Latest Stories

Most recently published stories in Horror.

Every Dream is a Theft
Three months after the funeral, I started dreaming of him. He was there, in the living room, wearing his sunglasses inside, his favorite ones with the blue-green chrome lenses that matched his neon sneakers, and a band tee that was just one size too small, though he would argue it was the perfect size or it shrank in the dryer.
By Carla Marquezabout a year ago in Horror
A House in Peshawar. AI-Generated.
The old house on Kohat Road had been abandoned for decades. Its wooden shutters hung loose, its stone walls bore cracks wide enough for the wind to whistle through, and the locals swore that after dusk, a dim light flickered in its upper window. Children dared each other to throw stones at its broken gate, but no one had ever stepped inside and returned with a smile. The place had a reputation: cursed, haunted, and dangerous.
By Ayub khanabout a year ago in Horror
Slasher Ripper is a Victorian Murder Mystery Show that Features Some of the Best Grisly Murders
Slasher Ripper is a spin off limited series based on another show about a killer going after a group of people known as Slasher.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
Story – The Desert Ride
In 2019, I took a solo trip through the American Southwest. I’d flown into Phoenix, rented a car, and planned to drive across Arizona, dipping into New Mexico and back, just to see the desert landscapes I’d only ever read about. One afternoon, I left a small town called Holbrook with the intention of reaching Albuquerque before nightfall. It was about a four-hour drive on the interstate, but halfway through I decided to get off the highway. The idea of cutting across a back road, maybe catching a sunset over the desert, sounded romantic. Besides, the GPS showed a straight line through. The road I turned onto was paved at first, wide and flat, but after about twenty minutes the asphalt gave way to gravel. Dust kicked up behind my car and blurred the rearview mirror. At first I didn’t mind — the scenery was breathtaking: long stretches of red sand, mesas in the distance, the occasional tumbleweed. But then the fuel gauge caught my eye. I was already under half a tank, and the next gas station wasn’t anywhere on my map. Still, I pressed on. After another half hour, the road narrowed, winding between low ridges. That’s when I noticed a white van parked on the shoulder ahead. Its hood was up, steam or smoke curling into the air. As I slowed, a man stepped out. He waved both arms and called for help. I rolled the window down just a crack. His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t had water in a while. He said he’d broken down and needed a ride to the nearest town. Something about him made me uneasy, though. He was sweating, but not like someone stranded in the desert should be — more like he was agitated. His eyes kept darting behind me, scanning the road. I told him I was low on gas and couldn’t risk it. He stepped closer to my window, his hand resting on the edge of the door. That’s when I saw movement — the passenger side of the van. Another man, crouched low, like he was waiting. A jolt of fear shot through me. I slammed the car into drive and hit the gas. The man shouted, pounding his palm on my window, but I swerved past and sped down the gravel road. In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse: the second man had stepped out now, watching me leave. Neither of them tried to chase me, but the image of both standing in that endless desert stuck with me. The problem was, I didn’t know where the road led anymore. My phone had no signal, the sun was sliding toward the horizon, and my fuel gauge was dipping closer to empty. My mind kept replaying what would’ve happened if I’d stopped. Two men, a remote desert, no one around for miles. I drove another hour before finally hitting pavement again. By the time I found a gas station on the edge of a Navajo reservation, it was nearly dark. The attendant asked where I’d come from, and when I mentioned the gravel road, his face tightened. He told me in a flat voice that people sometimes staged breakdowns out there. “You did the right thing,” he said. “You never stop for anyone on those back roads.” That night I booked a motel in Albuquerque, but I hardly slept. Every time headlights passed my window, I jolted awake, convinced the white van had followed me. I still love road trips, but I stick to the highways now. The open desert is beautiful, but it hides more than just mesas and sunsets. And when I think back to that moment — two men, one waving me down, the other crouched low — I’m grateful instinct told me to hit the gas.
By Qaseem Ahmadzaiabout a year ago in Horror
The Devil’s Footprints: England’s 1855 Panic
"In 1855, Devon awoke to hoofprints stretching over 100 miles. They climbed houses, crossed rivers, and vanished into legend. No one ever found what walked there."
By Veil of Shadowsabout a year ago in Horror
Weapons (2025) is Not What You Think it is
Where could the kids have run off to at 2:17 A.M.? After running off in the middle of the night, Weapons found its way into theaters in 2025. All except one child from an elementary school classroom mysteriously vanish at 2:17 A.M. As the community waves fingers, a few curious people investigate.
By Marielle Sabbagabout a year ago in Horror
VHS: Beyond is One of the Best Films in the Franchise
The V/H/S horror franchise has now gone to space, going down the sci — fi train of terror through the use of found footage. This film has now become one of my favorite films in the franchise!
