Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
''Don't Answer the Second Knock''
When you grow up in a house like mine, you learn the rules early. My grandmother wrote them down in a little leather journal with brittle pages and faded ink. But the most important one wasn’t written down—it was spoken, whispered, drilled into our heads. “Never answer the second knock.” Not the first knock. That was fine. That was normal. Pizza delivery, mailman, neighbor kid selling fundraiser chocolate—safe. But the second knock? That meant something else entirely. I was twelve when I first heard it. My parents were out. I was home with my older brother, Jason. We were watching a horror movie, the kind that ends with one person standing and everyone else dead or worse. We were halfway through when someone knocked at the front door. A solid, polite knock. We both froze. Jason looked at me and said, “You hear that?” “Yeah.” We crept to the door, as kids do when they’re trying to be brave. He peered through the peephole. “No one there,” he muttered. I stepped up. Nothing. Just our porch light flickering against the empty driveway. We both stood there, not speaking. Waiting. Knock. Knock. The second knock came—louder this time. Heavier. Slower. Like someone knocking not with their knuckles, but with something…thicker. Jason jumped back like he’d been burned. “That’s the second knock,” he whispered. And then, like a switch had flipped, he grabbed my arm and yanked me away from the door. “Upstairs. Now.” We locked ourselves in the bathroom, not saying anything. I asked him, over and over, what it meant, but he wouldn’t answer. He just sat there, pale as bone, arms wrapped around his knees like a kid half his age. Later, after my parents came home, Jason told them what happened. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t accuse us of lying. Dad just nodded slowly. “Good. You didn’t answer.” Years passed. I moved away, tried to forget the old rules. But some things stay with you. Last fall, I came back to the house. My parents had retired to Florida, and I was only in town to handle some paperwork, clean the place up, maybe sell it. It was strange being back. The wallpaper was peeling. The stairs creaked louder than I remembered. But the rules? They still lived in the air like dust. I stayed one night. Just one. It was raining, the kind of rain that sounds like fingers tapping the windows. I was in the living room, sipping tea, scrolling through my phone when I heard it. Knock. My heart did a slow, cold somersault. I stood up. Moved to the door. Looked through the peephole. No one. Just the storm. And then— Knock. Knock. Lower. Slower. Like someone was drawing their hand through something thick and wet, then letting it fall against the wood. I backed away. Every hair on my arms standing at attention. That’s when I remembered something my grandmother said. Not in the journal—but in her voice, years ago, when I was barely old enough to understand: “It knocks twice because it wants you to open it. The first knock is permission. The second is invitation.” I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the hallway, staring at the door, waiting for a third knock that never came. It’s been six months. I don’t live in that house anymore. I never went back. But last week, in my apartment three states away, it happened again. Knock. I knew that knock. It was friendly. Casual. Familiar. I stood still. Didn’t breathe. And then: Knock. Knock. I looked through the peephole. There was someone there this time. Not a monster. Not a ghost. Just a man in a delivery uniform, holding a clipboard. Except… His mouth was too wide. His smile didn’t touch his eyes. And his eyes—God—they didn’t blink. I didn’t open the door. He waited. Five minutes. Ten. Then he turned and walked away. But his feet didn’t make any sound. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what happens if you answer the second knock. But I do know this: Wherever I go, it follows. It will find me again. And someday, I might not be strong enough to resist. So if you’re home alone, and you hear it— One knock. Then another. Please. Don’t answer the second knock.
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Horror
The King’s Tail and the Fox’s Tale
By: [Aftab khan] Once upon a not-so-distant time in the thick forests of Ranban, there lived Leo the Lion, the self-declared King of All Beasts. Leo had everything a royal jungle lion could ask for — a flowing golden mane, a deep royal growl, and a collection of shiny rocks he believed were actual treasures.
