Latest Stories

Most recently published stories in Horror.

The Haunted Mansion
It was the dead of night when Rehan, Saima, Fahad, and Sarah entered the old Shafiq mansion. For years, the villagers had whispered that the mansion was cursed, but the four friends believed those were just scary tales made up to frighten people.
By Janalamabout a year ago in Horror
Lokah Chapter 1: Chandra – Review & Rating
stry has for long dreamed of producing a superhero saga of global standards. While most recent attempts have attempted to do this by depending extensively on visual effects and mythological references, they tended to fall short of that great storytelling ethos. Lokah Chapter 1: Chandra, directed by Dominic Arun, is evidence that the answer does not lie entirely with expensive CGI but in developing a narrative that is emotionally solid, culturally rooted, and fleshed out by characters. A New Heroine in Familiar Myths The film introduces us to Chandra (Kalyani Priyadarshan), a woman who comes back to India after years in Sweden. She appears like just another young urban professional forging a life for herself in Bengaluru at first glance. But we quickly discover about her strange curse—she cannot enter sunlight because her skin literally scalds the moment she is under it. Her nights are her freedom; her days, her imprisonment. Gradually, the film strips away the reality: Chandra is indeed Kalliyankattu Neeli, one of Kerala's best-known yakshis from legend. Far from the popular images of Neeli as an evil spirit, Dominic Arun re-imagine her as a misunderstood protector. She transforms into a force for justice, an individual who battles for the marginalized and the oppressed. This feminist reinterpretation not only supersedes convention but also bestows Indian cinema with its first fully realized female superhero. Grounded Storytelling, and Not Blind Mythology Where Lokah succeeds is in refusing to succumb to the temptation to blind copy-paste gods, rituals, and mythologies as shortcuts for grandeur. Instead, the screenplay anchors the story in socio-political history, tribal heritage, and lived reality of marginalized folks. Through this, it offers a fantasy film that is real, relatable, and respectful of cultural memory. Contrary to Kalki 2898 AD or Brahmāstra, which attempted to wow with interstellar references and costly action, Lokah is aware that spectacle without emotion is fleeting. In this one, spectacle and emotion are both included, in careful equipoise. Technical Excellence with a Goal One of the best things about the movie is how the technical team is harmoniously integrated. Cinematographer Nimish Ravi uses a rich and muted color palette that suits the mysterious mood of the story. His camera never tries to over-romanticize Bengaluru but instead blends the city into the life of Chandra at night. Editor Chaman Chakko is rhythmic and varying, depending on the need of the scene—sometimes frenetic and chaotic, and at other times calm and reflective. The visual grandeur is supplemented by equally sharp writing. Additional screenplay work from Santhy Balachandran provides emotional authenticity. Despite the over-powering special effects, the audience is never lost, as human emotions remain at the center. The action choreography by Yannick Ben, especially in the pre-interval flashback where Chandra's back-story meets modern-day action, is a stand-out in itself that compares with some of the best global superhero films.