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
The Neon Funeral. Content Warning.
On the night the funeral began, the rain fell like neon oil slicks, painting the pavement in broken reds, blues, and sickly greens. The lights from the signs didn’t just glow—they pulsed, as if every advertisement had learned how to breathe. And down on 42nd Street, beneath the buzzing of a dozen flickering marquees, people gathered in silence. No one spoke about who had died. The crowd wasn’t made of mourners in black; it was a mess of taxi drivers, bartenders, students, vagrants, and insomniacs—all drawn by something they couldn’t explain. They simply stood there, watching as the lights above twisted themselves into shapes that almost resembled words. WELCOME TO THE FUNERAL. --- I. The Invitation Daniel Crowe hadn’t planned on attending. He’d just left work at the all-night copy shop, headphones pressed tight, ready to drown himself in static and bass. But the moment the first sign bent its letters into a funeral procession, his phone died in his hand. No glow. No notification. Just a blank screen. Everywhere he turned, the city hummed at him. A cheap noodle joint’s neon bowl tilted until its steam curled into skeletal fingers. A pawn shop’s “OPEN” stuttered until it looked like O—PEN. And the funeral began to march. He should have run. He should have ignored the pull. But Daniel felt the same instinct that led a moth into fire: a compulsion beyond choice. --- II. The Procession The crowd shifted forward as if strings tugged them. In the lead, the signs reshaped themselves into pallbearers—bright, faceless silhouettes formed out of pink and yellow tubing, hoisting a coffin made of pure light. It pulsed with an unnatural glow, its surface rippling with images of rain-slick streets, subway tunnels, and blurred human faces screaming without sound. Daniel tried to tell himself it was a trick of exhaustion, that maybe he’d stumbled into a flash mob, an art installation. But then he noticed something: people he thought were part of the crowd weren’t breathing. The man next to him wore a cab driver’s jacket, but his eyes flickered green, numbers scrolling across them like stock tickers. The woman on his other side was pale as plastic, her lips silently mouthing advertisements. These weren’t people—they were props, puppets dressed as citizens. And yet they marched, all toward the heart of the funeral. --- II. The Funeral Director The coffin halted in front of a boarded theater whose last marquee once screamed GRAND CINEMA before half its letters burned out. Tonight, the dead bulbs flared alive with a new name: FUNERAL HOME. The doors yawned open. The stench of burnt wires rolled out. A figure stepped through. He wore a tuxedo, black as a shadow melted into form. But his face—Daniel couldn’t look directly at it. It was not a face but a panel, like a television screen filled with white noise. When he spoke, his voice was the hiss between stations. “You’ve all come,” the director said. “As you were meant to.” He gestured toward the glowing coffin, which hovered in the air, dripping sparks like blood. “One must be chosen to lie within. One among you is owed to the lights.” Daniel felt every eye—human and otherwise—turn toward him. --- IV. The Deceased He tried to back away. His throat was raw, his legs trembling. “I—I don’t belong here. I didn’t even—” The director’s voice cut him off, sharp as a snapped wire. “You already died, Daniel Crowe. Do you not remember?” The words crawled into his skull, unearthing memories he’d buried under night shifts and cheap liquor: the accident. The glass. The red wash of tail lights. The last sound of his lungs collapsing under the wheel of a taxi. He staggered. No. That couldn’t be true. He was alive. He was here. He felt the cold rain. But when he lifted his hands, the neon reflected clean through them. His fingers glowed, hollow, outlined by electric blue veins of light. He wasn’t alive. He was unfinished. The city had been keeping him warm, feeding him scraps of false hours. Tonight, the funeral came to collect. --- V. The Coffin The pallbearers tilted the coffin open. Inside, instead of wood or silk, was a blinding well of color, a bottomless pit of shifting advertisements and lost voices. Daniel saw himself reflected in it—a copy-shop clerk doomed to repeat endless nights, a ghost in fluorescent purgatory. “No,” he whispered. “Not me. Not yet.” He ran. The city screamed in light. Storefronts flashed OPEN—CLOSED—OPEN—CLOSED like a heartbeat. Streetlamps bent down like jaws. Billboards spat static. Every sign turned into a neon claw reaching for him, dragging him toward the glowing coffin. Daniel fought, tearing free, stumbling into the rain. His chest burned. His legs gave way. For one fleeting moment, he thought he’d escaped. Then the theater’s marquee boomed like thunder: DANIEL CROWE — TONIGHT’S FEATURE PRESENTATION. --- VI. The Neon Funeral The coffin swallowed him whole. The crowd applauded—not with hands, but with a roar of electricity. The director bowed, his face crackling with snow. The lights dimmed. The procession dissolved into a thousand dying sparks, drifting back into the city’s endless web of advertisements. The rain hissed against the pavement. By morning, 42nd Street looked normal again—just another washed-out strip of bars, shops, and neon. No one would remember the funeral, no one except those still humming under the lights. And somewhere inside the current, trapped between circuits and tubes, Daniel Crowe’s face flickered in the glow of a diner’s red “OPEN” sign. His mouth moved without sound, repeating the same words forever: “Not me. Not yet.” But the city never listened. Because the funeral was already looking for the next name.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline to Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the devil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of downgoing men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.
