Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
The Red Eyed Favor
The sodden paper sack holding her pathetic excuse for groceries almost fell from her slackening grip. Almost. She had eggs in there. Sure, she also had a bag of brown rice underneath the eggs, but she was so sick of rice. Beans had more protein, but rice was cheaper.
By Bria Chaffin6 years ago in Horror
Predator
Jonah watched her as she played one the playground transfixed by her and her beauty. He knew he had to have her and would do whatever he could to make it happen. He sat on the bench transfixed and fantasizing. His thoughts turning to past victims. He loved the hunt and the thrill of catching them and making them his. He loved it when they screamed and loved it even more when he took their dolls and put them in his trophy room.
By D. L. Scott6 years ago in Horror
Little Black Book Loop
Cassandra was sitting at a glass desk, frantically typing on a holo keyboard. She decided that, finally, she would write their stories. The sad smile on her lips unmasked powerful contradictory emotions—hope and resignation, love and hate, melancholy. There was no screen. Or rather, the whole room was one. Countless luminescent vines were shuddering around her, carrying a myriad of holographic pictures, videos, and blocks of text. It looked like Cassandra's desk had been overgrown and had found its place in the ramage of a colossal tree made of neon. On one singular branch, facing the girl, a blue rectangle was dangling. It appeared to be the text editor in which she was inputting. A few paragraphs were already written:
By Stéphane Lallée6 years ago in Horror
Tales From My Paranormal Childhood
I have always loved the man-made sounds that break the quiet of the night: passing cars, train whistles, the morning newspaper being delivered. These sounds, particularly in my youth, offered me comfort and safety, someone else was awake, alert, standing guard without any knowledge of their appointment to this powerful and protective role. My fear of the night was well-known in my family and lasted inappropriately long–well into my late teens–dissipating only when I entered college and moved into a dormitory that housed more than 500 wonderfully nocturnal humans. But before this Heaven-on-Earth housing assignment, deviations from my nighttime routine were rare: Fan, check. AM radio set to the staticky overnight talk shows that were broadcast from Cleveland, check. Corner lamp on, check. TV off, check. That last requirement may seem counter-intuitive but it was the 1970s, and to be awakened by the National Anthem and subsequent sign-off tone at the witching hour of 2:00 AM was the kiss of death for me. The parameters of acceptable waking times were rigid- to be awakened before midnight or after 4:00 AM were safe; after all, my dad got up for work at 4:30 and then dawn was close enough to allow me to slip back into my slumber. If, God forbid, I opened my eyes in that 4 hour window of terror, my fate was sealed: I would lay motionless, paralyzed, sweating from a combination of fear and now-suffocating blankets that I refused to come out from under, listening for unexplainable noises, and waiting for some unknown force to find me. I wanted to cry, but my silence hid my presence while I prayed for dawn to come. What was I expecting might happen? Who or what was I waiting for and hiding from? Many years would pass before I understood the cause.
By Melissa Mark6 years ago in Horror
Decatur Psalm
It’s a gothic, grotesque, ghastly thing, its exoskeleton the bright burgundy of a nosebleed, bleached, broken, bandaged with boards, barely standing on those spider-leg stilts stuck in the swamp, a storm of sandflies swirling around the structure. Benedetta and Patricia Andre open its door, hoping to find their missing sister, Jaslena, inside.
By Andrew Truong6 years ago in Horror
Lucky Strike
Lucky Strike For a man with the nickname of Lucky, James Armstrong was anything but. He was born to a wealthy South Carolina family before the Civil War. He attended the finest schools and even attended West Point. But the War changed everything for him. The Battle of Chancellorsville cost him his left hand when his pistol backfired, ending his war with the pull of a trigger. But that was only the first of his travails as he arrived home to find nothing more than a burned out husk of his family plantation. A few weeks of searching later found his mother on her deathbed, devastated by Lucky's fathers death at the hands of the very slaves he had grown up around. With little more than the twenty dollars that represented the remainder of his family’s wealth, Lucky made his way west to make his own fortune. But James Armstrong found still more misfortune ahead of him.
By Shawn Kneupper6 years ago in Horror
Easily Parted
You stare in horror at the scene in front of you. The screams from the old lady are a distant echo in your ears. It isn’t your fault. You know that. It isn’t your fault the man took one look at you and started screaming about how you were after him. It also isn’t your fault that he tripped on the little old lady’s yard equipment and impaled himself on the gardening hoe. You know that. You know that.
By Mariah Brinkworth6 years ago in Horror