By Kiruthigaran Mohanabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Stop
The Last Stop BY:Khan The scorching heat weighed heavily on Farah Naz as she stood at the crowded bus stop. The traffic jam had already lasted for half an hour, and the bus she was waiting for was nowhere in sight. Her day had been longer than usual; exams were just around the corner, so she had spent extra time at the library revising her notes. From a distance, she noticed the commotion on the road. Perhaps there had been an accident. There were plenty of onlookers but barely anyone willing to help. Farah stepped a little aside, weary of the chaos. Just then, the bus she had been waiting for finally stopped—right where she was standing. Oddly enough, the conductor had also left, probably to witness the accident. Without thinking twice, Farah climbed aboard, grateful for the opportunity. As she secured a seat, she noticed something peculiar: the bus was completely empty. A strange chill ran through her. Should she get off? Before she could act, the bus jerked forward. Its speed was unusually slow. From the low voices of the driver and conductor, she gathered that the bus was out of order, which explained why no one else had boarded. Her presence didn’t seem to bother them, and the conductor didn’t even bother asking for her ticket. At the next signal, the light turned red, and suddenly, a group of men rushed into the bus. Fear prickled at her skin. Quietly, she shifted to a seat near the door. The number of men kept increasing, and her unease was justified. The bus dragged on like a tortoise. She decided she would get off at the very next stop. But just as the bus slowed down in traffic again, two familiar figures entered. “Firdous Mami!” Farah blurted out in surprise. Her aunt looked equally startled. “Farah? You?” A wave of relief washed over her. Firdous Mami had always been very close to her, almost like a second mother. Feeling safer now, she glanced around the bus again. To her astonishment, she recognized many faces among the men. There was Uncle Mushtaq, who even waved at her. She smiled and waved back, amused at her earlier panic. As the bus crawled forward, more passengers entered—neighbors, acquaintances, even family friends. Among them was Samira, the wife of their neighbor Niaz, holding her newborn, and in the men’s section, her father’s friend, Hafiz Sahib. Strange, she thought. Nobody seemed to be getting off. It was as though everyone was headed to the same destination—the final stop. Suddenly, the bus stalled. Uneasy murmurs spread among the passengers. At the driver’s command, the frail conductor tried to push the bus, but he couldn’t manage. One by one, the passengers stepped out to help, and soon the bus roared back to life. Farah turned to speak to her aunt, but Firdous Mami’s expression unsettled her. Her eyes seemed empty, carrying only a shadow of sorrow. Farah fell silent and stared out the window instead. At last, the bus arrived at its final stop. The sun was dipping, and the sky had begun to fade into evening hues. Farah reached for her bag—but it wasn’t there. She gasped, then remembered. She had left it in the library. With a sigh of relief, she assured herself it would be safe and retrievable the next day. “Mami, why don’t you come to our house?” she asked warmly. “I’ll come… very soon,” her aunt replied softly, before walking away into the fading light. Farah hurried home, her steps quickening as darkness crept in. The front door was open, and the sound of the television filled the air. She closed the door behind her and entered. Her mother must be in the kitchen, she thought. Her younger brother Shani was glued to his laptop, oblivious to her arrival. She quietly locked her bedroom door, too tired to change out of her uniform, and collapsed onto her bed. Her sister knocked sometime later. “Ammi, Api has locked her door again!” Shaafiya complained. Farah smiled faintly. It was a recurring issue—the lock often jammed, and they’d had to call a locksmith many times. “This girl is so careless,” her mother fretted. “She’s late again. What will I tell Baba when he asks?” Farah wanted to reassure them, but her body was heavy with fatigue. She drifted in and out of sleep, until a strange silence stirred her. The house was too quiet. She stepped out of her room. The kitchen stove was still burning. Shani’s laptop glowed, abandoned. The TV buzzed loudly in an empty room. She turned everything off and sat on the sofa, trying to make sense of the eerie stillness. Suddenly, someone entered. “Firdous Mami!” Farah exclaimed. Her aunt’s face was pale, her voice distant. “I’ve come to take you.” “Take me? Where?” Farah whispered, her heart racing. “The last stop.” Firdous Mami reached for her hand. And without resistance, Farah followed. Soon, her feet felt weightless, as though she were walking on air. She looked down—and froze. Below, her lifeless body was being carried into an ambulance. Her family wailed, grief etched deep into their faces. Higher and higher she floated, until Mami gently let go of her hand. In silence, they both dissolved into the vastness of the sky.
By Khan about a year ago in Horror
The Crimson Exoplanet
In 2180, humanity established Outpost Perseus on the exoplanet Erebus-9, orbiting a distant red dwarf star. The planet’s atmosphere was thin, its surface bathed in a crimson twilight. Early surveys had suggested microbial life—but no one expected what awaited beneath its scarlet sands.
