Latest Stories

Most recently published stories in Horror.

The Secret of the Port Master
The Little Black Book (Found among the papers of the late William Charles Burton, of Superior) “Wearied with the commonplaces of a prosaic world, where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale. . . [We] followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. The enigmas of the Symbolists and the ecstasies of the Pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but each new mood was drained too soon of its diverting novelty and appeal. Only the sombre philosophy of the Decadents could hold us, and this we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations.”
By Jonathan Caleb6 years ago in Horror
Open Door Policy
"Can I sit here?" It'd been a long day for Manfred. There have been several layoffs recently. It made financial sense naturally, but he had his fill of weeping single mothers begging him to help, the sniveling of brats just barely out of high school. It wasn't going to change tomorrow, and he wryly thinks to himself that he's going to have to start making sure there's going to be available tissue boxes. It's annoying, but at the end of the day they'll have saved enough money. He's already had to listen to the lamentations of others that it'll be busier, that they'll have more to do, but frankly they should be lucky to still have a job.
By Jenn B.6 years ago in Horror
Typeface
I need to tell you a story. It starts, like many a dark mystery, with a peculiar phone call, pronouncing the death of my Great Aunt Aurelia. I say ‘peculiar’ not because of the circumstances under which she died—a regular old heart attack apparently—but for two reasons, which still elude explanation.
By Chris McEntee6 years ago in Horror
PORK BELLY
When The Old Lady walked into the shop, the screen door slapped shut before Stacy could spin around to see who it was. The Old Lady moved up the counter, more swiftly than a woman her age should move. Such an odd combination of haggard and terrifying energy thought Stacy. “Babychild, I want that hog processed before you leave today. Yer dumbass butcher man just hung it up yesterday. Already bled out. Don’t let him touch it, I want you to.” Her jaw chewed on itself, the gumming action pointing out the fact that she hadn’t bothered to put in her dentures. She stood at the counter waiting for Stacy to make eye contact.
By Jonnah Perkins6 years ago in Horror
Buzzing, Darkness
In my right hand, the slim black book, smooth to the touch. In my left, the money, two tight wads with elastic bands around them; $20,000.There was a buzzing in my head, darkness surrounded me and I struggled to remember where I was; how I had gotten there. A dizziness overtook me, clutching the book tightly in my hand so as not to drop it, I propped myself up against the wall directly in front of me.“The last thing,” I murmured quietly, shutting my eyes, “the last thing before this…”Eyes shut right, fireworks exploding under the lids, no memory surfacing. “Driving,” the word came out slowly, meditatively. “Was I…driving?”Yes, that felt right. But where had I been driving to, and for what purpose? The dizziness abated, and slowly I opened my eyes again. Turning from the wall, I surveyed my surroundings. It was a simple room, a dark, rigid rectangle. There were no shelves, no furniture of any kind. Empty. Just four, nearly black walls. Why had I driven here? I looked down and noticed the items I was holding, that I’d been holding for what seemed like such a long time they were almost other parts of my body. The book caught my eye first. Where did I get this? Why did I have it? “Maybe,” I muttered, “maybe there’s something…” and I began to flip through the pages, thinking there might be an explanation to what was going on – where I was and why I was here. Nothing. Blank page after blank page. Creamy white and smooth. No writing anywhere, nothing by way of explanation. So I looked at the money, hoping it would jog my memory. Strangely it seemed more familiar than the book, more recognisable.I remember getting it, but why did I get it, and what for? I shut my eyes again, willing the memories to flood back into my head. The money…it was in my hands when I walked to the car. It was sunny…very sunny…“Where,” I mumbled, “where was I driving to?” Desert…desert all around and wide, far-reaching blue sky. “The casino!” I said it so loudly that it echoed around the room, making me jump. I was taking it to the casino…but where did I get it from? I looked up and took in the room again. It seemed even darker now, more constricted, as if the walls were moving in towards each other, ever so slightly. I was reminded of a scene in a science fiction movie I had seen. It was then that I realised the room had no door. What the hell…I walked swiftly across to the other side of the room, searching for an exit. There must be one, shrouded in the darkness. I reached the other side in a few steps, pressed my hands against the wall. It was as smooth and flat as the opposite wall had been. That doesn’t…doesn’t make any sense…Panicking, I checked the other two walls and found them to be exactly the