Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
The House That Remembers
In a quiet village, far from the city noise, stood an old and broken house. The walls were cracked, the windows were covered in dust, and the doors creaked in the wind. No one lived there for years. People said the house was cursed. They believed that something evil lived inside. Most villagers never even walked near it. But no one knew the full truth—until Detective Amir came to the village.
By Hamza Tahirabout a year ago in Horror
Imagine Transcendence
The cool blues and grays of the monitor screen painted Lisa’s tired face, reflecting another hour lost scrolling through an endless, bland expanse of generic stock photos. Each sterile image felt less like potential and more like a tiny, suffocating box, a visual echo of the creative and financial constraints pressing in on her. The rent was a looming shadow, freelance gigs felt like distant mirages, and her creative well felt not just dry, but actively parched, cracked earth under a relentless sun. But beneath the surface of this everyday struggle, there was a deeper, more profound ache. A hunger for something *more*. A yearning for transcendence, for beauty that wasn't commodified or diluted, for a connection that felt utterly lacking in her current, mundane reality. She felt tethered, not just by finances, but by the sheer, uninspiring weight of the ordinary world, longing for a glimpse of something impossible, something that pulsed with genuine life and meaning, something that mirrored a hidden, unexpressed part of herself.
By Maxim Dudkoabout a year ago in Horror
The Hollow Beneath the Pines. AI-Generated.
It was the summer of 2012 when I visited a remote village in southern France with my cousin Adrien. The kind of place where phones lose signal, and time slows down to match the hum of crickets. At the edge of the village stood an ancient pine forest, rumored by locals to be “cursed.” They called it La Forêt Creuse—The Hollow Forest. Of course, we laughed it off. At seventeen, curses were just stories meant to keep kids indoors. But I’ve never quite laughed about it since. The path into the forest wasn’t marked on any map. It began behind a crumbling chapel, covered in ivy and shadowed by trees that looked like they hadn’t moved in a hundred years. As soon as we stepped under the canopy, everything changed. The air turned colder—dense, almost wet. Even the sound of our footsteps became muffled, like we were walking on memory foam instead of dry leaves. I noticed quickly that the trees leaned oddly toward each other, like they were whispering secrets above our heads. The light dimmed the further we walked, even though it was mid-afternoon. The forest was beautiful in a wild way—but it also felt… wrong. Not terrifying. Just quietly unsettling. Like the place knew we didn’t belong there. We kept walking until we came across a wide, circular clearing. At the center stood an old well, overgrown with vines, its stone rim cracked in places. It didn’t look used in years. Around it, the grass had died in a perfect ring, like something had sucked the life out of the earth. There was no sound—not even birdsong. That silence was the first thing that truly made me uneasy. Adrien, ever the adventurous one, leaned over the well’s edge with a smirk. “Probably full of bones,” he joked, his voice sounding too loud. I told him to knock it off. But then he froze. “You hear that?” he whispered. At first, I didn’t. Then I did. A faint knocking sound, like someone tapping wood from deep below. It was rhythmic—slow, then fast, then stopping altogether. We stood motionless. The sound returned again, sharper this time. Not an echo. Not a bird. Not wind. Something was down there. We didn’t stick around. We walked—fast—back through the trees. Neither of us said much until we made it back to the chapel. The sun had already dipped lower in the sky, and I swear the air felt warmer the moment we left the forest behind. Adrien laughed nervously, trying to play it off, but I could see it in his eyes—he felt it too. That well wasn’t just old stone. It was watching. Later that evening, we asked Adrien’s grandfather about the forest. He grew serious immediately. “People used to go there,” he said quietly. “They stopped.” We pressed him for more, but he just shook his head. “Some places are not yours to understand.” That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing that knocking sound in my head. I even had a dream—though it felt more like a memory. In it, I stood at the edge of the well, and a voice whispered from below: “Dig deeper.” The next morning, Adrien insisted we go back—this time with a flashlight. I refused. Something in my gut told me the forest didn’t want us a second time. He went anyway. I waited for hours, pacing along the chapel wall. When he finally returned, his face was pale. He didn’t say a word. Just handed me his flashlight. Inside were scratch marks—long, deliberate lines gouged into the plastic handle. They hadn’t been there when we bought it. He never told me what he saw that day. Years later, I still think about that trip. I’ve since grown my own garden—vegetables mostly—and I often think of the way roots grow beneath the surface. Twisting through darkness, searching for something. That forest felt the same way. Like it was alive, but underground. Stretching, remembering. I’ve learned since then that every old place has its version of La Forêt Creuse. A hollow space where history hums and waits to be uncovered. Sometimes I wonder—was it a real mystery we found that day? Or just the part of ourselves that wants to believe something strange is always watching? Whatever it was, I never went back. And I never will.
