran in frantic terror, screaming in the streets, taxis screeched to a halt to avoid the scared stampede of pedestrians. NYPD blocked off the whole area, I came in to investigate the crime scene. The same triangles with red cuts in the middle were all over her naked body, just like with the last victim. Catching the killer was easy after that, there were cameras all over the area who spotted the mad man setting up this dark art. He was a strange looking man, one that had long hair and a mustache that ended in sharp points, wearing a black and white horizontal striped shirt, with blue jeans that were skin tight and likely too small for him. He looked like your stereotypical hipster douchebag, the type of guy that preached veganism and drank pumpkin spiced lattes at Starcup Cafe. Tracking the man down was too easy, in fact, Harold Victor wanted to be caught, all so he could be in the newspapers as some kind of creative genius. A pretentious artist who broke the laws of morality, in order to push the boundaries between what is acceptable and taboo. Well, he got his fifteen minutes of fame all right, but not long after entering prison, the inmates turned him into a gruesome art piece themselves. One morning a prison guard came to his cell, since Harold wasn't in the canteen like the rest of the scumbags. However, upon marching towards where Harold was supposed to be, the prison guard saw something he'd never forget. Harold had been stripped naked on the bottom bunk bed, his prison room mate had cut exactly one hundred and forty two triangles into Harold's flesh, all with the dot cuts in the middle of each one. It is unknown whether or not Harold wanted this to happen, wishing to become a part of his own art project. Or maybe his room mate simply hated the 'artist' and decided to punish the killer by giving him a taste of his own medicine. Whatever the case may be, the matter is closed. It doesn't really matter what the nature behind Harold's death was, either way he suffered and I say good riddance that a piece of shit like that no longer walks amongst us. That all happened in 2023, it's been two years since then, but I'll always remember the looks of horror upon his two victims' faces. It was like they had seen the devil himself, with their very own eyes.
By Joseph Roy Wright12 months ago in Horror
Andy Warhol's Flesh for Frankenstein
I once had a dream wherein two young children, hardly more than toddlers, in Victorian garb, moved around a sort of upstairs or attic room. They opened a trunk and found therein items of clothing—a cloak, a cap, a facial covering—that had once belonged to Joseph Carey Merrick, the famous "Elephant Man," the subject of the renowned play and David Lynch's classic film. Curious. I then had, a short time later, a curious "follow up," where the children were now pre-adolescent, and it was modern times. I believe they were in a church now. Similar trunk. Same items. They discussed it as if this was where "he had once lived." Merrick, I suppose.
By Tom Baker12 months ago in Horror
👁️ Shadows in the Old House
The night was colder than usual. 🌑 The wind screamed through the broken windows of the abandoned house at the edge of town. Everyone said it was haunted, but nobody dared to go close.
By Zidane12 months ago in Horror
10 Horror Remakes That Have Been Announced
There has been quite a bit of remakes in the horror genre that have been announced. There has also been a lot of opinions over some of these remake announcements, and even I have expressed my own doubts over some of these remakes.
By Emy Quinn12 months ago in Horror
The Legend of the Bell Witch
The Beginning of the Curse In the early 1800s, the Bell family settled on a quiet farm in Adams, Tennessee. John Bell, the patriarch, worked the land and raised his children in what seemed like an ordinary, peaceful life. But in 1817, something strange began to unfold - events that would grow into one of America’s most infamous hauntings: the legend of the Bell Witch.
By Hassan Jan12 months ago in Horror
Quentin Tarantino's 'Death Proof' Features One of the Most Terrifying Villains in Film
I was recently watching Quentin Taratino's Kill Bill Vol. 1, and every time I watch any of these films, my mind always drifts to one villain that really stayed with me. Death Proof is one of my all-time favorites from Taratino. I consider this story to be secretly a horror film. This story is split into two parts, featuring two sets of four girls who find themselves going against a monster.
By Emy Quinn12 months ago in Horror
The Store at Crescent Villa
At twenty-four, Arman had grown used to silence. The kind of silence that lived not in forests or fields but in neat, carefully drawn streets—rows of houses with trimmed hedges, painted fences, and gates that rarely opened. His was the last house on the crescent, larger than most, with a view of the park that remained unused.
By Shehzad Anjum12 months ago in Horror
What We Once Were
Was it the sprawling maple tree she sat under, her captivating physique, or those mesmerizing eyes that drew me into my oblivion. I may never know the answer to that question. What I do know is that by closing my eyes for what I had hoped would be the kiss of a lifetime unexpectedly transformed me into the monster I am today.
