Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
An Unusual Acquaintance
When I opened the front door the smell of burnt food was overpowering. I knew I hadn’t left the oven on before going to work so the culprit had to be Carl. He was always experimenting with new recipes or looking for creative ways to build things. I can’t blame him for wanting to expand his imagination, but a little common sense might make his projects less devastating.
By Mark Gagnonabout a year ago in Horror
The Mirror That Watched Me Sleep
It all started when I moved into my cousin’s old apartment in Lahore—a modest, second-floor unit tucked above a quiet tailor shop in a narrow alley. The place was small, quiet, and cheap—perfect for a college student like me trying to survive on a tight budget. It had everything I needed: a working kitchen, a creaky bed, and a balcony view of tangled wires and rooftops. But there was one thing that didn’t sit right with me from the moment I entered—the mirror in the bedroom.
By Express Laneabout a year ago in Horror
A Child’s Imaginary Friend Is Not Imaginary
Rain lashed against the windows of the old countryside cottage, its rhythm echoing through the empty halls like a warning. Eliza wrapped a blanket tighter around herself as she watched her daughter, Lily, seated cross-legged in the center of her bedroom, giggling softly at nothing. Again. It had been weeks since they’d moved into the cottage—an inheritance from Eliza’s late aunt. Quiet, remote, surrounded by woods. Peaceful. Or so she'd thought. Lily had always been imaginative, but ever since they arrived, her “imaginary friend” had taken over every waking hour. “His name is Thomas,” Lily had said one morning, spooning cereal into her mouth without meeting her mother’s eyes. Eliza smiled. “That’s a lovely name. How old is Thomas?” “Older than you.” She laughed awkwardly. “Oh, really?” “He was here before us. He doesn’t like the forest.” That last part lingered. At first, Eliza dismissed it. Children invented companions all the time. But soon the drawings began. Scratchy sketches of a tall, pale boy with dark, empty eyes. Always standing in the corner of a room. Always watching Lily. When Eliza asked about them, Lily only said: > “He doesn’t like when I talk about him. He says you wouldn’t understand.” --- One night, Eliza woke to whispering. The house was cold, too cold. She crept down the hallway, drawn by the low murmur coming from Lily’s room. She opened the door. Lily sat upright in bed, eyes wide open, whispering to the dark corner of the room. There was no one there. “Lily?” Eliza’s voice cracked. The little girl turned her head slowly, eyes glassy. > “Thomas said you shouldn’t be here right now.” The room’s light flickered. Eliza felt something pass behind her. Cold and invisible. She grabbed her daughter and fled into her own bedroom, locking the door behind her. The next morning, Lily had no memory of the night. She played as if nothing had happened. But Eliza could no longer pretend. --- She contacted a local historian, desperate for answers. “There was a boy named Thomas,” the woman told her over the phone. “Lived in that cottage in 1894. Disappeared in the woods. They never found the body. But his mother claimed he came back to visit her… even after death.” The line crackled. “She said he warned her about the forest. Said something else lived out there. Something worse.” --- That night, Lily refused to sleep. She stood by the window, whispering: “He’s scared. He says something’s coming. It wants me.” Eliza kneeled beside her. “Who, baby? Who’s coming?” Lily didn’t answer. Her gaze was fixed on the treeline outside. Suddenly, the night seemed to bend. The woods stirred, not with wind—but with presence. A tall shadow stepped out from between the trees. It didn’t walk. It hovered. No eyes. No face. Just a hunger. And standing in the room beside Eliza and her daughter—was Thomas. A pale figure, eyes dark and hollow, but not evil. He didn’t speak. He only pointed toward the door and shook his head slowly. Eliza understood. She turned, grabbed Lily, and they fled from the house without looking back. --- They never returned. In the months that followed, Eliza read everything she could. About it. About the thing in the forest. About others who had vanished without a trace in those same woods. The shadow had no name. But Thomas—he was real. A ghost, maybe. But not a malevolent one. He had tried to warn them. To protect her daughter. He wasn’t imaginary. He never was.