By Razu Islam – Lifestyle & Futuristic Writerabout a year ago in Horror
The King In Yellow: 200 Word Reviews #5
The King In Yellow is a rough, jagged cornerstone of Weird Fiction on which so many later, and better, writers have built their work. They far surpass Robert W. Chambers, but plant their stories in ground he broke and, in many ways, paint within the broad lines he lay down.
By I. D. Reevesabout a year ago in Horror
The House on Ash Lane
M Mehran Nobody in town went near the house on Ash Lane after dark. The windows were always dark, the garden wild, the air heavy with silence. Children dared each other to touch its rusted gate, but even the bravest sprinted away before pushing it open. For most people, the house was just a story, a rumor to scare newcomers. But for Claire, it was a mystery she couldn’t ignore. She was a journalist for the local paper, always chasing small-town tales, always hungry for something real. When whispers about “screams from the house” and “lights flickering at midnight” reached her desk, she knew she had to see for herself. On a cold October evening, she set out with nothing but her notebook, flashlight, and recorder. The gate groaned when she pushed it open, the sound slicing through the night. Weeds brushed her ankles as she walked the path, and the front door loomed taller with every step. Inside, the air was stale, tinged with mold and something metallic—like rust… or blood. Dust cloaked the furniture, and broken picture frames lay scattered on the floor. Her flashlight beam caught glimpses: peeling wallpaper, a rocking chair that moved slightly though no one sat in it, a staircase yawning into darkness. “Just the wind,” Claire whispered, though the house was perfectly still. She clicked on her recorder. “October 12th. Entered the Ash Lane house at 8:47 p.m. Initial impressions: abandoned, but—” A creak. Claire froze. The sound had come from upstairs. Her instincts screamed to leave, but curiosity rooted her in place. She climbed the staircase, each step groaning louder than the last. The air grew colder, her breath fogging in front of her. At the top, her flashlight flickered. “Not now,” she muttered, shaking it. The light steadied, revealing a hallway of closed doors. She picked the nearest one and turned the handle. The room beyond was a child’s bedroom. Faded wallpaper of stars and moons clung to the walls. A doll sat upright on the bed, its glass eyes fixed on the door. The air smelled faintly of rot. Claire lifted her recorder again. “Evidence of a child’s room. Strange that the doll seems—” The doll’s head turned. Claire gasped, stumbling back. The flashlight slipped from her hand, rolling across the floor. In the shifting beam, she saw the doll rise slowly to its feet. “No,” she whispered. “That’s not possible.” But the doll’s tiny porcelain lips cracked open, and a child’s voice rasped: “Get out.” The room plunged into darkness. Claire snatched up the flashlight, her hands trembling. When she flicked it back on, the doll was gone. Panic clawed at her chest. She bolted from the room, running blindly down the hall. Behind her, tiny footsteps pattered, faster and faster. A laugh—high-pitched, hollow—echoed down the corridor. She burst into another room and slammed the door. Her flashlight beam landed on a cracked mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. Her reflection stared back—only it wasn’t her. The face in the glass was pale, eyes sunken, lips stitched shut with black thread. Its head tilted slowly, as though studying her. Then, without warning, it raised a hand and pressed it against the inside of the mirror. Claire’s scream tore from her throat. She stumbled backward as cracks spidered across the glass. The stitched-lip reflection pushed harder, its hollow eyes fixed on her. She spun and ran, tearing through the hall, down the stairs, toward the front door. But when she reached it, the door was gone. In its place stood a wall of rotting wood. “No, no, no—” She clawed at it, her fingernails splitting. The laughter returned, louder now, echoing from every direction. The walls seemed to close in, the house groaning as though alive. Her recorder crackled in her pocket. She yanked it out, hoping to capture proof. But instead of her own voice, a child’s whisper hissed from the speaker: “She belongs to us now.” Claire dropped the recorder, her chest heaving. And then, silence. When her flashlight flickered again, she found herself standing in the child’s