By Sherooz khanabout a year ago in Horror
Error 93
Mira Collins wasn’t superstitious, but she was broke—and fascinated by secondhand tech. She found the listing late one night: a near-mint, high-performance laptop for less than a third of its usual price. The seller insisted on meeting in person and only accepted cash. His name wasn’t listed. Just a message: “Don’t use it after midnight.”
By Atif khurshaidabout a year ago in Horror
The Quiet Room
Emily and Dan Morgan moved into the old Victorian house on a whim. It was a steal, really. Everyone told them the same thing: “It’s too cheap to be true.” But the realtor had smiled tightly and offered vague reassurances. "Old houses just want to feel lived in again," she’d said.
By Atif khurshaidabout a year ago in Horror
Bloody Business Cards. AI-Generated.
Alfredo Galán was always unremarkable. Born in the small town of Puertollano, Spain, he blended into the background of life. As a child, he showed no remarkable talents or inclinations—he was quiet, introverted, and always on the fringes of every group. His classmates remembered him not for his brilliance or charm, but for his stillness, a silence that few ever questioned.
By ADIR SEGALabout a year ago in Horror
The Forgotten Name
The villagers of Eldhollow spoke of the old mansion only in whispers. Perched at the edge of the woods, half-swallowed by ivy and mist, it was said to be cursed. No one had lived there for decades—not since the last of the Greve family vanished without a trace.
By Muhammmad Zain Ul Hassanabout a year ago in Horror
The Serpent Within Her. AI-Generated.
In the shadow of the Ashkar hills, where winds spoke in forgotten tongues and trees whispered ancient truths, there lived a woman named Shaiba. She did not belong to any tribe nor carried a surname. People said she came from the wind—silent, strange, and scarred. But the truth was darker. Shaiba carried a serpent inside her. Not in her dreams. Not in her mind. But in her flesh and blood. It slithered beneath her ribs, coiled behind her heart, and curled in her womb. She could feel its cold scales pressing against her insides. At night, it moved. At dawn, it slept. No one believed her, not at first. --- The Arrival Shaiba arrived at the village of Madur barefoot and alone. Her eyes were rimmed with soot, her voice no louder than breath. She wore a black veil and spoke in a dialect none understood—Humaiz, the lost language of her ancestors. It was a tongue that had died in the mouths of the hills but lived on in her lips. Children mocked her: "Zairh ki jibh bolti hai yeh." (She speaks the tongue of poison.) But the elders watched in silence. They had heard of the snake-women. Legends that were told only in hushed tones by dying firelight. A woman who once defied a mountain god and was cursed to carry his breath—his serpent-son—forever inside her. Shaiba never denied it. One night, she whispered to herself in Humaiz: "Dahran, shabta tuni. Naa'rah sha li-hashim." (Dahran, be silent. This body is not your home.) But the serpent only stirred louder. --- Signs of the Curse Strange things began to happen. Milk turned sour in her presence. Wells dried where she walked. Birds fell from the sky when she screamed in her sleep. And once, a dog barked at her shadow and dropped dead. The villagers grew restless. They blamed her for the sudden fever that spread. For the child born with a forked tongue. For the cracks that appeared in the temple floor. They came to her hut with torches and spit curses at her door. But she stood at the threshold, pale and calm, eyes glowing gold in the torchlight. She said only one thing, in Humaiz: "Hadarni si-Dahran. Ash'ta li'ma." (Hurt me, and he shall awaken.) The flames dimmed. The air thickened. And the men dropped their torches and ran. --- The Scholar A traveler named Ehan, a folklore scholar, came to the village seeking the truth. He had studied ancient dialects and heard rumors of the woman with the living curse. When he met Shaiba, she looked through him as if she already knew. He stayed in the village for weeks, documenting her chants, translating her words, watching the subtle movements beneath her skin—like the ripple of a snake just beneath silk. One night, he heard her cry out, and ran to her hut. She was lying on the floor, her back arched, her mouth open in a scream. From her throat came not words, but hisses. Her stomach bulged unnaturally, writhing as if something inside was trying to escape. Ehan backed away, whispering: "What are you…?" Through clenched teeth, Shaiba spoke in Humaiz: "Ishnah. Zairh si-dak. Ha’reem si'lan." (I am the temple. The poison is not mine. He is my prisoner.) Then she passed out. --- The Awakening The final night came with a blood moon. The sky bled red. The air stank of burnt flowers. The serpent had grown restless. Shaiba’s body could no longer contain it. She walked to the sacred lake of Larak, where the mountain's reflection shimmered in the crimson