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Most recently published stories in Horror.
The Smiling Shadows
It started with a dream. Maya had always been a dreamer. The kind who could remember every detail upon waking—faces, voices, even the faintest smells. But there was something wrong with this one. The dream began in a dark, empty house, one that felt familiar yet distant, like an old memory she could never quite place. She walked through the rooms, her footsteps echoing on the cold, wooden floors. The walls were bare, but there was something about the silence that weighed heavily on her chest. And then, she saw them. They weren’t people, not exactly. They were shadows—dark, formless shapes that moved at the edges of her vision, like something out of the corner of your eye that you could never quite focus on. But when she did, their faces took shape, stretching into wide, unnatural smiles. Maya jolted awake, heart pounding. Sweat clung to her skin, and for a long moment, she just stared at the ceiling, her mind racing. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, that those smiles were not part of her mind’s creation. They were real, somehow. The next few days were uneventful, and Maya tried to convince herself it was just a dream. But then, the shadows began to appear. At first, it was only at night, when the house was quiet, and the lights were dim. It would start with a flicker in the corner of her eye—just a brief, shifting darkness. But every time she looked, the shadows were gone. That is, until the first time they smiled. Maya had been sitting on the couch, reading a book, when she felt the temperature drop. The room became unnaturally cold, and she shivered despite being wrapped in a blanket. She glanced toward the hallway, where the shadows stretched like ink, thick and stretching across the walls. In the pale light of the lamp, she saw them—at least five figures, their outlines impossibly tall and thin. Then, their faces. A grotesque mixture of darkness and light formed, like hollow masks, stretched unnaturally wide into a grin that made her stomach churn. They weren’t human. They weren’t anything she had ever seen before. She tried to scream, but the sound caught in her throat. The shadows began to move, not like normal people or animals, but in jerky, twitching motions. They slid along the walls, closer and closer, their smiling faces fixed on her. That was when she heard the voice, low and mocking, from somewhere deep in the dark: “Smile, Maya. Smile, and you’ll be safe.” She didn’t know how long she stayed frozen, eyes locked on the shadows, but eventually, they faded away—sliding back into the corners of the room like smoke being sucked into a vacuum. Her pulse still raced, but she couldn’t move. She didn’t know what to do. The next night, the same thing happened. And the night after that. But it wasn’t just at night anymore. The shadows were starting to appear during the day—at first, only in the corners of rooms, but now, they were bold enough to step into her vision fully, standing in doorways, just beyond the windows, hovering at the foot of her bed. The same grinning, faceless figures that seemed to feed on her fear. Maya stopped sleeping. She couldn’t bring herself to lie down without feeling their eyes on her, without seeing those twisted smiles lurking just behind the curtain or in the dark hallway. It wasn’t just the shadows now. It was the sounds, too. Soft, unsettling whispers that followed her from room to room, even in broad daylight. Whispers that repeated one thing: “Smile, Maya. Smile, and you’ll be safe.” But how could she smile at something like that? At something that wasn’t even real, but felt so... alive? And yet, she couldn’t ignore the fear that gnawed at her insides, a quiet terror that whispered the same words every time the shadows grinned: “Smile, or you’ll never escape.” It took days before Maya gathered the courage to confront them. She sat in the middle of her living room, the lights blindingly bright, hoping the light would keep the dark away. The shadows never showed up when the room was well-lit, but the moment the lights flickered, they were there, waiting. This time, she wasn’t going to run. “I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered, though her voice trembled. “You won’t scare me anymore.” At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the shadows began to stretch, warping and twisting with inhuman speed. They moved toward her, faster now, the smiles widening into something that felt like a mockery of joy. They were all around her, and as they closed in, Maya felt a chill in her bones, the kind that seeped deeper than the skin. Then, she heard their voice, clear and mocking in her ear: “Smile, Maya. Smile and you’ll be free.” With her breath shallow, her heart pounding in her chest, Maya did the one thing she hadn’t wanted to do. She forced her lips into a smile, wide and unnatural. The room froze. The shadows stopped. For a brief moment, there was silence. Then, the shadows melted away, retreating into the dark corners of the room, their grins slowly fading as they vanished. Maya’s smile dropped as she collapsed onto the floor, her body trembling uncontrollably. She wasn’t sure if they were gone for good, or if they would come back, but she knew one thing: she had made a deal. A deal that might never be broken. --- The next morning, Maya woke to find something unsettling in her reflection. A smile—a wide, unsettling smile—was fixed on her face. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get it to fade.