By AFTAB KHANabout a year ago in Horror
The Throng in the Fog
The village of Black Hollow sat nestled in a forgotten valley, cut off by thick woods and curling hills that swallowed sunlight by mid-afternoon. Its people were wary, tight-lipped, and superstitious — especially about the fog. It rolled in every seven years. Always on the same night. They called it The Gathering Night. At first, it appeared harmless — a low blanket of silver mist creeping along the fields and paths, flowing into cracks beneath doors and windows. But the old ones knew better. When the fog came, so did the throng. No one who saw them survived long enough to describe them. But everyone remembered the screams. --- Eliora Graye never believed in village tales. At twenty-two, she had returned from the city after her father’s death, determined to sell the old cottage and never look back. Her childhood had been marked by whispered warnings, deadbolts, and strange symbols carved into doors. Her father had called them protections. She had called them madness. The night the fog returned, Eliora stood on the porch, sipping tea, amused by the villagers rushing indoors and hammering their shutters. “Primitive fear,” she muttered, watching the first tendrils of mist curl around her boots. The air grew colder. The wind stopped. And then came the sound — a low, rhythmic thump… thump… like many feet marching in perfect sync, far off but getting closer. She set her cup down. That’s when the lights went out. --- Inside, the house felt smaller in the dark. She lit a candle, the flame flickering as if shivering. She reached for her phone. No signal. She wasn’t surprised. A creak on the back porch. Then another. She wasn’t alone. She turned slowly, candle in hand, and through the fogged glass of the back window, she saw them. Dozens — no, hundreds — of tall, thin shapes. Humanoid, but not human. Their limbs were too long, their movements twitchy, as if they were marionettes pulled by invisible strings. They didn’t walk. They jerked forward, pausing in perfect unison, then twitching again. Their faces… if they had faces… were hidden beneath gray, tight hoods. But from each one’s chest, something pulsed — red and glowing like a heartbeat made of flame. The throng had arrived. Eliora backed away, heart pounding. One of them raised its head — no eyes, no mouth — just a blank oval of skin. And yet, she felt it see her. She ran to the front door. Locked. She tried the windows — nailed shut, just like her father always kept them. Then she remembered the cellar. --- The cellar was colder than the outside. Old boxes, rusted tools, and the smell of mold filled her nose as she slammed the door shut and bolted it. She crouched behind a workbench, candle trembling in her hand. The thump-thump-thump of feet came again, this time right above her. Then silence. Then whispers. Dozens of voices murmuring in unison, unintelligible but urgent, like a ritual chant spoken backward. The candle flickered… and went out. She froze. A floorboard creaked above her. Another behind her. They were in the house. But the cellar door was locked. She held her breath. She could hear them pacing, jerking, whispering. Then came a new sound: scratching. Not on the door — on the walls. They were inside the walls. She backed away, but something grabbed her ankle. She screamed, kicking wildly, but the grip was like steel. She looked down and saw a pale, fingerless hand rising from the dirt floor beneath her. Another hand followed. Then another. They weren’t just in the walls. They were under the house. And they were rising. She clawed at the stairs, scrambling up as the cellar door shuddered. The lock snapped open, not from force — but because something wanted her to come up. She paused. And that’s when she remembered her father's words, long ago: > "If the throng ever comes, don’t run. Don’t hide. Stay still. Don’t breathe." But it was too late. A tall figure stood in the open door, its chest glowing red, the others swarming behind it. Eliora screamed. --- The next morning, the fog lifted. The villagers opened their doors slowly, eyes wary. The throng had come and gone. And Eliora Graye’s cottage was empty. The door wide open. Her tea still on the porch — cold. Inside, nothing remained. Except a fresh carving in the wood above the fireplace: "Thirty-one gathered. One joined." --- In Black Hollow, the fog always takes what it’s owed.
