Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
The Last Broadcast
The Last Broadcast by israr khan On the outskirts of a forgotten town, there stood a rusted radio tower, black against the blood-red sky. It hadn’t transmitted anything in decades — or so people thought. The locals called it “The Devil’s Antenna.” Kids dared each other to touch it, but none stayed near it after dark. Not since the incident in 1982. Max, a freelance radio technician, didn’t believe in ghost stories. He was hired by a small historical society to catalog abandoned transmission sites. When he arrived at the tower, dragging his recording equipment behind him, he noted how the birds refused to fly near it. That was the first sign. “This place is a dump,” he muttered, brushing away cobwebs from the shed beneath the tower. The air inside was stale, but the old broadcasting console still sat there, waiting. Out of curiosity, Max turned the knobs. Static filled his headphones. Then, faintly, a voice. “…Hello? Can anyone hear me?” Max froze. He lifted the headphones and listened again. “…I’ve been here for so long… someone answer me…” It wasn’t a recording. The voice was desperate, breathless, alive. He checked the signal. The tower was offline. No power. No satellite. “Must be interference,” he whispered. But then the voice repeated, louder. “Don’t let it find you. It can hear when you listen.” The air around him grew heavy. The shadows inside the shed seemed to deepen, stretch, curl around the equipment like smoke. He backed away, heart pounding. Suddenly, the door slammed shut. He lunged at it, but it wouldn’t budge. Outside, night fell like a curtain. His flashlight flickered, then went dark. He was alone — almost. The voice returned, this time just behind his ear, no headphones needed. “It watches through the static.” Max spun, but no one was there. Only the console, now glowing dimly. Then something else came through. Not a voice. A sound. Clicking. Like long fingernails on glass. It grew louder. Closer. Max dropped to the floor, breath shallow, heart rattling in his chest. He remembered the old urban legend: the broadcaster who disappeared during a midnight shift in 1982 — last heard screaming into dead air. They never found his body. Just his bloody headphones. “I need to get out,” Max whispered. “It’s too late,” said the voice again, now distorted, almost laughing. “You heard it. That’s all it needs.” The shed began to hum with low frequency. His skin vibrated. Blood trickled from his nose. The shadows peeled themselves from the walls. Tall, crooked shapes with no eyes. Only mouths, wide and open, static pouring out. Max screamed and threw his recorder at them. It shattered, but they didn’t flinch. One stepped forward. It leaned down and whispered in the same voice he’d heard on the radio. “Say goodbye.” Max felt a sharp pain in his ears. He reached up — they were gone. Just smooth skin. Silence roared in his head. Two days later, a search team found the shed. The equipment was melted. No sign of Max — except his broken headphones, soaked in blood. The tower was still off. Unpowered. But late at night, sometimes, if you tune your radio just right — to a dead frequency between stations — you can hear Max’s voice. “…Hello? Can anyone hear me?” They say once you do, the static starts to follow you. In your phone calls. Your music. Even your dreams. And when you finally hear it whisper your name — it’s already inside.
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Gravity Well. Content Warning.
The first sign was the birds. Elara noticed it one still morning in late September, sipping lukewarm coffee on the back porch. The sky was a faultless blue, but the starlings weren’t flying in their usual chaotic murmurations. Instead, they swirled in a tight, silent, clockwise circle over the far north forty, a living vortex against the dawn. It was beautiful, and it was wrong. She mentioned it to her husband, Thom, over eggs. He’d shrugged, chewing. “Weird wind current. Maybe a thermal.”
By Danyal Hashmiabout a year ago in Horror
The Black Lung Communion: How a Surgeon’s Journal Sparked a Demonic Outbreak
CHAPTER 1: “THE BREATHING X-RAY” The air in St. Hedwig’s records room smelled of yellowing paper and regret. It was a scent Dr. Liam Evans had grown accustomed to over twenty years of service, but tonight, it felt different. Thicker. As if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
(True Story) My Neighbour Was Being Slaughtered and I Did Nothing. Content Warning.
I still remember the sound. It didn’t sound human. You know how when you’re cutting wood, there’s that rhythm? A thud, a pause, another thud, each one heavier than the last? That’s what it sounded like… coming from the apartment above mine. Except…it wasn’t wood.
By The Purple Olympianabout a year ago in Horror
The Gallery of Ghosts. Content Warning.
I was at a flea market, sifting through the detritus of other people’s lives, looking for cheap canvases to paint over. My fingers brushed against a man’s wristwatch, its crystal cracked, its hands frozen at 4:17. A jolt, like sticking a finger in a live socket, shot up my arm.
By Danyal Hashmiabout a year ago in Horror
OUR HOUSE WAS HAUNTED - (TRUE STORY)
I’ll tell you something, but only if you promise to believe me. Back in 2003, my husband and I found what we thought was our dream home. It was an old colonial place in Lamar, Arkansas—one of the oldest in the state. Big porch, tall trees, fireplaces in every room. And the price? Practically a steal. Looking back, I know why. I deeply regret it.
By The Purple Olympianabout a year ago in Horror
The Silence Where the Wolves Howled
The world went quiet ten years ago. It wasn’t a loud end; it was a vanishing. One season, the forests had wolves, the oceans had great whites, the savannahs had lions. The next, they were just… gone. No bodies, no scientific explanation. Just a great, global sigh of relief followed by a profound, unsettling silence. The balance was broken. Prey species boomed, then crashed. Ecosystems grew sluggish, dormant. The world lost its teeth.
By Danyal Hashmiabout a year ago in Horror
The Erasure Poet
The world had forgotten Arthur Vale, and in time, Arthur Vale had almost forgotten himself. He lived in a cramped apartment that smelled of damp paper and regret, a monument to a single, catastrophic failure: his first and only published poetry collection, *Silt and Ash*.
By Danyal Hashmiabout a year ago in Horror
The Thimble and the Thread
The only thing I inherited from my grandmother was a box and a warning. The rest of the estate—the quaint little house smelling of chamomile and mothballs, the savings account, the porcelain figurines—went to my cousins. I didn’t mind. We were never close. Grandma Estelle was a woman of formidable poise and quiet judgment, her love a thing that felt earned, and I, a chaotic and emotional child, had always fallen short. Her affection was a prize I’d long since stopped trying to win.
By Danyal Hashmiabout a year ago in Horror
The Cynic’s Guide to the Supernatural
Another Tuesday in the booth. Another three hours of filling the dead air between midnight and 3 a.m. with spooky music and the desperate calls of lonely insomniacs who’ve seen a shadow that looked a little too much like their ex.
By Danyal Hashmiabout a year ago in Horror