bedroom once more. The doll was back on the bed, its porcelain head cocked at an unnatural angle. This time, its glass eyes blinked. The last thing Claire saw before the light died was the doll’s tiny hand reaching for hers. --- The next morning, the townsfolk noticed something strange. The house on Ash Lane no longer looked abandoned. Its windows glowed faintly, as if someone were inside. On the gate, hanging by a rusted chain, was a recorder. When one brave soul pressed play, a woman’s trembling voice filled the air: “October 12th. Entered the Ash Lane house at 8:47 p.m. Initial impressions: abandoned, but…” Then static. No one ever saw Claire again. And at night, if you walk past Ash Lane, you might hear her voice whispering from behind the windows, begging you to come inside.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Horror
Quarantine 2: Terminal is a Great Gore Fest with an Effective Ending
I'm sure that you may be wondering why I'm not talking about the first Quarantine film. The first film is considered to be a remake, and the original film is called REC. I have watched both films, and I was shocked to see how similar both films are. The remake literally ripped off so many scenes from the original, including the iconic ending.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
“I Thought I Knew Failure—Until My Worst Project Taught Me Everything”
I used to think I knew what failure was. In college, I failed a math exam and had to repeat the class. Later, I was rejected from three job applications in a single week. I thought those were crushing moments—proof that failure had staked its claim on me. But they were nothing compared to the disaster that came when I poured everything I had into one project that, in the end, completely collapsed.
By Osama Janabout a year ago in Horror
The Passenger Who Never Was
The Passenger Who Never Was BY:Khan It was around eleven at night when the phone’s shrill ring pulled me out of the deepest of slumbers. I had been sleeping as if I had sold every care in the world, drifting far away on dreamlike voyages to nameless islands. Groggy and annoyed, I grabbed the phone and, as always, began with a greeting. “Assalamu Alaikum…” “Wa Alaikum Salam, Talha beta. How are you, son? What were you doing?” came my father’s familiar but unusually heavy voice. “I was asleep, Abu Ji. Did you all reach safely?” The next words froze my blood. Their car had met with an accident on the way. They were at the hospital. Although he insisted it was “nothing serious,” his tense tone and faltering words told me otherwise. Within moments, I was wide awake. My father asked me not to travel so late at night, but staying back was impossible. My heart screamed to be with them. My parents, my younger sister Guriya, and my uncle and aunt had left for Hyderabad earlier that evening to attend a family wedding. I had stayed behind because of my final exams. My aunt and uncle lived just a couple of streets away from us. They had no children of their own, but they poured every ounce of love into me and Guriya. To us, they were like a second set of parents. Their laughter, their generosity, their warmth—these were constants in our lives. That day had been exhausting. I had studied through the night for my exam, returned home drained, and spent the day in the company of my family before they left. By the time they departed, my body was begging for rest. After dinner and prayer, I collapsed into sleep—only to be shaken awake by the call that changed everything. I got ready in a rush, noted down the hospital address, and set out. A light drizzle had begun when I left Karachi. At first, the city’s neon signs and restless nightlife kept me company. But as I drove farther, the rain grew heavier, the roads darker, and traffic sparse. Street lamps stood at intervals, their weak glow barely piercing the storm. The windshield wipers thrashed frantically, but visibility remained poor. Tall trees lined both sides of the deserted highway, their shadows twisting into monstrous forms each time lightning ripped across the sky. Though I had always considered myself fearless, a strange unease crept over me. The silence, the storm, the eerie loneliness—all of it pressed down on my chest. I whispered silent prayers for the journey to end safely. And then I saw it. In a blinding flash of lightning, a human figure appeared in the middle of the road, frantically waving for me to stop. My heart skipped. Could it be a stranded