By Muhammad Bilalabout a year ago in Horror
The Echoes of Black Hollow
The villagers of Black Hollow had long whispered of the thundering nights—when the hills moaned and the earth trembled like something ancient stirred deep beneath. But those were just stories. Warnings old folks passed to children huddled near the fireplace. That is, until the night the throng returned. It started with the birds. They vanished. No calls at dawn. No flutters in the trees. The forest fell into a strange silence that pulsed through the air like a held breath. Then came the fog—thick, dark, and churning as if alive. It rolled down from the mountain’s mouth, swallowing fields, barns, and fences in a cold, creeping hush. Thomas Hale, the village’s reclusive watchman, had seen it before—once, as a boy, when the ground had cracked open behind his father’s barn. No one had believed his stories of shadows with claws and whispers that clawed inside his head. He had carried the memory like a scar, waiting for the day it returned. That night, the tremors began. Not the soft quivers of an earthquake—but deep, rhythmic thuds like marching. Boom… boom… boom. The ground trembled with every beat. Dust rose from floorboards. Windows rattled in their panes. And then came the sound—deep and layered, like a thousand voices chanting in a language never meant for human ears. The villagers poured into the streets, eyes wide, some clutching lanterns, others crosses. Children screamed. Dogs whimpered and fled. Thomas knew: the Throng was rising. He shouted for people to return to their homes, but it was too late. From the forest, black silhouettes emerged—twisted, tall, with antlers and bones protruding like armor. Their movements were synchronized, fluid, almost graceful. But their faces… if they had faces… were voids. Swirling dark pits of hunger. “Back! Get back!” Thomas yelled, raising his old hunting rifle. But bullets wouldn’t help. He knew that. A creature stepped forward, towering above the crowd, its breath a cloud of frost. In its hand was a staff made of intertwined spines, topped with a flickering red flame. Around it, the Throng formed a circle and began to chant. An old woman, Margaret, collapsed to her knees, eyes glazed. Her voice joined the chant, mouth moving on its own. “It’s the Binding,” Thomas muttered. “They’re awakening the Hollow.” Suddenly, the earth split open in the center of the square. A sickening stench of rot and soil rose as a chasm spread, revealing a staircase descending into blackness. The Throng began to file down, one by one. Thomas had to make a choice. Flee or follow. And he knew the answer. Clutching a rusted lantern, he stepped into the chasm. The deeper he went, the louder the whispers became. Not just in his ears—but in his mind. They offered him visions: promises of power, knowledge, eternity. All we want… is the old world back, they said. Let us show you. He stumbled upon a chamber lit by glowing veins in the rock. In the center was a monolith—an obsidian tower covered in ancient symbols. Around it, the Throng danced, clawed hands raised. Then he saw her—Anna. His daughter. Lost in the forest ten years ago. Standing at the base of the monolith, eyes glowing faintly. “Dad?” she whispered. Thomas froze. “Anna?” “They brought me back. They said they would bring us all back. If we help them awaken the Gate.” “The Gate?” he asked, heart pounding. She nodded slowly. “To the other side. The before place.” Realization hit like a hammer. The Throng weren’t just monsters. They were the remnants of something older—something that had ruled long before mankind and was now trying to return. With Anna as their key. “No,” Thomas said, backing away. “You’re not her. You’re not my daughter.” Her smile widened, unnatural. “But I remember everything. I am her… and more.” He raised the lantern. Inside, a single match remained. The oil was nearly gone. He had one chance. He flung it at the monolith. The explosion ripped through the chamber. Fire spread. The Throng screeched in unison, twisting in agony. The walls trembled. Stones fell. As Thomas tried to run, the chamber began to collapse. Outside, in the village, the fog lifted. The earth stopped shaking. People emerged from homes, silent and shaken. They never found Thomas Hale. But they say on certain foggy nights, you can hear his voice—echoing from deep underground. Warning them. Because the Throng may have fallen… …but the Gate was never fully closed. --- End.
By Muhammad Bilalabout a year ago in Horror
I’m coming. AI-Generated.
Hello everyone, I am the torturer . You can call me that, it’s what I’ve been called for as long as I remember, or maybe I don’t remember myself the way you think. You’re receiving these words through my captive, a man from Boston who doesn’t truly understand what he’s writing, because I don’t need anyone to understand me. He’s the writer, I’m the speaker. Either way, the result is the same.
By ADIR SEGALabout a year ago in Horror
The Urban Legend of the Sinister Bunny Man
There are many urban legends out there from all over the world that consist of sinister, sometimes blood thirsty figures. Creatures that hide at the edge of the woods in the dead of night waiting for the next foolish and unsuspecting victim.