By Ubaid Khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Light in Hollow Creek
When darkness falls, some secrets refuse to stay buried.” No one went near Hollow Creek after sunset. Locals spoke of strange sightings—dim lights flickering in abandoned houses, soft whispers in the trees, and the feeling of being watched from the shadows. Decades ago, the town had been lively. Now, it was a ghost on the map, swallowed by time and rot.
By Mustafa Khanabout a year ago in Horror
They Hear You When You Speak"
Sound of Silence The village of Daryabad was like any other — quiet, forgotten, and shrouded in fog more often than not. But something unspoken lurked within its silence. People didn’t talk about it, not aloud at least. They knew better.
By Mustafa Khanabout a year ago in Horror
In my room
It started with the door. Not slamming, not creaking—just opening. I was eight years old the first time I noticed it. Every night, I’d close the attic door tight, latch it, and go to bed. Every morning, it was open. Just a crack. Nothing too dramatic—just enough to make my skin crawl. We lived in a creaky old house at the edge of Elder Hollow, the kind of place people drive past and whisper stories about. My room was in the attic. My dad called it “cozy.” I called it “lonely.” The sloped ceilings and round window that looked straight into the woods didn’t help. The silence didn’t help. And then, the door started unclosing itself. --- The Night It Spoke I wasn’t afraid at first. I thought maybe it was the wind or a draft. But one night, I decided to stay up and watch. Just past two in the morning, I heard it: click. The latch lifted. The door opened slowly—smoothly, like someone careful not to wake me. But no one came in. Just the cold. I tried to stay calm, convincing myself it was nothing. That is, until the next night, when I blocked the door with a pile of books—and they moved. At exactly 2:17 a.m., the stack scraped aside. And that’s when I heard it. “Can I come in?” --- The Ghost with the Broken Voice It wasn’t threatening. The voice was small, fragile. Like a kid who’d been crying too long. I grabbed my flashlight and pointed it at the door. Nothing. “Who’s there?” I asked. Silence. Then came the cold again. And I saw… something. A shimmer, like moonlight made of mist. Slowly, it took shape. A boy. Maybe my age. Pale, quiet, watching me from the threshold. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t scream. I just stared back. He didn’t move. Didn’t float or vanish. He whispered, “My name was Simon.” --- He Was Always Careful Simon became a regular in my attic. I never saw him during the day, only after midnight. He never tried to scare me. In fact, he asked permission to come in. Always. He never touched my stuff. Never knocked things over. Just sat quietly in the corner, like he was waiting for something. I asked him why he stayed. His answer? “I didn’t know I could leave.” He wasn’t like the ghosts in movies. He didn’t want revenge or attention. He wanted peace. And maybe… a friend. --- What Was Hidden in the Wall One night, Simon told me, “There’s something I left behind. Near the window.” That window had always creeped me out—it looked straight into the trees, and sometimes I swore the reflection wasn't mine. Still, I trusted him. When my parents were out, I pulled off a wooden panel near the window. Behind it, wrapped in faded cloth, was a box. Inside: A tiny porcelain owl A torn photo of a boy—Simon And a paper that read: “Tell Mama I didn’t mean to go. I was just cold.” --- Connecting the Past I showed the photo to my mom. She went pale. “That’s… oh my god. That’s the boy who used to live here. There was a fire. His family escaped, but… he didn’t make it.” It was the first time my mom believed me. And honestly, I wished she hadn’t. Something about hearing it confirmed in an adult voice made it all feel… too real. That night, Simon came again. He stared at the owl in my hand and smiled. “I was hiding,” he said. “When the fire came. I thought if I closed the door, the smoke wouldn’t find me.” He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw tears in a ghost’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to stay,” he said. “I just didn’t know how to leave.” --- The Final Goodbye I asked, “Are you ready now?” Simon nodded. He didn’t ask to come in this time. He just stood in the doorway, waiting. So I walked over, opened the door wide, and said, “You don’t have to ask anymore.” He gave me one last smile. And then he was gone. No dramatic fade-out. No lights flickering. Just… gone. --- After Simon Life went back to normal. Mostly. My attic felt lighter. Warmer. Even the shadows seemed softer. My dog, who used to bark at the attic door, finally came upstairs again. My sister stopped pointing to the window and saying, “The sad boy.” But I still keep the little owl on my bookshelf. A reminder that not all ghosts are monsters. Some are just kids—lost, scared, and waiting for someone to finally open the door. --- Final Thoughts I think about Simon sometimes. About how many others like him might still be hiding behind closed doors, waiting for someone who will listen. We often fear the unknown. But what if the unknown is just… lonely?
