Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
The Pollock Twins: Reincarnation Evidence?
The Screech of Tires On a quiet street in Hexham, England, May 5, 1957, life was ordinary. Two sisters; Joanna, 11, and Jacqueline Pollock, 6... skipped along the cobblestones on their way to church. Their mother walked behind, her heart full of the simple joys of a spring morning. Then came the screech of tires. A car, driven by a local woman in a daze, veered toward the girls. The mother screamed. Neighbors would later swear time slowed down before the impact. And in a blink, the lives of the Pollock family were torn apart.
By Veil of Shadowsabout a year ago in Horror
Part one: don't look into the mirror. Content Warning.
The diner was buzzing with the sounds of laughter and bacon sizzling on the grill. The smell of coffee and fried eggs flooded her senses. The bell sounded as every new patron entered through the front door. “How are you today?” She heard the hostess say at the front of the diner.
By Jasmine McClainabout a year ago in Horror
Room 13 Doesn’t Exist
It was raining sideways when I arrived at the Halcyon Grand Hotel. As the cab left, sheets of water blurred the neon sign and left me soaked and somewhat worried. Old and gracefully crumbling, the Halcyon had secrets, leather, and dust smells.
By Afaq Mughalabout a year ago in Horror
The Monster in Mirror Town — A Fair Turned Nightmare"
Every summer, Mirror Town hosted the grandest fair in the entire valley. Ferris wheels spun under starlit skies, popcorn perfumed the air, and laughter echoed through the narrow cobbled streets. But this year’s fair was different. This year, the monster returned.
By saqib rehmanabout a year ago in Horror
The Whispers Beneath Black Hollow
Black Hollow had been abandoned for nearly forty years, its twisted trees and rotted cabins a grim reminder of a town that vanished without a trace. Locals in the neighboring county warned hikers to stay away, claiming the place was cursed—filled with whispers that didn’t belong to the wind. Of course, stories like that only attracted people like Noah. Noah Chandler was a self-proclaimed urban explorer and horror vlogger, eager to capture genuine terror for his YouTube channel. He wasn’t afraid of ghost stories or superstitions. With a GoPro strapped to his chest and a drone hovering overhead, he crossed into Black Hollow at dusk, ignoring the rusted “KEEP OUT” signs nailed to trees like forgotten warnings. He began with the old church, its steeple collapsed and stained-glass windows shattered. Inside, warped pews sat in splinters, and mildew coated the pulpit. He panned his flashlight across the altar and whispered into his mic, “Welcome to your worst nightmare.” The church answered with a low groan, the wood shifting as though it breathed. Noah smirked. “Nice touch.” He moved on, entering what remained of the town square. The silence was absolute—no birds, no wind, not even the buzzing of insects. It was like nature itself had disowned the place. That’s when he first heard it. A whisper. Not quite a voice, not quite wind. Just behind him. He spun around. No one. He checked his mic. Static crackled faintly in his earpiece. Then another whisper: “Noah…” His blood chilled. He hadn’t told anyone his exact location. He rationalized—someone found his channel, maybe followed him here. A prank? A stalker? He drew his flashlight like a weapon and called out, “Who’s there?” The only answer was laughter—dry, distant, childlike. He followed the sound to the old schoolhouse. The double doors creaked open at his touch, revealing desks overturned and chalk dust floating through the air like ash. Faint scribbles were still visible on the blackboard: “Do Not Listen to Them.” “We Belong to the Hollow Now.” Suddenly, his drone feed on his phone glitched. The screen went dark, then flashed a still image: him standing in front of the church—but something stood behind him. A tall, emaciated figure with eyes like black lanterns and a mouth far too wide, stretched in an eternal scream. Then the screen went black again. Noah’s breath came fast and ragged. He started to back out of the schoolhouse, but the doors slammed shut. Whispers erupted all around him—dozens, hundreds, all speaking at once in unintelligible fragments. Some cried. Some laughed. Some begged for help. And one repeated his name. Over and over. "Noah. Noah. Noah. Noah" He screamed, hurling his flashlight at the blackboard. The room blinked—literally blinked—going dark for a second, then returning, but something had changed. The desks were back in place. Children sat at them. But their faces were blank. No eyes. No mouths. Just smooth, pale skin. One of them stood and walked toward him. As it neared, its face began to peel, slowly revealing a wide, wet grin and lidless eyes. “Time to listen,” it whispered. Noah bolted. He burst through a window and ran. Trees clawed at him. Shadows moved between trunks like predators circling prey. His camera chest strap caught on a branch and tore free, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even notice he was bleeding until he tripped and landed in a shallow ravine. At the bottom, he heard it again. “Time to listen.” He turned—and saw himself. His exact double, clothes and all, standing over him. Except its eyes were empty pits, and its mouth hung open, unhinged like a snake’s. From its mouth, a thousand whispers spilled. Noah tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed. They never found his body. Only the drone, stuck in a tree, and a livestream video that went viral for all the wrong reasons. Viewers swore they could still hear whispers in the background, calling for someone else. “Come to Black Hollow.” “It’s your turn to listen.”
By Tayyab Khanabout a year ago in Horror
The City That Forgets
Every morning in the village of Nareth, people awoke to the same terrifying truth: they remembered nothing of the day before. Names were forgotten. Faces unfamiliar. Even their own reflections sparked confusion. The entire town was caught in a relentless cycle of amnesia, cursed to forget each sunset’s story by the time dawn arrived.
By subah alenziabout a year ago in Horror
Her Reflection Moved First
Mira bought the mirror at a thrift store on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. It was tall, antique, and surrounded by a tarnished brass frame carved with roses. The tag read: "Victorian. Hand-carved. $40." A steal. She had just moved into a new apartment downtown and wanted something elegant for the hallway. It felt like fate.
By Solene Hartabout a year ago in Horror
Just Another Dead Girl Underwater. Content Warning.
Trigger Warning: implications of death, violence and sexual harassment By the time the fisherman finds me, I will have been dead for thirty-three hours, six minutes, and twenty-nine seconds. Eighteen hours since the police declared me missing. Fifteen hours since Zoe told my biology teacher that my tent was empty, that I hadn’t returned from the party we’d snuck out to the night before. Careful, quiet, every twig a possible snitch. It was exhilarating, our hearts pounding, the smell of pine and seaweed thick in the air, and the moon a perfectly curved sickle.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Horror
Sack of Bones
Content Warning: brief mentions of chilf abuse and domestic violence. I can’t tell if the yowling’s for the dead or the heat. It’s cicada hiss and lawn mower growl hot—so hot, it’s disrespectful. But as Dad shovels dirt over Papa, I’m cold. I can't cry, and it feels like sin.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Horror
A Journey Into the Death of Us All
A cup of coffee fills to the brim of the steel mug and scrapes across the metal table as the robot arm passes it to you. Across the table in front of you is the AI Detective, who has a list of questions and will record your answers. The AI Detective has a TV screen and 4 fingered hands, arms, and feet that retract back into its box structure. When looking directly at the screen, there are tiny lights on the outer rim of the screen able to project or cause any image to trick your brain into hallucinating what the Detective wants you to see.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Horror
