Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
The Stranger on the Last Bus
The rain had been falling for hours, turning the city into a restless blur of silver. Puddles reflected the orange glow of streetlights, and cars hissed by in streaks of water. Zara adjusted her coat and tightened her scarf as she hurried toward the bus stop. She hated working the late shift at the café; by the time she finished, it felt like the whole world had already gone to sleep.
By Zakir Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
Heavenly Seas Chapter Twelve
Complaints about the restaurants put Elodie off the soup of the day. Passengers complained there were eyes in their soup. Better to stick with cake, Elodie thought. After trying and failing to convince Heath not to break windows, she retreated to her cabin. Her bed was calling her.
By Chloe Gilholyabout a year ago in Horror
Dracula
The story begins with a young English solicitor, Jonathan Harker, embarking on a long and uneasy journey into the Carpathian Mountains of Transylvania. He has been tasked with helping a wealthy nobleman, Count Dracula, finalize the purchase of property in London. At first, it seems like nothing more than a professional trip—an exciting adventure for a young man eager to prove himself. But as Jonathan travels deeper into the wild countryside, he senses an unsettling dread.
By Hewad Mohammadiabout a year ago in Horror
Buried But Not Gone
They say the dead can’t speak. But what if they were only waiting for the right moment? Act One: The Uneasy Beginning A small town cemetery holds hundreds of graves, each marked with stone, dates, and the illusion of peace. But beneath one cracked headstone lies something restless. Locals whisper about it—how the ground near the grave feels warmer than anywhere else. How the flowers placed there never wilt, but instead rot overnight.
By Soul Pagesabout a year ago in Horror
The Abode at the End of Hollow Lane
🔥 --- # The Abode at the End of Hollow Lane The abode had no address. That was the aboriginal affair bodies noticed. On maps, Hollow Lane concluded bisected a mile earlier, yet the burst alley continued, swallowed by roots and shadows, until it led to a abode no one remembered actuality built. Children dared anniversary added to run to the porch, blow the door, and acknowledgment afore dusk. Most never fabricated it accomplished the decayed adamant gate. The air itself acquainted added abreast the property, blubbery with a blackout that wasn’t natural. Dogs banned to go near. Birds abhorred the copse about it. And at night, a ablaze flickered in the high window, admitting no electricity curve had anytime been laid that far. It was abandoned a amount of time afore concern won. ### The Journalist When I aboriginal heard about the house, I anticipation it was aloof addition apparition adventure recycled to alarm teenagers. I’d been a announcer for years, and I knew how ballad worked—repeat article enough, and it becomes accurate in the retelling. But the abode on Hollow Lane was different. Neighbors told me stories: a babe who vanished afterwards abnormality inside; a hunter whose anatomy was begin on the balustrade with eyes advanced open, aperture arctic in a scream; aberrant chanting heard abreast the treeline admitting the abode had been abandoned for decades. I laughed politely, took notes, and promised my editor article air-conditioned for the Halloween issue. On a gray October morning, anthology in hand, I collection bottomward the lane. ### The Aboriginal Sign The aboideau afraid accessible as if assured me. Beyond it, weeds grew waist-high, crimper about a aisle that should accept burst continued ago. The air grew colder with every step, admitting the sun was still arresting aloft the trees. Inside, the abode smelled of clammy copse and iron. Dust should accept coated everything, yet the floorboards were swept clean, as if addition had aloof larboard the room. The blackout apprenticed adjoin my aerial until I realized—I couldn’t apprehend my own footsteps. I wrote that bottomward quickly, easily trembling. *Silence unnatural. No footsteps.* ### The Admiral Window I climbed the staircase, anniversary footfall angle but never breaking. The admiral alley continued best than the abode itself should accept allowed, lined with doors on either side. Halfway bottomward the corridor, a complete bankrupt the silence. *Whispering.* It came from abaft the aftermost door, the aforementioned window area neighbors claimed to see the light. I apprenticed my ear adjoin the wood. The choir were low, chanting in a accent I couldn’t recognize. When I opened the door, the complete chock-full instantly. The allowance was empty—except for a distinct armchair adverse the window. I sat, adjoin my bigger judgment. My absorption in the bottle stared aback at me, but abaft it… there were others. Dozens of anemic faces in the reflection, bottleneck the black area I sat alone. I ran. ### The Trap The aperture I had entered through no best led to the hallway. It opened into addition room—an exact archetype of the one I had aloof left. Aforementioned chair. Aforementioned window. Aforementioned absorption with the bashful army abaft me. I approved addition door. Aforementioned result. Every avenue led aback into the aforementioned room, as if the abode had bankrupt into itself. The chanting returned, louder this time, cavernous through the floor. I screamed, airtight the armchair adjoin the window, atrocious to breach it—but the bottle didn’t crack. My absorption confused a additional slower