Latest Stories

Most recently published stories in Horror.

Make - Up (2019) is an Interesting Experiment that Pretends to be a Horror Film
I kept hearing from fans online that Make - Up was a pretty good horror film. I had been wanting to watch it for a long time, and I finally got the opportunity when I discovered the film on Tubi. After watching the film, I have learned one thing: Make - Up is not a horror film.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
You Think Everyone on These Crowded Streets is Human?
Part 1: The Rules of the Road Some stories are told in the dead of night, whispered over the rumble of a diesel engine, tasting of cheap cigarettes and the vast, lonely darkness of the open road. This is one of them.
By SupernaturalEastabout a year ago in Horror
My life was cursed with four trials. The last one was at Narita Airport.
My life has been defined by a prophecy. When I was three years old and dying, my grandmother carried me to a temple on Mount Putuo, a sacred site for Guanyin, the Bodhisattva of Compassion. A wise old abbess told her that my life was not written in the stars; it was a gift, stolen from fate by Guanyin herself. But such gifts come with a price. I would face four great trials—four moments where fate would try to reclaim me. They would come at ages three, thirteen, twenty-three, and thirty-three. Each one would be harder to survive than the last.
By SupernaturalEastabout a year ago in Horror
The rise of trauma terror: fans process the real terror generated by loss
Within the realm of horror, there is a current trend that surpasses any franchise or subgenre considered popular. What is popular are horror films that revolve around grief. Narratives that use supernatural horror to confront the real terror of losing someone. As the situation becomes more complicated, enthusiasm for these types of films grows.
By Ninfa Galeanoabout a year ago in Horror
The House That Waited for Me
M Mehran The house had been abandoned for nearly twenty years, yet the moment I stepped onto its front porch, it felt alive—like it had been waiting for me all along. When I was a child, my grandmother often told me stories about this place. She would point at the hill from her garden and whisper, “That house remembers things.” At the time, I thought she meant it in a poetic way. Now, as an adult returning to my hometown after her passing, I wasn’t so sure. The door creaked open with the gentlest push, as though it had been oiled just yesterday. Dust swirled in the slivers of sunlight cutting through broken shutters, and the air carried that strange mixture of mildew and something sweeter—like faded perfume. I wasn’t there just to satisfy curiosity. My grandmother had left me a note, tucked inside her will, with three short words: “Find the truth.” No explanation, no instructions, just that. --- The First Night I decided to stay overnight with nothing but a sleeping bag, a lantern, and my notebook. Most people would call it foolish, but grief has a way of dulling fear. Around midnight, the silence grew heavier. I could hear the old house sigh with every gust of wind. Then, faintly, came another sound—footsteps. Slow. Steady. As if someone was walking the halls upstairs. I froze. I told myself it was the house settling. I even laughed nervously to chase away the unease. But the laughter died when I remembered something: the second floor had collapsed years ago. --- The Portrait The next morning, I explored what was left of the dining room. The wallpaper peeled like shedding skin, and broken chairs lay in piles. But one thing stood untouched—a portrait hanging above the fireplace. It was of a young woman in a long dress, her gaze sharp and unsettling. The strangest part was how new it looked, the paint still vibrant despite the decay around it. I leaned closer and felt an icy draft brush my neck. Beneath the frame, scratched into the wood, was a single word: “Stay.” --- Secrets in the Walls By the third day, I knew I wasn’t alone. Objects shifted places. My lantern flickered at precise moments, like a signal. I began writing down everything, piecing together a timeline. That’s when I found the letters. They were hidden inside a hollow part of the wall behind the kitchen cabinet, tied with a red ribbon. Most were dated in the 1940s, written by a woman named Elena to a man named Thomas. Elena’s words were filled with longing and fear. She wrote about being trapped in the house, about a family who forbade her from leaving. Her last letter ended abruptly: > “If you find this, know that I tried to escape. But the house does not forgive.” --- The Final Night The fourth night, I decided to confront whatever was happening. I sat in the living room with the portrait in view, whispering Elena’s name. The temperature dropped instantly. My breath came out in clouds, and the shadows in the corners deepened. Then I saw her—faint, like smoke, stepping out of the painting. Her eyes locked onto mine. “You came,” she whispered, though her lips never moved. I wanted to run, but something rooted me in place. She reached out, her hand trembling as though centuries of sorrow weighed on her. “Free me.” --- The Ending The next morning, I buried the letters beside my grandmother’s grave. She must have known about Elena, must have carried the secret her whole life. Perhaps that’s why she told me the house “remembers.” When I returned to the house one last time, the portrait was gone. The air was lighter, as though the walls had finally exhaled after decades of holding their breath. I locked the door behind me and left the key on the porch. Some truths aren’t meant to be kept. Some are meant to be set free.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Horror
The Vatican’s Lost Tapes: Real Exorcism Footage That Shook the World
The word exorcism has had a magical meaning for many years, a troubling combination of faith, terror, and myths. Many link this ritual with horror films: a priest, a terrified family, a young victim in need, and a room packed with unwanted shadows.