By Abdu ssamadabout a year ago in Horror
"The Last Roar: A Father’s Final Lesson"
The African plains were scorching beneath the noonday sun. Winds carried the scent of old battles, and the grass whispered of kings who once ruled with strength and grace. At the center of it all stood Baraka, the lion with silver in his mane and storms in his eyes. He was the king—not by vote, but by presence. Every animal, from the wildebeest to the vultures, recognized the weight of his silence. But time… even the mighty cannot outrun it. Baraka was old now. His eyes had dimmed, his roar softened, and his paws—once thunder across the plains—now treaded gently on dry earth. And beside him, always trailing behind with wide eyes and boundless curiosity, was his son: Tamu. --- 🌿 The Questions of Youth Tamu was a cub no more, but not yet a lion. He ran fast, questioned everything, and always pushed boundaries. > “Father, will I be like you one day?” “If I catch a gazelle, does that make me a king?” “Are kings ever scared?” Baraka would smile, slow and patient, and say, > “To rule is easy. But to be worthy of being followed… that takes more than teeth and claws.” Every night, Baraka would share stories—of narrow escapes, rival lion prides, floods that nearly drowned the savannah, and how he once fed a rival cub during drought. Tamu listened with awe, but never understood the silence that followed those stories. He thought kings were supposed to be proud, not quiet. --- 🌘 The Quiet Before Goodbye Then came a night darker than others. The moon hid behind clouds, and the wind was colder than usual. Baraka lay beneath the ancient baobab tree—the same tree where he'd once fought off a rogue leopard, the same tree where he'd first roared after becoming king. Tamu approached cautiously. His father hadn’t moved much that day. His breathing was shallow, his eyes closed. > “Father?” Tamu whispered. “Are you… angry with me?” Baraka opened his eyes, the weight of years behind them. > “No, my son. But it is time you listen. Not with your ears—but with your heart.” --- 🔥 The Final Lesson Baraka pulled himself upright, gathering what strength he had left. > “Tamu… the world will see your teeth and think they know you. But real strength is not in how hard you bite… It's in how well you protect. It's in how kindly you lead. And how bravely you forgive.” Tamu blinked away tears. > “But I’m not ready, Father. I'm still learning.” Baraka lowered his head and nuzzled his son. > “Even I wasn’t ready. No king truly is. But remember this—when I’m gone, my roar lives in you. Not in your throat… but in your choices.” Then, he looked skyward—perhaps remembering his own father, perhaps saying goodbye to everything. And with a deep breath, Baraka roared. It was not loud. Not fierce. But it carried the weight of an entire lifetime— of wisdom, battles, heartbreak, and love. And then… silence. The great king of the plains was gone. --- 🌄 The Morning of a New Reign Morning came gently. No chaos. No cries. The animals of the plains felt it before they saw it: Baraka was no more. Tamu didn’t cry that day. He lay beneath the baobab tree, head resting beside his father’s still body. Three days passed. No food. No play. Then, on the fourth day, he stood. And the ground felt different beneath his paws. He walked up the same rock ledge where Baraka once stood tall. The sky, painted gold with dawn, watched him closely. Tamu closed his eyes. And then—he roared. It cracked at first. It wavered. But it was honest. Pure. And the jungle heard. Birds stopped. Gazelles lifted their heads. Even the hyenas waited. A new king had not been crowned… He had been carved from grief. Forged by legacy. And blessed by silence. --- 📚 The Lesson of the Plains This is not just the story of a lion and his son. It’s the story of every father who teaches not with words—but with life. Every child who becomes strong not by defeating others—but by understanding loss. Every leader who realizes power isn’t in domination—but in compassion. Baraka may have left the world. But his last roar? It didn’t end in silence. It became Tamu’s first step into the kind of king the plains had never seen before. --- 🔚 Final Line: The roar that ended a legacy… Became the whisper that started a legend.
By Asif nawazabout a year ago in Horror
The Phantom Aisles
The attraction of the paranormal has always permeated our daily existence and appeared in unexpected places, including the shiny, customer-focused areas of shopping centers. The "facts" in these cases are the recurring, frequently terrifying tales and anecdotal accounts that have cemented some shopping malls as haunts for the unexplained, even though hard scientific "facts" about paranormal activity are still elusive. These collective stories, shared experiences, and local tales are what give these contemporary buildings a ghostly past—not scientific research.
By Richard Weberabout a year ago in Horror
Episode 15: A Deal
The sky was the color of old bruises, and the buildings were just teeth the earth forgot to swallow. Anya waited in the mouth of a collapsed parking garage, with one eye painted black and a necklace of vertebrae clinking like windchimes for ghosts.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Horror