traveler? Or a bandit lying in wait? Childhood tales of ghosts and ghouls surfaced, chilling my spine. Muttering protective verses under my breath, I slowed. But when I reached the spot, the road was empty. Not a soul in sight. Not even a bird. Fear tightened its grip on me. My foot slammed the accelerator, and the car shot forward. I had barely gone a few hundred meters when I felt it—the unmistakable weight of a hand on my shoulder. My breath caught in my throat. Slowly, with every ounce of courage, I turned. On the back seat sat a monstrous figure covered entirely in matted hair, its only features a pair of glowing red eyes and grotesquely long claws. It stared at me with pure rage. I froze. My limbs refused to move, my voice abandoned me. Summoning what strength I had, I whispered Quranic verses. The car roared ahead, and when I glanced again, the seat was empty. Relief washed over me—until the vehicle began to drag, growing heavier as if burdened by an unseen weight. A hideous, guttural laugh echoed inside the car. I looked back. The same terrifying creature was there again, its long legs hanging out of the window, claws scraping against the wet road, slowing the car. My body shook, but my lips didn’t stop moving. I recited the verses louder, with conviction. Slowly, the heaviness lifted, and the car regained speed. This hide-and-seek with the demonic being continued for nearly an hour. Sometimes it sat behind me, sometimes beside me, sometimes only its laughter rattled the car. But the moment the faint lights of Hyderabad city appeared, it vanished. I breathed in relief. But the night wasn’t done with me yet. Only fifteen minutes from the hospital, beneath a lonely streetlamp, I saw him—my uncle. Standing still, staring at the road, dry as bone despite the downpour. Braking hard, I pulled up beside him. He opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat. His face looked pale, his eyes distant. Normally talkative and full of laughter, he now spoke in clipped, distracted sentences. “Yes, beta, everyone is fine. Don’t worry. I just… I just couldn’t leave without seeing you.” I wanted to ask what he meant, but something in his expression silenced me. I kept driving, eager to reach the hospital. When we arrived, I parked and turned to tell him we had made it. The seat beside me was empty. Confused and shaken, I rushed inside, where my father met me with red eyes and trembling lips. Without a word, he led me into a room. And there, on the bed, lay my uncle’s lifeless body. He had died at the scene of the accident. I stood paralyzed. My aunt sobbed into my arms, my mother cried uncontrollably, but I could not move, could not speak. My mind replayed the image of my uncle sitting quietly beside me in the car only moments ago. If he had passed away hours earlier… then who had been with me? Perhaps it was love so strong it defied death itself. Perhaps it was his soul, unwilling to depart without one last meeting. Or perhaps it was a mystery beyond human understanding. To this day, I do not know. All I know is that some passengers remain with you forever—even when they were never really there.
By Khan about a year ago in Horror
The Event Horizon
In 2175, the interstellar research vessel Oblivion was dispatched to study Sagittarius A*, the supermassive black hole at the center of the Milky Way. Its mission: to collect unprecedented data on gravitational anomalies and the event horizon’s physics. The crew consisted of ten members, including physicists, engineers, and a xenopsychologist, Dr. Mara Vey, whose job was to monitor mental stability in extreme conditions.
By Razu Islam – Lifestyle & Futuristic Writerabout a year ago in Horror
Season 3: Whispers of the Forgotten: A Descent into Eldoria Manor
Chapter 1 The voice was a grotesque symphony of metal scraping against metal, a guttural, digitized echo of a human speaking. It was the sound of Lord Alaric's obsession made manifest. Silas lowered his pistol slightly, his eyes wide with stunned horror. This was no ghost. This was something tangible, something real.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
I Followed a Stranger's Whisper Into the Woods - The Biggest Mistake of My Life . AI-Generated.
I Followed a Stranger's Whisper Into the Woods - The Biggest Mistake of My Life A real scary story about a peculiar event in the woods. What was the unexplained mystery of a whisper that I did, the biggest mistake of my life.
By buzz N valueabout a year ago in Horror