By Hasbanullahabout a year ago in Horror
"Room 237: Do Not Open This Door"
Room 237: Do Not Open This Door [ By Hazrat Bilal ] There were three rules at the Morningside Hotel. 1. No loud music after 10 PM. 2. No guests after midnight. 3. And whatever you do — do not open the door to Room 237. I thought they were joking. Every old building has its ghost stories, especially hotels that look like they haven’t had a renovation since the '70s. Faded wallpaper, brass keys, elevators that creaked louder than thunder. The Morningside was cheap, though. And after a breakup, an eviction, and losing my job — cheap was all I had. The receptionist was an old woman with eyes too sharp for her age. She didn’t smile when I checked in. “You’ll be in Room 236. Right next to... it,” she said, tapping her pen on the registry. “Don’t wander after midnight. And don’t be curious. Curiosity kills.” I gave a half-laugh. “You’re joking, right?” Her face didn’t move. “This place has stood for over 80 years. Room 237 has never been opened since 1975. Let’s keep it that way.” I nodded, but deep down, I was already curious. --- Room 236 was clean, in that old dusty sort of way. The walls were thin. I could hear the hum of the vending machine down the hall and the constant dripping of the sink in the bathroom. But more than anything — I could hear the door next to mine. Room 237. It creaked randomly. As if someone inside was shifting. Moving. Breathing. I stared at it through the peephole once. Nothing. Just an old wooden door with a scratched brass number plate. But as I turned away, I thought I heard a whisper. “Come in...” --- The first night passed in restless sleep. But on the second night, around 2:13 AM, I was jolted awake by a knock. Three soft knocks. I sat up in bed. My room door was locked. I checked the hallway through the peephole. Empty. But then I noticed something: The door to Room 237 was slightly open. Just a sliver. Enough for a shadow to peek through. But there was no shadow. No light. Only blackness. My heart pounded. I walked toward it slowly, barefoot, every board on the floor creaking. I reached out… just inches from pushing the door shut. And then it slammed on its own. Hard. Like something didn’t want to be seen. --- The next morning, I asked the receptionist. “What happened in Room 237?” She paused. Looked around. Lowered her voice. “A young couple stayed there in 1975. Honeymooners. No one knows what happened — but the maid found them days later. Windows locked. Door from inside, bolted shut. Both dead. No signs of struggle. Just... gone. Expressions on their faces — like they saw something not meant for human eyes.” I felt cold. “Why not remove the room? Or seal it?” “We tried,” she whispered. “Every time someone boards it up… the boards come off. Every time we lock it, someone hears it unlock. The only rule now… is don’t open it.” --- That night, I decided to leave in the morning. But curiosity doesn’t sleep easily. Around 1:50 AM, I heard movement again. My room light flickered. The air grew cold. And then… Scratch... scratch... scratch... From the other side of the wall. As if nails were dragging across it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I opened my door. And there it was. Room 237 — wide open. Inside was darkness. Pure, unnatural black. The kind that swallows sound and light. I took one step toward it. And something inside moved. A shape. Not man. Not beast. A presence. I couldn’t see it, but I felt it staring back at me. My legs refused to move. My mouth opened, but no words came out. Then I heard it again. “Come in…” Whispers all around me. Inside me. Telling me secrets I shouldn’t know. Regrets I never told anyone. My worst fears. My darkest thoughts. The air thickened. I couldn't breathe. Suddenly — a hand grabbed me from behind. It was the receptionist. “You fool!” she hissed, pulling me away and slamming the door shut with all her strength. “Do you want it to follow you out?!” We shoved a chair under the knob. Lit incense. She whispered prayers I didn’t recognize. Only then… did the whispers stop. --- I checked out before sunrise. As I walked away from the Morningside Hotel, I looked back one last time. The building stood quiet, windows still. But as I turned the corner, I could swear I heard... Knock. Knock. Knock. Room 237 waits. And it remembers those who opened the door. --- The End.