By Shahjahan Kabir Khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Curse of the Sunken God: A True Tale of Suspense from the Guizhou Karst Abyss
Part 1: The Curse of the Sunken God There are stories you hear that burrow under your skin and stay there, cold and wriggling. This is one of them. It’s not my story—not originally—but it found its way to me, and now I feel compelled to pass its chill on to you. It all started a few weeks ago, when I went to visit my old friend, Lao Hei.
By SupernaturalEastabout a year ago in Horror
The Living Dragon's Curse Secrets of Ailao Mountain
Today, I'm going to tell you a mysterious story from China's Ailao Mountains in Yunnan province. It's said that a dragon is hidden there. A living dragon!
By SupernaturalEastabout a year ago in Horror
“The Hotel Room That Vanished Overnight | Creepy Mystery Story”
It was late evening when Amir checked into the old Rosewood Hotel. The city was new to him, a stopover before his conference in the morning, and the narrow cobblestone streets glowed under yellow lamps. The hotel itself looked tired but elegant—its red-brick walls cracked, its entrance framed with ivy. At the front desk, the receptionist, a pale young woman with sharp features, smiled faintly as he wrote his name in the register. “Room 6B,” she said softly. “Up the stairs, second floor. Breakfast at 7.” The key was heavy, brass, with the number engraved. Amir carried his suitcase up creaking wooden stairs, noticing portraits of long-forgotten people staring down from the hallway. When he reached 6B, the door was stiff, the lock reluctant. Inside, the room smelled faintly of lavender and old books. He dropped his suitcase, opened the window, and looked out. Across the street, a man in a black coat stood perfectly still under the lamplight, as if watching the hotel. Amir blinked, and the man was gone. The night passed uneventfully, though Amir dreamed of footsteps in his room, slow and measured. When he woke, the sheets were cold, as if someone had just left. Brushing it off, he dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully. The receptionist frowned. “You must be mistaken. We don’t have a Room 6B.” Amir laughed. “Funny. I slept there last night.” Her expression hardened. She turned the register toward him. His name was missing. The key was gone from his pocket.
By MS Pulseabout a year ago in Horror
Voicemail From the Killer
Detective Elise Monroe’s phone buzzed on the desk beside her. The precinct was quiet—too quiet for midnight—but the glow of the screen made her stomach twist.
By Shehzad Anjumabout a year ago in Horror
Rotflower. Content Warning.
Deline Lowell first saw the flower on a Tuesday morning. It jutted from a crack in the pavement outside her apartment—a black bloom, petals curled like burned velvet. She nearly stepped on it before stopping short. It hadn’t been there yesterday. She bent closer. The smell hit her first—not floral, not earthy. Rot. Sweet and sour, like fruit left to liquefy in the heat. Her stomach turned, yet her eyes stayed fixed on the thing. The bloom looked alive. Breathing. Deline forced herself upright and walked on, telling herself it was only a weed. That night, she dreamed of it spreading. --- In the dream, dozens of black blossoms cracked through the sidewalk, pushed through her walls, wound into her sheets. They thrummed with a pulse she felt in her chest, in her teeth. She woke gagging, certain she could still smell decay, the tang thick in her hair, clinging to her tongue. The next morning, the flower was taller. And now there were two. --- At the hospital, she buried herself in charts and patients, hoping busyness could drown the memory. But exhaustion couldn’t shield her. She began seeing them everywhere. A dark curl at the edge of a waiting room. A petal glinting in glass. Always gone when she blinked, but the smell lingered, sweet, sour, and accusing. By the third week, the flowers weren’t just in her dreams. She woke one night with dirt under her fingernails, her sheets streaked with damp black stains. Her neighbor complained of water damage from her ceiling. Maintenance found nothing. Deline said nothing. She stopped sleeping. --- She confided once, to Morgan, a friend from work. “There’s a flower,” she whispered in the corner of a café, rain streaking the window. “It keeps growing. I see it everywhere. It smells like death.” Morgan frowned. “What kind of flower?” “I don’t know. Black. like a rose, I think it wants something from me.” “You’re overtired,” chuckling he said gently. “Sleep deprivation—” She wanted to believe him. Until his sleeve slipped back. A smear of black soil clung to his wrist. And beneath his skin—something pulsed, like a root pushing deeper.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
Natural Insticts of the Basic Houseplant
“Good morning, Frank, my buddy. I got you some fresh coffee, careful because it is hot,” the gray-haired man with sausagy fingers dangling over my cubicle wall says to me. His voice is like the velvet bench at the center of your hometown strip joint.
By Amos Gladeabout a year ago in Horror