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Most recently published stories in Horror.
The Ghoul’s Cave – Curse of Blood
Part One: The Ghoul’s Cave In a remote village surrounded by dense forests and silent mountains, there was an old legend passed down for generations, warning people never to enter the Black Cave on the western slope. They said whoever entered never returned, and their screams echoed through the mountains for days.
By Alaa Atallahabout a year ago in Horror
"The Last Broadcast from Room 104"
Ava Rivera was known for her fearless ghost-hunting livestreams. Her fans adored her for venturing into haunted places alone, with only a flashlight, a camera, and her signature sarcastic commentary. But none of them expected her final stream to come from a cheap roadside motel in the middle of nowhere — or that they’d never see her again. It was a Tuesday night when Ava checked into Room 104 at the Maplewood Motel. She told her followers in a short pre-stream post: > “Room 104. No guests stay more than one night. Locals say it swallows sound. Let's see if ghosts like motel wallpaper.” At 11:58 p.m., the live stream began. The room was dim, lit only by a flickering lamp. Peeling yellow wallpaper. A stained carpet. And that suffocating silence — the kind that buzzes in your ears. “Alright guys,” Ava said, her voice light but slightly tense. “Here we are. Room 104. The manager was real excited to rent this to me. He told me not to open the closet. So guess where I’m going first?” Thousands watched as she panned her camera across the room. It froze for a second — just long enough to see a shadow flicker in the corner. The live chat exploded: > Did anyone else see that? Back up, Ava. Something moved. Check the mirror. Ava laughed, brushing it off. “Y’all are jumpy tonight.” She opened the closet. It was empty. But the livestream glitched. For half a second, viewers saw something standing behind her in the mirror — tall, thin, with hollow eyes. She turned, but nothing was there. Her flashlight began to dim. At exactly 12:13 a.m., Ava’s voice changed. It got… quieter, as if she were speaking through static. Her face blurred, pixelated, and the lights in the room began to flicker wildly. “Ava?” someone said on the chat. “Say something.” She leaned close to the camera. Her eyes looked wrong — unfocused, glassy. She whispered, “I can hear it breathing.” And then the screen went black. But the stream didn’t stop. Instead, viewers saw a dark feed. Occasionally, the audio picked up faint noises — wet footsteps, scratching, breathing that didn’t match Ava’s pattern. At 12:47 a.m., the camera flickered on again. But Ava wasn’t in frame. The camera now faced the bed. A shape sat on it — slouched, twitching. Viewers couldn’t tell if it was human. Then, in Ava’s voice — but flat, mechanical — it said: > “Still watching?” “She let me in.” “Room 104 is open now.” Thousands of people watched in horrified silence as the figure slowly turned toward the camera. Its face was Ava’s… but wrong. Stretched. Grinning too wide. Eyes too black. The stream ended. --- The police arrived the next morning after dozens of fans reported the disturbing video. But Room 104 was empty. No sign of Ava, no camera, no equipment — nothing. The motel manager swore she never checked in. The strangest part? The livestream couldn’t be found anywhere. Not on her profile, not on any backup servers. But everyone who watched it remembered it clearly. Some claimed they could still hear the breathing when they closed their eyes. A week later, another streamer went live from a different location. In the middle of her broadcast, static cut in. The screen went black for 10 seconds. And Ava’s voice whispered: > “Tell them not to open the door…” --- To this day, no one knows what really happened in Room 104. The motel burned down two months later in a mysterious fire, but the number “104” was still found scrawled in ash across the parking lot. But sometimes, late at night, that original stream briefly appears online — for just a few minutes — before vanishing again. If you see it… Don’t watch until the end. And whatever you do — Don’t open the closet.
By Ubaid Khanabout a year ago in Horror
Rise of the Fallen Lion
The Kingdom of Vaeloria was once the shining jewel of the East — a land of honor, tradition, and unbreakable bloodlines. At the heart of its glory stood General Arion Varyan, known across the lands as “The Lion of Vaeloria.” Feared by enemies and revered by his people, Arion was more than a warrior; he was a symbol of loyalty, courage, and sacrifice.