By Mark Gagnon12 months ago in Horror
The Skull’s Revenge
The Skull’s Revenge Ghulam Murtaza Alvi BY:Khan Fifteen years ago, when Asif and Rizwan were medical students, their lives were ordinary until an alarming announcement changed everything. Their anatomy teacher told the class, “After the two holiday days, I will test you on the entire human skeleton.” Panic spread through the room. Asif and Rizwan were far from confident; the names and structure of the skull’s bones blurred when they tried to study from textbooks. One evening, while poring over their notes, Asif suddenly suggested, “If we could get hold of a real human skull, we could learn everything much faster. Holding it in our hands would make the bones unforgettable.” Rizwan was skeptical. “We can just pull images from the internet,” he said. Asif shook his head. “Screens only show so much. A real skull in your hands — that’s different. We’ll pass that test if we study it properly.” They decided to find a graveyard caretaker who might help. Asif knew a man named Qamr Din who worked at a cemetery outside the city. After convincing him the skull was only for study and offering him money, Qamr Din agreed — for an additional fee — to open a neglected grave and bring out the skull that night. At ten o’clock under a stormy sky, the three of them entered the graveyard. Lightning flashed, and the graves cast long, unnatural shadows. Rizwan felt fear as if the cold wind pushed at his spine, but he swallowed his dread and kept walking. Qamr Din led them to a neglected grave and, as instructed, they kept the single flashlight trained on that plot. The grave was opened. Qamr Din’s spade bit into the damp earth and, after a short while, he pulled free a human skull and wrapped it in a dark cloth. The skull looked, to Rizwan, like a melon — pale, hollow-eyed. When Asif picked up the wrapped object, a strange warmth seemed to press against the back of his head, as if something living had settled onto his shoulders. The feeling passed, but it left both students unnerved. They paid Qamr Din and rode home with the skull tied to the side of their motorcycle. Asif insisted Rizwan lock it in his cupboard — his own wardrobe lock was broken — and Rizwan obeyed. He ate, washed, and went to bed uneasy, but convinced the skull’s presence was only a scientific tool. Later that night, a horrible scream split the silence. Rizwan rushed out to find his nephew, who had been playing in the courtyard, bleeding from a wound on his head created by a falling chunk of cement from the eaves. The child survived after hurried treatment by a local doctor, and Rizwan, sleepless and shaken, began to wonder whether they had brought some curse home with them. He told Asif about his fear: “Maybe the dead are taking revenge for what we did.” Asif laughed it off, scoffing at ghosts and curses. He said a modern student shouldn’t be frightened by old superstitions. “If anything’s going to be harmed, let it be me,” he joked. The two arranged to study with the skull the next morning and Asif promised to come to Rizwan’s house at ten. But fate had other plans. That night, sometime before dawn, a ceiling fan fell in Asif’s room and crushed him while he slept. He was found dead beneath the broken fan, his skull fractured. When Rizwan learned that the funeral would be held at the very cemetery from which they had taken the skull, shock drove him nearly to collapse. He insisted on seeing his friend’s body, though the face was too mangled to recognize. Asif was buried in the same row of graves where they had, only days before, dug up a skull. Grief and guilt warped Rizwan’s world. He could not eat or sleep. After a few days, when his nerves steadied enough, he retrieved the skull from his cupboard. To his horror, a dim light seemed to leak from its empty eye sockets — as if something watched him through the hollow spaces. Panic seized him. He rode to the cemetery, planning to return the skull and beg Qamr Din to place it back. Qamr Din listened and accepted the money with a knowing expression. He agreed to replace the skull in the original grave that very night and promised to send a photograph as proof. Rizwan felt a fragile relief as he handed the bundle over, as if sheathing some guilt into the ground again. When he turned to leave, Rizwan saw a fresh tombstone nearby. On it, in black letters, was Asif’s name and the chilling date: the very night Asif had died. It was the most brutal confirmation Rizwan could imagine — that their reckless act had been met with swift and terrible consequence. In the days that followed, rumors spread. People said the fan had fallen by coincidence; others said a curse had followed the boys home. For Rizwan, coincidence no longer offered solace. He would sit on Asif’s grave at night, reciting prayers until the first birds announced morning, trying to undo something he had never fully understood. He had learned his lesson the hardest way possible: some boundaries are not meant to be crossed, and respect for the dead is not merely tradition — it is, perhaps, a safeguard against forces that patience and money cannot tame. Years later, the memory of that hot, stormy night in the cemetery remained as sharp as a bone. Rizwan became a careful man, his medical studies shadowed by a lifelong wariness: knowledge, he learned, has consequences when it strips the living of reverence for the dead.
By Khan 12 months ago in Horror
Review of The Long Walk. Content Warning.
Review of The Long Walk By: T.D. Carter Now, bear with me as this is my first formal review of a movie. I have written informal reviews in the past, but this one is different—I wanted to truly give my take on this film. The movie is directed by Francis Lawrence, with a cast that includes Ben Wang, David Jonsson, Cooper Hoffman, and Mark Hamill. This is a horror/sci-fi film based on the novel by Richard Bachman, who is actually Stephen King. “The Long Walk” was the first novel King ever wrote, and the movie was released on September 12, 2025.
By T.D.Carter12 months ago in Horror
The Creeping Horror of Vietnam: When Soldiers Faced More Than Just the Enemy
When we think of war, images of soldiers, weapons, and battles usually come to mind. But in Vietnam, the battlefield was far more complex. American troops weren’t just fighting the Viet Cong they were also fighting the land itself.
By Izhar Ullah12 months ago in Horror
The Train That Doesn’t Stop
The Train That Doesn’t Stop The last train from Grenton Station wasn’t supposed to run anymore. It had been decommissioned in 1989 after a derailment killed 47 passengers on the Eastern Line. The accident was blamed on mechanical failure. The line was closed. The wreckage was buried in the valley below.
By Alexander Mind12 months ago in Horror