By Jasmine Aguilarabout a year ago in Horror
Symphony of Darkness
Profess or Harris was a proud and audacious scientist, deeply engrossed in the realm of deep learning. His obsession with understanding the human mind led him down a dangerous path. With an overwhelming belief in his own superiority, he thought that knowledge could only be truly unlocked by pushing beyond the limits—limits that others, in his eyes, were too cautious to breach. He had grown disillusioned with conventional research, believing that only by taking extreme measures could he unravel the mysteries of consciousness. In his relentless pursuit, Harris secured funding from a shadowy and illegal organization, one that shared his disregard for ethical constraints. With this backing, he orchestrated a highly controversial and immoral experiment. Hidden away in the dimly lit basement of a secluded institution, he set up a secretive lab designed to study unknown brain signals—signals he believed could reveal the true nature of human perception and intelligence. His arrogance blinded him to the consequences of his actions, as he believed that he was destined to uncover something greater than anyone before him. But he was unaware that in his reckless ambition, he was opening doors to a world that humanity had never meant to understand. The First Signal That night, in a dark and lifeless laboratory, Harris sat alone, his weary eyes fixed on the glowing screens before him. The machines hummed quietly in the background, the sterile silence broken only by the endless stream of data. Hours passed as he analyzed brain signals, until suddenly, something strange caught his attention—a faint, hidden frequency, a signal so subtle it seemed to linger behind the others. Barely noticeable, it pulsed in the background, beckoning his curiosity. As he zoomed in, what he discovered shook him to his core—these signals were not human. They were music. But it wasn’t random sound. The frequencies twisted and turned, weaving into a haunting melody, forming a pattern that transcended the limits of the human mind. Then, tragedy struck. One of the patients involved in the experiment suddenly died, his heart stopping without warning. The room fell silent, but the machines did not stop. Harris, still engrossed in the data, noticed something chilling—the brain signal of the deceased patient did not disappear. It remained on the screen, flickering faintly in the dark. Moments later, an unfamiliar, complex note appeared—an anomaly that made no sense. Harris activated the advanced machine learning algorithm designed to decode such anomalies. The AI struggled, but slowly began to decipher the signal. After what felt like an eternity, the machine translated it: a complex, beautiful yet terrifying musical note, impossible for the human mind to create, and somehow, utterly wrong. The signal revealed something darker—this was no music. It was a cryptic, twisted melody embedding itself in Harris’s mind, like a virus, pulling him deeper into a reality he could never escape. The First Nightmare That night, when Harris returned home, his eyes heavy from hours of research, he went to sleep. But this sleep was anything but ordinary. He found himself in a room with no windows or doors. The space was filled with darkness, cold and merciless. The only thing in the room was a laptop that emitted a strange, dim glow. The laptop was open, and its screen was still displaying changing data. Lines of code flashed rapidly, and when Harris looked closer, he realized the codes were turning into musical notes. Each note played a horrific sound, one that seemed to echo from the depths of darkness. Harris moved closer, but the more he approached the screen, the more confused he felt. It was as if the codes were communicating with him, sensing his presence. He instinctively felt that in that moment, the codes were not just displayed—they were part of him. The notes weren’t just random—they were connected to his very essence. The Transformation Harris wanted to scream, but his tongue had grown heavy. A shadow lifted its head. It resembled a face, but the mouth that opened was filled with eyes trembling with tears. "We've written your note. You are now one of us." Everything was changing. Harris awoke with terror, but it wasn’t just a nightmare. Signals in the real world were starting to shift. When he checked, he realized the patterns were no longer static. They were growing. He examined the data. New names had appeared. People who had never been part of the experiment were now in the signal list. They were from all over the world. And worst of all, each one of them had a musical note. It was as if a secret orchestra was preparing to perform a dark symphony. A Power That Should Not Be Touched Professor Harris tried to stop the research, but it was too late. As he stepped into the street, he realized that something had changed in the world. He saw people who no longer seemed normal. Some of them hovered in the ruined streets, as if invisible strings were holding them up like broken puppets in the sky. Others crawled on the ground, but their bodies didn’t bend, as if gravity held no meaning for them. In the distance, he saw buildings shaking—not from an earthquake, but as if they were synchronizing with an unseen rhythm. And at that moment, he realized: this wasn’t Psychokinesis, it was something far beyond. The supernatural beings behind these signals were no longer just observers. They were controlling humans. The Final Awakening – A Terrifying Truth Harris could no longer lie to himself. He was connected to a much larger scheme. His body felt a vague, stabbing pain as if every cell within him was screaming. Suddenly, he felt his heart stop, and four large wounds appeared on his hands and feet. The wounds resembled musical notes, and seconds later, his heartbeat synchronized with them. Yes, he heard his own note. And in that moment, he understood that he was no longer human. The melody that spiraled in his mind was both beautiful and terrifying. It was music no human should ever hear, yet it now echoed inside his brain. He had always considered himself superior, distant from those around him, thinking they were foolish and inferior. But now, he saw the truth. He was just another note in the grand, terrifying melody. Every person, every being, was trapped in the same endless loop of dissonance. "You’ve always been a part of this," the whispers grew louder. "You’ve always been a part of the truth, but you forgot." Harris remembered now. He had distanced himself from others, believing himself to be special, but now he saw that he was nothing more than a part of this twisted, eternal symphony. All of them had played their own separate tunes, valuing only themselves, and now, none could escape. The world around him dissolved into pure darkness. Every note, every sound, every line of code had become a part of him. He was no longer an individual—just a note. A meaningless, terrifying note. And the symphony continued, endless and unyielding.