By Masih Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
Season 3 - The Bone-Light: How an Orphaned Village Became a Mouth for Something Older
CHAPTER 9: The Child Who Sang With No Mouth : How The Orphanage Fire Left Three Survivors With a God’s Song April 4th, 1980 - Borsk Regional Hospital (Secure Burn Ward, Room 12-C)
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
The Mirror of Mirah
Once, nestled between the jagged peaks of a forgotten mountain range, there stood an ancient mansion known as "Mirah's Keep." This was not a place whispered about in the bustling towns below, nor was it known to those who dared venture too far into the desolate wilderness. It was a relic, an enigma, existing in a realm untouched by time and civilization. Some claimed it was abandoned long ago, while others believed it was still inhabited, not by the living, but by the spirits of the long-dead. The legend of the mansion was as old as the mountains themselves, and it all centered around a peculiar, ornate mirror that hung in the grand hall—a mirror that could not only show your reflection but also the reflection of your deepest, darkest desires. Mirah, the lady of the house, was said to be as beautiful as the dawn and as haunting as the moonlit night. She had been married to a nobleman of vast wealth, but it was her beauty, not her wealth, that captured the attention of all who met her. People traveled from distant lands to glimpse her face, but none ever spoke of her eyes—not until it was too late. For Mirah’s eyes, deep and endless, held a secret—one that no one was meant to discover. Beneath the soft, porcelain surface of her flawless skin and the delicate curve of her lips was a soul stained by dark, unspoken things. She was not simply beautiful, she was cursed, and the mansion in which she lived was as much a prison as it was a sanctuary. Her marriage, once full of promise, began to decay with the years. Mirah’s noble husband became obsessed with the idea of immortality, and his obsession led him to the very mirror that hung in their hall. The mirror, according to ancient texts, was said to grant a glimpse into the future, to show the soul’s truest desires, and to unlock the deepest secrets of the universe. But no one knew the full price of such knowledge. One evening, as a storm raged outside, the nobleman stood before the mirror, gazing deeply into it. His reflection shimmered with an eerie glow, but there was something off. The face staring back at him was not his own. It was a pale, gaunt figure with hollow eyes, its skin cracked like old parchment. As he stared, entranced, he felt a sudden chill creep over him—then, with a gasp, he realized the figure was reaching out from the depths of the mirror. Its fingers were long and bony, stretched impossibly thin, and it beckoned him with a call that promised endless life, but at a terrible cost. The mirror had offered him immortality, but it came at the price of his soul. The nobleman tried to pull away, but it was too late. The reflection in the mirror reached out and seized him. Mirah, hearing his screams, rushed into the hall, but by the time she reached him, the nobleman had already disappeared—swallowed whole by the mirror, his body lost to time and space. Mirah, heartbroken and terrified, stood frozen in front of the glass. The mirror, now calm, reflected nothing but the soft glow of the storm's light as it flickered through the windows. She dared not look too long, for fear of seeing her own reflection—a reflection that, over the years, had begun to twist into something... wrong. In the days that followed, Mirah was consumed by grief and guilt. She spent her nights weeping, searching for a way to undo the curse that had claimed her husband. It was during these desperate hours that she realized the truth of the mirror—it did not just show what you wanted to see, it took what you loved most, until there was nothing left of you but emptiness. The mansion, once alive with the sounds of laughter and music, fell silent. Mirah’s once radiant beauty began to fade. Her face grew pale and gaunt, her eyes sunken as if the mirror had already begun to claim her. But what was most unsettling was her reflection. It grew darker, shifting each day, her image no longer her own. As Mirah spiraled into madness, the mansion itself began to change. The once-grand hall grew cold, the walls blackened, and strange, haunting whispers filled the empty corridors. The villagers, who had heard of the strange occurrences within Mirah’s Keep, began to speak of the house as a cursed place. It was said that anyone who dared look into the mirror would be trapped within