same. Smooth and black. No exit anywhere. Not even a crack in the wall where a hidden exit, like the kind you see in the movies, might be. I looked expectantly up at the ceiling. Nothing there either. I got down on my hands and knees, began to run my hands up and down the floor, realised that the black book and the money were still in my hands. My fingers opened and I watched and both items slid from their grasp and onto the floor. A sudden rush of memory. The money – her money. I had taken it from her, stolen it, to go and spend it at the casino. I had driven the car – her car, down to the Vegas strip, under a bright blue desert sky. I fumbled on the ground for the wads of bills. I held them up and examined them more closely, noticed that the end of one wad was crinkled, where something wet had landed on it and it had dried. “The vodka,” I moaned quietly to myself and shut my eyes.That’s where I spilled the vodka. So much of it it was difficult to remember…this must be a jail cell of some kind…they must’ve stopped me…given me a DUI. “Hey!” I shouted. “Let me out! I need to phone someone! I need my phone call!”My words rang out in the room, were consumed by an infinitely louder silence. I shut my eyes, felt a soft pressure on my forehead, opened them again. The wall, the same wall that had been at least two feet away, was pressing softly against me. Ever so gently. I jumped to my feet. “What the…what the…HEY! LET ME OUT! I CAN EXPLAIN!”More quickly now, the walls on each side began move towards me, growing darker and darker as they drew closer and closer. I pushed against one, shoved both hands against it with as much force as I could muster, but it continued to move slowly towards me.“HEY! LET ME OUT! I KNOW I TOOK HER MONEY BUT I CAN EXPLAIN!”It didn’t sound like my voice. It was as if I was listening to someone else’s screams. “I CAN – PLEASE! LET ME OUT!” Silence. The walls pressing against me on all sides. A scream, my scream, tearing up and out of my throat, my heart racing wildly, exploding, as I am engulfed by total darkness and a searing, unimaginable pain.***Sally was wiping down the tables in the café. It was a slow day, but she noticed that the woman who came in most days with her little black book was seated at her usual table in the corner. She was middle-aged, but still beautiful, in a dignified, old-fashioned sort of way. Sally watched as slowly, firmly, she shut the little black book she always brought with her to write in. There was a finality to the otherwise innocuous gesture. And then the woman stared out into space, seemingly unaware of her surroundings, a look of relief painted on her face. Sally walked slowly over to her in the corner. It was cool and dark and shady in this part of the café.“Refill?” She gestured at the empty coffee cup sitting on the table in front of the woman. The woman jolted out of her reverie and looked up at Sally. She had icy blue eyes, and wrinkles developing under her eyes. “More coffee?”“Oh,” said the woman, as if noticing the coffee cup for the first time. “Oh no, thank you.”Sally looked around awkwardly, felt like she should say something else to this woman who came here nearly everyday, the only regular she knew of.“Well,” she coughed, “let me know if you need anything.”The woman didn’t say anything in reply, just looked up at her and smiled.Behind the counter, in the back room, Lucy was washing some empty coffee cups. Sally looked at the suds on her fingers, a million little frothy bubbles.“Hey.”Lucy looked up. “Hey yourself.”Sally leaned against the wall, watched the rhythmic movements of Lucy’s hands under the tap. “Hey you know – you know that woman who comes in here all the time?”“Who?”“That woman. You know – the one who’s always at the same table. She brings that little black book thing she writes in. And she –”“Ohhh. Yeah. I know who you mean. What about her?”“What uh – what’s her deal?”Lucy frowned, stopped washing coffee cups.“Her deal?”“Yeah. She’s in here all the time. Thought someone might know.”Lucy started washing the cups again. “I don’t know. She comes here, she writes. Been doing it for the past year or so. Before that…”She paused, shut her eyes, screwed up her face in concentration. “Oh that’s right. Well – I heard her husband died in a car accident…drunk driving? Yeah, that was it. He was drunk.”“That’s awful,” said Sally, solemnly. “Poor woman.”“I dunno,” said Lucy. Apparently she wasn’t that upset about it. He was one of those guys, you know? Drank too much, stole money from her, slapped her around.”“Jesus.”“Yeah.”The door tinkled, someone had entered the café. “You better get that.” Lucy gestured with a jerk of her head. “Right. Okay.” But Sally remained where she was, leaning against the wall. “Where did you hear all that?”“All what?”“The stuff about that woman.” “Oh, well, you know,” there was a clanking sound as Lucy placed another clean cup on an ever-growing stack. “Things get around pretty easy. People talk. Las Vegas isn’t so big as people think.”When Sally emerged from the back room she noticed that the table the woman had been sitting at was empty, and that the café was growing steadily darker.