water. The villagers followed her from afar, afraid yet unable to look away. She stood at the edge, arms outstretched, and spoke in full Humaiz: "Dahran... lash'kin tu sha'ra. Lah'ra min jism. Na'sha lin." (Dahran... release thy grip. Depart from this flesh. Let me sleep.) Her body convulsed. Her mouth opened wider than humanly possible. And from within her, a massive black serpent, thick as a tree trunk, poured out like ink. It glowed gold at the eyes and hissed like the wind itself. It slithered into the lake without harming anyone, disappearing beneath the red reflection. Shaiba collapsed, breathless but alive. --- The Legend Lives Shaiba survived. For the first time, her body was hers. She spoke less, but her voice was steady. Her eyes no longer glowed. And the whispers stopped. Ehan left behind a scroll—an account of the events, written in both Humaiz and the modern tongue. He called it “The Vessel and the Curse.” It is now kept in a locked chamber at the Institute of Arcane Folklore. Some say the serpent still sleeps in the lake. Others believe it returned to the mountains, waiting for another vessel. As for Shaiba, she vanished one night under a sky full of stars. But if you walk through Madur and listen closely to the wind, you might still hear: "Naa’rah sha li-hashim." (This body is not your home.)
By Solene Hartabout a year ago in Horror
''Ghosted by a Dead Man''
By [ISRAR khan] I met Elias on a Thursday in April, the kind of day that smells like rain even when the sky is clear. We were both waiting in line for overpriced espresso at a pop-up café in Brooklyn. He wore a charcoal coat and a crooked smile, and when he spoke, his voice had the kind of depth you feel in your chest. Our conversation started with coffee preferences and ended with a dinner date. It was fast, but something about Elias felt like a rewind button — like I'd known him in another life. Over the next three months, we were inseparable. We had our routines: Tuesday night wine at his apartment, Saturday mornings at the used bookstore on 7th, lazy Sundays walking without direction. He told me his mother was a pianist who died young, his father an absent man with a drinking problem. He rarely talked about his past in detail, but when he did, it came out in scattered puzzle pieces. Elias didn’t have social media. No Instagram, no Facebook, not even a LinkedIn page. “I like to keep my life analog,” he said once. I laughed, but it left an odd taste in my mouth. Then one day — he disappeared. It started with a missed text reply. Then a full day. Then three. Calls went to voicemail. His apartment was locked, no answer when I knocked. I assumed the worst, then hoped for the best. Maybe he just needed space. Maybe it was me. After two weeks, I gave up. And then I did something I hadn’t before — I Googled him. The search results hit me like a punch to the gut. Elias Monroe, 29, died in a car accident in 2020. There was a photo. Same eyes, same jawline. Same lopsided smile. But that was impossible. I had met Elias in 2025. I double-checked the obituary. The article said he had been a poet. Lived in Brooklyn. Same bookstore we visited. Same street he said he lived on. The funeral was held in May—five years ago. For a week, I didn’t leave my apartment. I told no one. I thought maybe I had been tricked. Maybe someone was impersonating him. But there was no social media trail, no paper trail, nothing. Elias Monroe, as I had known him, had vanished — and legally, had already been gone for half a decade. Then things got stranger. One evening, I came home to find a note on my kitchen table. I live alone. It was written in his handwriting. “Don’t look for me. Just remember.” I should have felt fear. Instead, I cried. For the first time since he vanished, I let it hit me — the weight of loving someone who might not have ever really existed. But he had. I knew he had. I remembered the warmth of his hand, the rhythm of his laugh, the way he always turned his head to the left before saying something serious. I started to notice the signs. A record on the turntable I hadn’t played in months, spinning slowly when I woke up. A book left open to the page he once read aloud. The scent of his cologne hanging in the air like a question. Maybe grief plays tricks. Or maybe the veil between life and whatever comes after is thinner than we like to believe. I don't tell many people this story. The ones I have either think I made it up, or worse, think I'm still lost in denial. But I know what I felt. And sometimes, when the city quiets down around 2 AM, I feel him again — like a memory brushing against the present. Some people say being ghosted is the worst kind of pain. The absence. The lack of closure. I was ghosted — literally — by a dead man. And somehow, that’s how I know he loved me. Author’s Note: Some people leave quietly. Others leave impossibly. And some... never truly leave at all.
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Horror
