Latest Stories

Most recently published stories in Horror.

When the Mirror Forgets Your Face
The first time the mirror forgot me, I thought it was a trick of the light. I’d come home from a long shift at the bookstore, my hair damp from a sudden autumn storm, my bones carrying the heaviness of rain. The apartment was dark except for the faint orange streetlight bleeding through the kitchen blinds. I didn’t bother turning anything on—just headed to the bathroom, kicked the door shut, and reached for the sink. When I looked up, the glass didn’t show me. No faint outline. No glint in the eye. Just a depthless, solid black. I leaned closer, waiting for the hall light to catch the curve of my cheek or the shine of my wet hair. Instead, the darkness moved. It rippled, as though the mirror’s surface was water and something beneath it had stirred. A pale blur emerged—not a face, exactly, but something that could be mistaken for one in the wrong light. My chest tightened. The bathroom light snapped on with a pop as I hit the switch. My reflection returned instantly, blinking back at me, lips parted in the same half-terrified way. I told myself I’d imagined it. That I’d been staring too long into shadows and given them permission to become something else. --- The second time was worse. Two nights later, I caught the thing smiling at me from inside the glass. It wasn’t my smile. I was brushing my teeth, watching my own hands work automatically, when the reflection hesitated. Just a flicker—barely a second. My mouth on the other side of the mirror twitched upward in a slow, crooked grin, even though I was standing still. I dropped the toothbrush. The grin widened, too wide, until the lips looked ready to split. And then it stopped, returning to perfect mimicry, as if nothing had happened. That night, I covered the mirror with an old sheet. --- Three days later, I woke to a dripping sound. It was steady and deliberate, like the kind of leaky faucet that waits until the house is silent to announce itself. I padded barefoot to the bathroom. The sheet was gone. The mirror stood uncovered, its edges beaded with moisture that trickled down to the sink. The air smelled like pond water—stagnant, metallic. Something was pressing against the inside of the glass. It was a hand—skin white and wrinkled, nails cracked and rimmed in black. It left long, wet streaks as it dragged its fingers down, slow enough that I could hear the squeak of skin on glass. My breath fogged the surface. I don’t know why I spoke, but I did. “What are you?” The glass pulsed, a ripple radiating outward as though my words had been dropped into it like a stone. And then the thing leaned closer, until only the faint blur of its face filled the mirror. Its features were wrong—soft where they should be sharp, blurred where they should be clear. I could barely make out the eyes, but I knew they were fixed on me. Its mouth moved. The sound came from mine. “You were supposed to be me.” --- I woke on the bathroom floor. The mirror was dry, reflecting only my own wide-eyed face. But the smell of pond water clung to the air, and my skin prickled with the memory of cold glass. I should have smashed it then. Instead, I left the bathroom and closed the door. The next morning, the mirror was gone. Not broken. Not stolen. Gone. The wall where it had hung was bare plaster, smooth and unblemished, as if no mirror had ever been there. I tried to breathe, to convince myself it was over. But that night, I caught my reflection in the dark screen of my television—and it didn’t blink when I did. --- Now, every reflective surface feels wrong. The back of a spoon shows my mouth moving half a beat late. My phone’s selfie camera sometimes freezes while I’m still smiling, holding an expression I’m no longer making. Storefront windows flicker with shapes standing just behind my shoulder. I don’t know what the thing is. I don’t know if it’s one thing or many. I only know it’s watching, learning, practicing. And I think—no, I’m sure—it’s getting better at being me. If you ever notice your reflection acting strangely, look away. Don’t let it know you’ve seen the difference. Because once it realizes you’ve noticed… …it will try to take your place.
By Sahir E Shafqatabout a year ago in Horror
The Letters from the Watcher: Westfield’s Suburban Nightmare. Content Warning.
Six bedrooms. A sprawling lawn. A quiet, tree-lined street in one of New Jersey’s safest towns. In June 2014, Derek and Maria Broaddus closed on 657 Boulevard in Westfield for \$1.3 million. They’d worked for years to give their three children this life — the kind of neighborhood where nothing bad ever happens. Or so they thought.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
The Girl in the Elevator: The Haunting of the Cecil Hotel. Content Warning.