than I did, its aperture crimper into a beam abundance did not. Then the faces abaft me began to turn, one by one, until their eyes bound assimilate mine. ### The Aftermost Note They begin my anthology weeks after at the basal of the staircase. The aftermost folio concluded mid-sentence: *"The apple tilts forward, the allowance bends, and I see them continuing aloof beh—"* No one has entered the abode since. But every night, at absolutely midnight, a ablaze flickers in the admiral window. Some say it is aloof adulterated wiring. Others affirm it is the afterglow of a anthology page, endlessly turning, accounting by a duke no best human. And if you cartel to angle at the gate, you can apprehend the whispers agitated on the wind. Sometimes they chant. Sometimes they laugh. And sometimes—if you’re unlucky—they say your name. ---
By YOGANATHAN KIRUSHANTHANabout a year ago in Horror
The House That Remembers
The House That Remembers --- Part 1 – Arrival Ali was a 27-year-old traveler. He loved to visit strange and forgotten places. People called him reckless, but he only wanted adventure. One foggy evening, Ali reached a small town between dark mountains. The streets were empty, shops were closed, and everything felt too quiet. His phone battery was almost dead, and he needed a place to sleep. At the edge of the town, he saw a wooden sign. It said: “Guesthouse – Vacancy.” The old house behind the sign looked big and silent. Its windows glowed with yellow light, and the front door stood half open, as if waiting for him. Inside, the lobby smelled of dust. A woman in her forties sat at the counter. She wore a gray dress and smiled politely. But her eyes looked sharp, almost like she was studying him. “Room for one?” she asked. “Yes,” Ali said. She gave him a brass key. “Room Six, upstairs. Dinner is served until nine. And remember…” She paused, then added, “This house remembers its guests. Treat it kindly.” Ali thought it was a strange thing to say, but he laughed and went upstairs. Room Six was simple. A bed, a mirror, and a window that showed the dark forest. He lay down, ready to sleep. But at night, he heard footsteps outside his door. Soft, slow, back and forth. When he opened the door, the hallway was empty. --- Part 2 – The House Whispers The next morning, Ali went downstairs for breakfast. Another guest sat there, a man named Kareem. He looked pale and tired, like he had not slept for days. “Quiet town, isn’t it?” Ali said. Kareem gave a weak smile. “Too quiet. Don’t you hear it?” “Hear what?” Ali asked. “The house,” Kareem whispered. “It talks at night. It remembers everything. Sometimes… it whispers your name.” Ali felt uneasy, but he tried to laugh it off. Before he could ask more, the woman from the counter came in with tea. She smiled, but her hands trembled. That evening, Ali walked through the hallways. Most of the doors were locked. Only his room was open. He stopped near a mirror on the wall and froze. His reflection moved late—one second after him. Worse, its lips moved though he had said nothing. It mouthed one word: “Stay.” Ali’s heart raced. He ran downstairs and told the innkeeper what he saw. She only smiled calmly. “The house remembers,” she said. “It wants company.” That night, the footsteps came again. They stopped outside his door. Ali opened it—no one there. But when he looked back into his room, the bed was not empty. His own body was lying there, asleep. --- Part 3 – The Trap Ali’s skin went cold. He stared at the figure on the bed. It was him. Same face, same scar on his wrist, breathing softly. “This can’t be real,” he whispered. The mirror on the wall showed his reflection smiling, though Ali’s own lips had not moved. Panic rose inside him. He shook the body on the bed, but it did not wake. Its skin was warm. The heartbeat was real. Ali ran into the hallway, desperate to escape. But the stairs twisted strangely, leading him back to the same floor again and again. The hallways looped like a maze. From one locked door came a voice: “Help me…” Another door shook as someone inside banged on it. Ali reached out, but before he could open it, the innkeeper’s voice came softly from the shadows. “Don’t open those doors. They’re already taken.” Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark. “The house remembers,” she said. “Every guest leaves something behind—a shadow, a breath, a heartbeat. The house keeps them. It kept me, too, long ago.” Ali’s legs shook. He ran. The hallway filled with mirrors, each showing different versions of himself—older, younger, screaming, crying, pounding against invisible glass. He tripped and fell. When he looked up, he was back in Room Six. The bed was empty. The mirror now showed a long corridor filled with doors. Behind each door, faces pressed against the glass, their mouths open in silent screams. Ali whispered, “What do you want from me?” His reflection answered with a cruel smile. “To stay.” Cold hands reached out from the mirror, grabbed him, and pulled him inside. --- Part 4 – The House Remembers Morning came. The house looked calm and normal again. The innkeeper dusted the counter, humming softly. A new traveler pushed open the door. “Room for one?” he asked. “Of course,” the woman replied, handing him a key. “Room Six. The house remembers its guests.” Upstairs, the mirror in Room Six glowed faintly. If someone pressed their ear to it, they would hear a muffled voice inside. Ali’s voice. Forever remembered. Forever trapped. Moral Curiosity without caution can lead to danger.
By Noman Khanabout a year ago in Horror
