Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
The Last Voice I Heard Was Mine
I always thought death would be silent. A fade to black. A single breath. An end. But the last voice I heard wasn’t someone crying over me. It wasn’t my mother, or a siren, or even a whisper from whatever god people pray to. It was me. Screaming. And I’ve been hearing it ever since. --- It happened on a Thursday. That I remember clearly. The kind of day where nothing stands out—gray skies, a coffee stain on my shirt, the same argument with my boss. Nothing special, except for the slick spot on Route 27 that sent my car spinning into a tree. People say it’s fast. The end. But for me, it wasn’t. I remember the impact. I remember the crunch of metal and bone. I remember tasting my own blood and thinking: This is it. This is really it. But then... Silence. Until it wasn’t. --- I woke up—or thought I did—still strapped in the car. Everything was frozen, like time itself had been paused. I looked around, but nothing moved. The air was heavy, too still, like breathing underwater. And then I heard it. A scream. My scream. Long, raw, and guttural. The kind of scream a person makes when their body is being torn apart from the inside. It echoed through the trees like wind through dead leaves. I tried to move, to speak, but nothing worked. All I could do was listen as my voice—that awful sound—played again. And again. And again.
By Abdul Basitabout a year ago in Horror
Haunted Octopus House Bandung: The True Story Behind Indonesia's "Devil's Church"
Menacingly looming over Jalan Cipedes Selatan No. 6 in Bandung, West Java, the Octopus House (Rumah Gurita) is Indonesia's one of the most strikingly visual and perpetually haunted places. The building's past and ghostly reputation have been tormenting local nightmares for decades, merging architectural peculiarity with supernatural lore.
By Kyrol Mojikalabout a year ago in Horror
"The Children in the Woods Remember Everything… Even the Future"
The first time I saw them, I thought they were just ordinary kids playing in the woods behind my grandmother’s cottage. Five of them, all between eight and twelve, huddled in a circle beneath the gnarled oak tree that locals called *"The Watcher."* But there was something wrong—they didn’t laugh, didn’t run around, didn’t even speak. They just… *stared*.
By Hanif Ullah about a year ago in Horror
My Family Doesn’t Know This About Me
There’s a version of me my family knows well—quiet, polite, dependable. I’m the one who helps wash the dishes after dinner, who keeps secrets like heirlooms, who always remembers to say “thank you” and “I love you.” I’m the sibling who listens, the cousin who shows up, the daughter who doesn’t raise her voice.
By wilson wongabout a year ago in Horror
The Haunting Echoes of Devil’s Lake
Devil’s Lake, Wisconsin. A quiet retreat nestled in Baraboo’s rolling hills, known for its serene beauty, dense forests, and glacial cliffs. On the surface, it looks peaceful. Tourists kayak, fish, and hike. Families picnic near the shore.
By Cedric Walker(Gator)about a year ago in Horror
Whispers in the Fog
Eli Porter had only meant to visit Grey Hollow for a weekend. He was a travel blogger, always on the hunt for forgotten towns with stories to tell. But Grey Hollow wasn’t just forgotten—it had been erased. No phone signal, no Wi-Fi, and the last known article about it was dated 1964. That was the hook.
By Atif khurshaidabout a year ago in Horror
“The Room They Forgot to List”
The receptionist smiled like she had something to hide. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holt, but all the standard rooms are booked," she said, her fingers tapping on the keyboard as if she was stalling. “However, we do have… one left.” One left. Not on the app, not on the website, not on the booking confirmation. Room 6B. Strange. He would’ve remembered seeing a 6B. "It’s… unique," she added, avoiding eye contact as she slid the old-fashioned key across the desk. Not a keycard — a real metal key. Rusted around the edges. "I’ll take it," he said. He was too tired to argue, to ask for a refund, or to care. Sales presentations across three states in five days had drained every reserve of charm, patience, and caffeine. Night One — The Jungle Room 6B was down a hallway that didn’t match the others. No plush carpets or quiet jazz humming from hidden speakers. Just dim lighting, yellow wallpaper curling at the corners, and silence — thick enough to press against his ears. He turned the key. The room opened with a groan. Inside, the walls pulsed green. Not painted — alive. Vines snaked from ceiling to floor, weaving through cracked tiles and climbing the corners like they were searching for something. The scent of damp earth, like a greenhouse after rain, hit him instantly. His suitcase hit the floor with a dull thud. "This has to be some kind of theme room," he muttered, brushing away a fern to reach the bed — a crude wooden frame wrapped in moss. But the strangest part? He slept better than he had in years. Night Two — The Ocean The next night, everything changed. Same hallway. Same rusted key. Same room number. Different world. The room was now submerged in a soft blue glow. The walls were transparent, revealing a vast, silent ocean pressing against the glass. Fish darted past in silver flickers, and strange shadows passed overhead. Jellyfish pulsed like slow heartbeats. There was no bed this time — just a hammock floating a few inches above the tiled floor, suspended as if by unseen currents. Holt stood there, frozen. His breath fogged the glass, but no condensation formed. No door behind him. No receptionist to complain to. No proof that the jungle room had even existed. Was he dreaming? But the ache in his shoulders. The damp chill in the air. The low rumble of something massive moving just beyond sight — it all felt real. He didn't sleep much that night. Night Three — The Room Changes You By the third night, Holt was unraveling. Room 6B now resembled a hospital ward. Not modern — old, antiseptic, and flickering with fluorescent lights that buzzed like angry insects. The bed had rails. The air reeked of rubbing alcohol and wilted flowers. Machines beeped rhythmically from nowhere. On the far wall, a mirror reflected the room. But not him. Instead, it showed a younger version of himself — 10 years old, lying in the hospital bed, hooked to machines. Alone. He knew that face. He hadn’t thought about that year in a long time. Not since his little brother died in the bed next to his. That bed had been empty the day after. Just like this one. He screamed then — not out of fear, but guilt. Deep, old, unresolved guilt. The kind that lives in your blood and only wakes when you're forced to look it in the eye. Night Four — Fear, Made Flesh He tried to leave. Packed his bag, marched down the hallway, past 6A, 6C, 6D. No 6B. No door at all. But the key still hung from his hand. When he turned back, the hallway bent in impossible ways. The carpet under his feet turned to black water. He ran — and still arrived back at the door. 6B. Always 6B. That night, the room was pitch black. No theme. No decor. Just darkness that swallowed sound. Except for the breathing. Not his. It circled him. Closer. Then far. Then closer again. He shouted. No sound came out. The silence was absolute — and so was the realization that this room was learning him. It didn’t just shift environments. It listened. Adapted. And now it knew exactly what to show him. Night Five — Himself He woke up to his own apartment. Same beige walls. Same coffee ring on the nightstand. Same cracked phone screen lighting up with an email from his boss: Big pitch tomorrow. Don’t screw it up, Holt. He exhaled. Relief poured in like warm water. Until he turned around and saw himself sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at him. His double smiled. “Welcome home,” it said. “You made me.” Then it blinked — and so did the walls. They rippled like water, like glass, like memory. Holt opened his mouth to scream, but his voice was already taken. They Don’t List It for a Reason Room 6B doesn’t show up in the system. You can’t book it, can’t find it, can’t review it. But sometimes, when you’re exhausted and too numb to notice, they’ll give you the key And the room will watch. Wait. Learn you. And then it will never let you go.
By Ubaid Khanabout a year ago in Horror