By Vafa Abbasiabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers of the Silent Jungle
Whispers of the Silent Jungle Written by Mirza Ayan and Meher had been together for three years, bound by a love that grew stronger with every shared sunset, late-night talk, and spontaneous plan. Both city dwellers from Milan, Italy, they longed to escape the buzzing noise of daily life. Ayan, a nature photographer, proposed a weekend getaway to the Val Grande National Park—Europe’s largest wilderness area and one of Italy’s most isolated jungles. Meher, though hesitant about wild nature, agreed. She trusted Ayan. And besides, what could possibly go wrong? he Arrival They arrived on a Friday afternoon, driving hours through forest-lined roads until they reached a wooden cabin far from civilization. No neighbors. No phone signals. Just the chirping of birds and the endless rustle of leaves. “It’s beautiful,” Meher whispered as she stepped out of the car. Ayan smiled, adjusting his camera strap. “It’s only the beginning.” They spent the first few hours exploring nearby trails, laughing as Ayan took silly pictures of her pretending to be an explorer. The evening was calm. They cooked together, watched the stars, and curled up in a hammock tied between trees. But as the sun vanished behind the hills, the jungle grew... quiet. Unnaturally quiet. No birds. No wind. Only silence. Nightfall Sometime past midnight, Meher woke up to a distant whisper. “Ayan?” she whispered. He stirred beside her. “What?” “Did you hear that?” They both sat up, holding their breath. A faint sound—like footsteps crunching on leaves—came from the dense trees nearby. But when they flashed their torchlight, nothing was there. “Probably a deer,” Ayan muttered, though he didn’t sound convinced. They tried to sleep again, but the whispers returned. This time, closer. And they weren’t random sounds. They were voices. Low. Echoing. Speaking in a language neither of them could understand. “Turn on the fire,” Meher begged. Ayan lit the lantern and built a small fire. The voices stopped. But then something else happened. The trees began to sway. No wind. No storm. Just... movement. As if something was walking through the forest, pushing branches aside. Into the Jungle The next morning, Ayan wanted to investigate. “We’ll just check the trail cameras I installed yesterday. Maybe it caught something.” Meher disagreed. “We should leave, Ayan. This place doesn’t feel right.” But he was already deep into his curiosity. “Fifteen minutes. I promise.” They walked into the jungle with Ayan’s GPS watch guiding the way. After a while, they reached one of the trail cameras. The display showed a series of photos. A bird A deer A shadow A tall, figured silhouette watching the cabin... at 3:03 AM Ayan’s hand shook. “That’s not a deer.” Suddenly, the GPS watch glitched. The arrow spun in circles. The battery bar vanished. They were lost. he Forest Doesn't Want Them to Leave Trying to retrace their steps, they walked for what felt like hours. But no landmarks looked familiar. Then Meher gasped. “Look.” Their cabin. But it was burned down. Charred. Broken. Blackened wood. “No… this can’t be real. We just left it!” Ayan cried. But the smell of smoke was strong. It wasn’t old. A chill ran down Meher’s spine. “Ayan… maybe it’s not the cabin. Maybe… we’re somewhere else.” They turned around—and saw the same trail camera they had just checked—this time hanging upside down, the strap shredded like claw marks. The trees began to whisper again. Meher screamed. “We’re going in circles!” The Final Chase The whispers turned into growls. Low. Guttural. Then something darted across the path ahead—a blur of pale grey limbs and hollow eyes. Meher ran. Ayan followed, heart pounding, stumbling through vines and roots. Suddenly, they broke into a clearing—and there it stood. A stone circle, ancient and crumbling, covered in moss and symbols. Inside the circle, the whispers stopped. They didn’t know why. But they sat there, crying, shaking, holding each other. They waited. Hours passed. When the sun finally rose, they walked. And this time, the forest let them go. Milan, Meher couldn’t sleep. Ayan refused to look at the photographs he took. But curiosity overtook him one night. He connected the camera to his laptop. Click. Click. Click. One photo stood out. It was them—in the hammock. But behind the tree... A shadowy figure was watching.