By Hazrat Bilalabout a year ago in Horror
The Man in the Window
It was a chilly November evening in the small town of Alder Creek. The streets were quiet, cloaked under a fog so thick it felt like breathing through cotton. Inside a modest two-story house, 28-year-old Daniel Mercer sat by the fireplace, sipping black coffee and trying to calm his nerves.
By huzaifa khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Ghost in My Bed
The air in Mia’s apartment was heavy, thick with the scent of lavender candles she burned to mask her grief. It had been six months since Leo’s car accident, six months since the hospital’s sterile hum replaced his laughter. At night, alone in their bed, she clutched his old flannel shirt, willing his warmth to return. Then, one midnight, it did.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Horror
What Lurks Beneath
When I was seven, I believed in monsters. Not the kind that wear fangs and capes or lurch in forests with chainsaws. Mine lived under my bed. And unlike the storybooks, mine didn’t go away when the lights came on. He had no name, not really. Just a sound—like creaking wood and long fingernails dragging across stone. He didn’t talk. He just stared. Yellow eyes glowing in the dark. A grin full of jagged teeth. Hands too long, too thin, too pale. Limbs that coiled like broken wire hangers. And a smell—sour milk and wet earth. I told my parents. They said I was imagining things. I was “creative.” They placed a nightlight by my bed and gave me a stuffed bear. I tried sleeping with music on. With the door cracked open. I even tried talking to it once. It only smiled wider. Eventually, I stopped complaining. Not because he went away, but because adults stop believing children after a certain number of sleepless nights. I learned to live with him. I learned not to dangle my feet. Not to look down. I would wake up and stare at the ceiling, heart racing, too afraid to breathe. But I grew up. As we all do. I moved to a dorm room, then an apartment, then a house with thick carpets and a partner who snored gently beside me. And for a while, I thought he was gone. Then came the layoffs. Then the isolation. Then the nights that stretched too long, too quiet, with my mind folding in on itself. And one evening, lying awake while my wife slept soundly beside me, I heard it again. That soft creak. The sigh of something shifting its weight. From under the bed. My chest tightened. A laugh rose in my throat—because I was a grown man. Thirty-four. A mortgage, a car payment, and cholesterol medication. But still, I couldn't make myself move. My foot, accidentally exposed, felt colder than the room allowed. I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, while brushing my teeth, I looked down and found four scratch marks on my ankle. Thin, but deep enough to burn. Rationality fled. I ripped the sheets off the bed. Looked underneath. Nothing but dust and a missing sock. But that night, the creak returned. And the night after that, a whisper. I started sleeping on the floor. I don’t know why. It felt safer. He never came from beneath the floor, only the bed. I pressed myself flat against the hardwood, arms spread, heart steady. I could feel the pulse of the planet beneath me. Solid. Cold. Honest. The floor never lied to me. The floor never grinned. And when I couldn’t stop the panic, when my thoughts spiraled like toilet water, I’d close my eyes and press my cheek to the ground. The floor is your friend, I would whisper. I didn’t know where I’d heard it. A therapy quote? A poem? A child’s rhyme? Did it matter? Every night, I returned to it like prayer. The floor is your friend. And slowly, the whispering stopped. The eyes didn’t glow quite so brightly. People ask why we don’t have a bed frame. Why the mattress is on the floor like college kids. I laugh. Blame my back. Or feng shui. Or minimalism. No one needs to know the real reason. No one needs to know I still glance at the underside of furniture with held breath. That I sometimes sleep with one palm pressed flat to the floorboards, anchoring myself like a sailor on rough seas. That I still carry the echo of those yellow eyes with me. Maybe everyone has something under their bed. A fear. A memory. A shadow they named and then tried to forget. But me? I remember. Author’s Note: Some monsters don’t leave when childhood ends. But sometimes, the simplest things—a breath, a prayer, the feel of solid ground—can save us when no one else can.
By Muhammad Abuzar Badshah about a year ago in Horror
Voices From Apartment 6B
Voices From Apartment 6B The old brick building on East 14th had stood quiet for decades, a relic surrounded by newer glass towers. Tenants came and went, but one apartment remained stubbornly empty: 6B. Rumors said no one had lived there for years — since the night the last tenant vanished without a trace.
By Huzaifa Dzineabout a year ago in Horror