its depths, doomed to spend eternity staring at their own shattered soul. Years passed, and the mansion decayed. The world moved on, and the whispers of Mirah’s story became little more than a faint echo in the wind. But the mirror—oh, the mirror—remained. Then, one day, a young traveler named Eamon, seeking shelter from a storm, stumbled upon the mansion. He was weary and lost, his journey having taken him far from his home. As he entered the mansion, the heavy door creaking open, he felt a strange chill fill the air. The dust that had settled over the place gave off a musty scent, and the floorboards groaned beneath his feet as he explored the empty rooms. It was when he entered the grand hall that he saw it—the mirror. Its surface was clouded with age, but still, it stood majestic, towering over him like a sentient being, waiting. Drawn to it, Eamon approached, not knowing the history it carried. As his reflection appeared in the glass, he froze. For a moment, he didn’t recognize the person staring back at him. It wasn’t just his face that seemed off, it was... his eyes. They were wide, terrified—haunted by something he could not understand. But the reflection didn’t stop there. Slowly, impossibly, the figure in the mirror began to change, its features warping, twisting into something dark, something alien. The face morphed into that of a gaunt, pale woman, her eyes hollow and unblinking. Eamon gasped as her lips curled into a smile. “You should not have come here,” the figure whispered, her voice like the rustling of dry leaves. “Now you are mine.” The air grew cold, the walls seemed to close in, and Eamon’s heart pounded in his chest. He tried to turn and flee, but the reflection in the mirror reached out with long, bony fingers, pulling him into the glass. The last thing Eamon saw was his own terrified expression as the world around him went dark, the mirror’s surface rippling with his own trapped soul. And in that forsaken mansion, the mirror waited, its surface calm once more—silent, patient, as it had always been. The End
By Lucien Hollow about a year ago in Horror
The Whispering Shadows
It was a cold autumn night when Emma and her friends decided to take a shortcut home. They had spent the evening at a late Halloween party, surrounded by laughter, costumes, and way too much punch. But as the clock ticked past midnight, the fun began to wear thin. Emma, feeling both the excitement and the eerie emptiness of the night, suggested that they cut through the woods behind her house to get home faster. "You know, it's just a quick walk. We won’t even get dirty!" Emma had said, already thinking about the warm bed waiting at home. Her best friend, Mia, hesitated. "Are you sure? I don’t like walking through the woods after dark… It’s creepy." "Oh, come on. We’ll be fine. We’ve walked through there a hundred times," Emma laughed, pushing her hood up over her head. The trees, tall and dense with their fiery orange and red leaves, seemed to loom even darker as the wind started to pick up. Despite Mia’s concerns, the group of four—Emma, Mia, and their two other friends, Jason and Sam—set off into the woods. The path was narrow, a dirt trail flanked by towering trees that made the moonlight barely visible through the branches. The cool night air mixed with the scent of fallen leaves, and the further they walked, the quieter everything seemed. They spoke less, their steps becoming quieter, as though the woods themselves were swallowing their voices. As they walked, Emma began to feel something shift in the air. The silence seemed too thick, almost oppressive. Her usual sense of adventure was gone, replaced with a creeping sense of unease. It was like the trees were closing in, watching them. "Alright, who’s playing pranks?" Sam suddenly asked, his voice unnervingly loud in the stillness. "What are you talking about?" Jason asked, looking back at Sam, confused. "I heard something," Sam replied, his voice lower now. "A whisper, like someone was talking just behind me." "Stop messing around," Mia said, her eyes darting nervously to the side. "It’s just the wind." But Sam wasn’t convinced. "No, seriously… I swear someone was right behind me." Emma felt a chill race down her spine. It wasn’t just the temperature—it was the feeling of being watched. She turned to Jason, who was ahead of her, and saw that his face was pale. "Guys… I think we need to hurry up," Jason said, his voice tight. "I don’t know why, but… something feels off." The group quickened their pace, but the atmosphere of the woods only seemed to grow thicker, heavier. The shadows around them began to shift, almost as if they were moving