By James G. 6 years ago in Horror
Oubliette
I sit in the white tower which commands the northern end of the gardens, and which has contained my whole existence for as long as I can remember. The sun’s warmth does not reach here, it remains cold all year round, and a thin layer of snow is gently falling upon the hard ground where it will lay unchanged for most of the year. I think I probably once wandered between those desolate oaks I see out there, climbed among the strange stones nearby, and circled around the black, noiseless ponds. But I only remember watching through the window. Nor do I recall venturing into the forest beyond the garden, but I imagine it is immeasurably deep and infinitely decaying.
By Milton Bollanbane6 years ago in Horror
The Transformation
“What are you gonna do with all your winnings?” If I heard the question once, I heard it a million times since I won the smallish $20,000 lottery prize. I was getting tired of the question even though I understood people’s curiosity. Since it was my best friend, I decided to try extra hard to hide my irritation.
By Erica Lynn Anderson6 years ago in Horror
The Sabbath
We walk in straight lines, unbroken and focused, into the forest, into my eternal fate. The trees dance in the moonlight taunting me, rejoicing in my misery. The wind nips at my exposed feet and slips between the opening of my cloak leaving frozen kisses on my arms and down my legs. As we walk deeper into the forest, my body steadily grows weak and numb. My feet are covered in cuts from the exposed branches and fallen twigs. The dirt clings to my skin, refusing to let me go further. Our leader, my mother, walks in front of me oblivious to my dread and I so desperately wish that she would turn around and tell me I don’t have to go through with this, but I know that is not who she is. It is not who we are.
By Jalyn Nwogu6 years ago in Horror
Softwood Hollow
The clash came on sudden, like a summer storm. It was short and fierce - horses neighing wildly, sabers clanging, shot and smoke. When it was over, mostly blue-clad dead littered the field. The few fallen gray speckled amongst them like grains of salt dissolving in water. The remnants of the small Union detachment fled; the two companies of partisan rangers did not pursue, turning their attention to the stores in the liberated rail depot and the personal treasures of the fallen. A detail set about bayoneting the grievously wounded, this on the orders of the commanding officer, Captain Reginald Carney.
By Mason Stone6 years ago in Horror
The Book of Command
“You’re... calling off the search?” I echoed emptily back into the telephone receiver. For months I’ve tried to prepare myself in the event those exact words were spoken to me, and considering the wave of emotion I could feel beginning to surge, it is now apparent that I had severely under prepared.
By Derek Scott6 years ago in Horror
Little Black Book
Black manicured nails click against the white marble, the grey curling like smoke through the stone. Handcrafted bookshelves line the walls, resin coating the natural wood. The light from the golden chandelier bounces off the gloss, almost in mockery of the man that sits beneath it. He’s too thin, dressed in an old grey suit that hangs from him like a child playing dress up. Wrinkles cut through the white shirt and the third button down is missing entirely.
By Tash Broom6 years ago in Horror
The Book Speaks
The book speaks in tongues and within the babble I hear what it is I am meant to do. The book sings it’s broken song until all I hear is the soft sandy slide of brittle paper rubbing, rubbing against itself. It is the sound I hear in everything now. In the movement of doors, the slide of drawers and feet on pavement and my own lungs against the walls of my body. It keeps me from sleep, but perhaps always dreaming. And despite myself I know what it is it says, and where I am to go, and what I am meant to do, but not why I am meant to do it. I suppose I am meant to do it because the book wants me to do it.
By Elizabeth Hannifin6 years ago in Horror