By Ayub khanabout a year ago in Horror
Nessa
I did the right thing. You would have done the same, I expect. You will try to tell yourself that it would have gone differently for you.
By D. J. Reddallabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Room
The rain had followed Ethan all the way down the mountain road. His old sedan sputtered before finally giving up near a crooked sign that read: “Hollow Pines Inn – Vacancy.”
By Md Abul Kasemabout a year ago in Horror
✈️ Story – The Wrong Turn in the Alps
This happened in the summer after my sophomore year of college. A friend and I had decided to backpack through Europe, hopping from country to country with cheap train passes and whatever hostels we could afford. Most nights were noisy bunks in overcrowded dorm rooms, but sometimes we got creative — sleeping on benches, taking overnight trains just to save money on lodging, and, in one case, camping behind a gas station. One evening in Switzerland, we’d been hiking outside a small alpine town when a couple of locals told us about a cabin up in the hills. “Free place to sleep,” one of them said, pointing toward the ridge. “Travelers use it all the time.” It sounded like a gift. We were broke, tired, and the thought of a quiet mountain hut away from snoring hostel roommates sounded perfect. We started the climb late in the afternoon, the sun already hanging low. At first the trail was wide and marked, winding through open meadows dotted with wildflowers. The air smelled sharp and clean, and we could hear cowbells clanging faintly in the distance. It felt safe — almost idyllic. After about forty minutes we reached a fork. The map we had was barely more than a tourist pamphlet, and it didn’t show this split. One path curved right, still wide and sloping gently uphill. The other cut left into the trees, narrower and steeper. My buddy thought the left trail looked more promising. “If it’s hidden,” he said, “it’s gotta be up there.” I wasn’t so sure, but he was confident, so I followed. The deeper we went, the quieter it became. The bells faded. Even the wind seemed to die down, swallowed by the trees. About twenty minutes later, just as I was starting to think we’d made a mistake, we saw it: a shack tucked between the pines, a dim yellow glow flickering from inside. At first we thought we’d found the cabin. But as we got closer, little details made my stomach tighten. The building was small, almost too small for more than one or two people. The wood was dark and rotting in places. Rusted metal traps hung from nails outside, and leaning against the doorframe was what looked like a butcher’s hook. My friend slowed down. “This… doesn’t look right.” Before we could turn back, the lantern light shifted. Someone was inside. The door creaked open and a man stepped out. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his beard unkempt, clothes dirty like he’d been living rough. In one hand he held an axe, resting it casually against his shoulder. He didn’t say a word — just stared at us. My friend tried to break the silence, stumbling through a few words of broken German, asking if this was the hut for travelers. The man didn’t answer. His eyes flicked between us, then back toward the trail we’d come from. Slowly, very slowly, he smiled. Then he pointed. One long finger back down the path. That was all the signal we needed. We muttered a quick “danke” and started backing away. He didn’t move at first, just stood there with that grin. But as we turned, I heard the crunch of his boots on the dirt. He was following us. We didn’t wait to find out how far he’d go. The second we were out of his sight, we ran. Branches whipped at our arms, rocks slid under our boots, and the slope felt twice as steep going down. At one point I tripped and nearly rolled down the trail, but adrenaline yanked me back to my feet. I don’t know how long we ran, but by the time we stumbled out of the trees and onto the main road where we’d started, we were drenched in sweat and gasping for air. The man was nowhere behind us. Just the quiet hum of crickets and the faraway clang of cowbells again. We never found the real cabin. That night we slept in the train station, lights buzzing overhead, and I’ve never been so grateful for the presence of strangers around me. I still don’t know who that man was, or why he was waiting out there with an axe and those traps. Maybe he was just a hunter. Maybe he wasn’t. But to this day, I think about what could have happened if we’d gone inside, or if we hadn’t turned around when we did. And I don’t think I ever want to know.
By Qaseem Ahmadzaiabout a year ago in Horror