Built in 1924 in the heart of downtown Los Angeles, the Cecil began as a glamorous stop for travelers. Marble floors, gilded fixtures, and a grand lobby that promised prosperity. But over the decades, the dream curdled. The hotel’s location—just blocks from Skid Row—and its reputation for crime and suicide drew the broken, the desperate, and the dangerous. Serial killer Richard Ramirez, the Night Stalker, once called it home. Austrian murderer Jack Unterweger followed years later. By 2013, the Cecil’s name was synonymous with death. And then came the case of Elisa Lam—a mystery that would cement the hotel’s infamy. The Disappearance Elisa Lam, a 21-year-old Canadian student, arrived in Los Angeles on January 26, 2013. She was traveling alone, posting regularly to her Tumblr blog—her entries a blend of personal thoughts, photos, and literary quotes. She checked into the Cecil, initially sharing a hostel-style room. Within days, she was moved to a private room after her roommates complained about her “odd behavior.” On January 31, Elisa failed to call her parents as planned. She missed check-out. She was gone.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
The Day I Quit My Job Without a Plan
I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even think about it for more than a few seconds. One moment I was staring at my computer screen, pretending to work, and the next, I was typing my resignation letter. No job offer waiting, no backup plan, no neat little safety net — just a sudden, unshakable certainty that I couldn’t stay another day. Some choices are made with careful strategy. This one was made with a pounding heart and sweaty palms.
By Enric Millyabout a year ago in Horror
The House That Remembers
The House That Remembers When Claire’s grandmother died, she left her an old Victorian house on the edge of town — the kind of place that made strangers stop and stare. Faded blue shutters, tall arched windows, a wraparound porch that creaked with every step.
By Muhammad aliabout a year ago in Horror
A Final Dance With Death
“We were all angels, once,” Morteziel says wistfully. A mere shadow of her former self, golden wings blackened by what she’s become: Death, one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. The horse she sits on is white, pale as- well, her. How I hate the dark cowl that obscures her face, hides her silver hair that shines with moonlight.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Horror
Stranger Things Season 5
The highly anticipated fifth and final season of *Stranger Things* is set to conclude the beloved sci-fi horror saga with an explosive, emotional, and action-packed finale. With a star-studded cast, an expanded mythology of the Upside Down, and a climactic battle against Vecna, Season 5 promises to be the biggest and most ambitious installment yet. Below, we break down everything we know so far—from the release schedule and plot details to new characters and behind-the-scenes secrets.
By Danyal Hashmiabout a year ago in Horror
The Camera
Susan listened to her husband’s voicemail, as she was calling him for the 100th time. Or she thought it was. Susan couldn’t really remember anymore. All she knew was that she wanted to hear his voice.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
The Night a Stranger Saved My Life
The Night a Stranger Saved My Life When an ordinary train ride turned into something I’ll never forget It was 11:42 p.m. when I boarded the last train home. The station felt like it had been abandoned hours ago—only a couple was arguing softly near a vending machine, their words half-swallowed by the hum of fluorescent lights, and an elderly man sat on a bench tossing crumbs to pigeons who weren’t even there. The air was damp with that late-night chill that seeps into your bones, and I remember thinking, This feels like a scene from a dream.
By Muhammad aliabout a year ago in Horror
The Ghost Who Was Bad at Haunting
The legend of the Brambleton Farmhouse was known far and wide. Locals whispered of “The Specter of Room 3”, a pale figure that appeared in the dead of night to frighten intruders into madness.
By Atif khurshaidabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers in the Dark Nebula
By the year 2137, humanity had pushed far beyond the confines of the Solar System. The research vessel Aegis was sent to investigate the Vela Nebula—a vast cosmic cloud known for its intense radiation and mysterious anomalies. The mission: to uncover the source of strange energy readings that had baffled astronomers for decades.
By Razu Islam – Lifestyle & Futuristic Writerabout a year ago in Horror
"The Last Knock"
Ali stepped off the last bus of the night, the chilly wind whispering through the empty streets. He clutched his coat tighter and glanced at his phone — 11:53 PM. The streetlights flickered, casting strange patterns on the cracked road. His home was only ten minutes away, but tonight, the silence felt heavier.
By Janalamabout a year ago in Horror