By Moonlit Lettersabout a year ago in Horror
Room 313: The Hotel That Erases You
I travel for work—always alone, always late check-ins, and always the same kinds of roadside hotels with peeling wallpaper and vending machines that still sell Tab. I’ve stayed in every kind of weird place. Nothing ever got under my skin. Until I stayed in Room 313.
By Manisha Jamesabout a year ago in Horror
Reflection at 3 a.m.
At precisely 3 a.m., the air in Mara’s small attic room felt colder than usual. A damp, heavy silence pressed against her chest, making each breath feel like an effort. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpane, but it wasn’t the wind that had woken her. Mara had moved into this old house barely a month ago, charmed by its creaky floors and forgotten corners. The landlord had warned her about the attic room, saying it had a “history,” but she had shrugged it off. Rent was cheap, and she liked the isolation. The mirror had been there when she moved in — tall, its once-silver frame tarnished into ghostly black veins. It stood in the corner opposite her bed, catching shadows in its glass. During the day, Mara covered it with a blanket, telling herself it was to keep the dust off. But at night, when sleep grew thin and restless, the blanket always seemed to slip, as if by accident. That night, Mara woke with the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the darkness, and found the mirror. The blanket had fallen again. At first, she saw only herself — messy hair, wide eyes, the tremble in her lip. But as she stared, something felt off. Her reflection seemed to breathe slower than she did, as though it lived by its own rhythm. Mara sat up, heart hammering. The reflection copied her, but there was a hesitation, a fraction of a second where it didn’t move at all. Then it caught up, as if remembering it should. She forced a laugh, weak and shaky. “Just tired,” she whispered to herself, but the reflection’s lips did not move with hers. The temperature dropped further. Her breath turned to mist, curling in front of her face. The reflection did the same, but its mist drifted in the wrong direction, sliding sideways, as if pushed by a wind Mara couldn’t feel. Mara stood up. So did her reflection. She lifted her right hand; it lifted its left, perfectly mirroring her. But when she lowered her hand, the reflection kept its hand raised, palm pressed against the cold glass. She froze. The attic felt impossibly quiet now — no wind, no ticking clock, nothing but the pounding of her heart. The reflection began to move on its own. Slowly, deliberately, its lips twisted into a grin too wide, revealing teeth that looked darker than they should. The eyes sunk deeper into hollow sockets, shadows clinging to them like rot. “No,” Mara whispered, backing away until her spine met the opposite wall. Her reflection stepped forward, until its face nearly filled the glass. A crack spiderwebbed across the mirror’s surface, starting from where the reflection’s hand still pressed. The noise sounded like bones splintering. Mara gasped, tears filling her eyes, as the crack widened and the reflection’s face distorted with it, twisting into something grotesque and monstrous. Then, in the silence, it spoke. Not aloud, but inside her mind, the words echoing from everywhere and nowhere. “Trade places with me.” Mara shook her head violently. “No… no, no…” “You don’t belong here. But I do.” She tried to look away, but her gaze was locked, as if invisible strings held her eyes open. Her own face — or what used to be her face — watched her with predatory hunger. The reflection lifted its other hand, now claw-like, and raked it across the inside of the glass. The mirror cracked further, shards trembling as if eager to fall. With a shuddering sob, Mara turned and ran to the door. But the doorknob wouldn’t budge. It felt fused, like part of the wall itself. Behind her, the cracking grew louder, echoing through the attic like thunder. Slowly, she turned back, against every instinct screaming in her mind. The reflection had stepped fully into the shattered glass, its body pressed against the inside of the mirror as though there were no barrier left. It whispered again: “Let me out. Just for a moment.” Mara closed her eyes, but in the darkness behind her eyelids, she still saw it — clearer than ever. The grin, the shadows swirling around it, the impossible hunger. A crash ripped through the room. She opened her eyes to see the mirror lying in shards on the floor. But her reflection was gone. Heart pounding, she backed away, stepping carefully around the glass. Then she noticed her own reflection — not in the broken mirror, but in the dusty window beside it. The figure in the glass wasn’t moving at all. Just staring. Watching. Grinning. Outside, dawn was still hours away, and Mara realized she wasn’t alone anymore. The reflection had stepped out. And it wasn’t planning to leave.
By Mati Henry about a year ago in Horror