independently of the trees. Emma could swear she saw something flitting just beyond her peripheral vision, something tall, with long limbs. She spun around to look, but there was nothing there—just the empty darkness of the forest. A twig snapped loudly behind them. Everyone froze. "Did you hear that?" Mia whispered, her voice trembling. "Yeah," Jason said, his eyes wide with fear. "Someone’s following us." The group began to walk faster, but no matter how quickly they moved, it felt like the woods were stretching further and further, their path becoming more and more winding. The rustling of leaves grew louder, but no one was there. It felt like the trees were closing in on them, each shadow more ominous than the last. Suddenly, Mia screamed. Emma whipped around to find Mia standing stock-still, her face frozen in terror. She pointed a trembling finger toward a thick stand of trees. "Something’s there!" she gasped. Emma strained her eyes to see, but there was nothing. Just darkness, and then… a shadow. It was tall, but so tall that it didn’t seem to fit with the trees. The limbs, if you could call them that, were unnaturally long, stretching out from the body in a twisted, grotesque way. The shadow seemed to ripple, its form not quite human, not quite anything Emma could describe. "Run!" Emma yelled, but the words came out strangled, like they had been caught in her throat. The group sprinted through the woods, branches slapping against their faces, leaves crunching underfoot. But the faster they ran, the further the dark figure seemed to chase them, getting closer and closer, until Emma could feel the chill of its presence on the back of her neck. It was like being pursued by a shadow that wasn’t bound by the rules of reality. "Where’s the way out?" Sam cried. "We’re going in circles!" "I don’t know!" Emma shouted, panic rising in her chest. "I thought we were almost out of here!" But the path was no longer familiar. The woods had changed. The trees, once standing like sentinels, now seemed to bend inward, blocking any hint of light. The sound of their footsteps was muffled, and the whispering began again. Soft at first, like a breeze through the leaves, but it grew louder and louder, a cacophony of voices, all muttering, all speaking at once. It wasn’t English, or anything Emma could understand—it was a language older than time, twisted and incomprehensible. "Help!" Mia screamed, her voice breaking through the whispers. "Help us, please!" But no one answered. Then, it happened. A hand, cold and skeletal, reached out of the shadows and grabbed Mia by the wrist, pulling her into the darkness. Emma screamed and tried to reach for her, but Mia’s hand slipped from hers like sand. There was no sound—no scream, no struggle, just a soft rustle of leaves as if Mia had never been there. "NO!" Sam yelled, his voice full of terror. "We have to get out of here!" "Don’t you understand?" Jason said, his voice hoarse. "It’s too late. We’re already trapped." The realization hit Emma like a physical blow. They weren’t lost. They weren’t being chased. They had crossed into something else. The woods were alive—alive in a way they could never understand. It had been watching them, waiting for the moment when they’d walk too far. The whispers grew louder, and Emma turned to face them, to confront whatever it was, but there was nothing there—just the endless shadows stretching out before her. Then, she saw it. A figure, standing at the edge of the forest. It was tall, its limbs elongated, its eyes glowing with an unnatural light. And in its hand, it held Mia’s lifeless body, her eyes wide open, staring at Emma with a look of absolute terror. It stepped forward, slowly, its shadow stretching far longer than anything in the moonlight. Its mouth opened, revealing sharp, jagged teeth. And as it spoke, Emma’s blood froze in her veins. "You shouldn’t have come," it whispered. "This is my forest now." And just like that, Emma was pulled into the shadows, her screams swallowed by the forest that had come to life. When the morning sun finally broke through the trees, the forest was silent once again. The path was empty, and there was no sign of Emma, Mia, or the others. Just the whispering of the wind through the trees, as though nothing had ever happened. But if you listen closely, just as the sun sets and the shadows grow long, you might still hear the whispers—calling, waiting for the next unsuspecting soul to wander too far into the woods.
By Lucien Hollow about a year ago in Horror
Footprints in the Fog
By Ikhtisham Hayat It began on a Wednesday. Michael had just moved into the old apartment on the corner of Willow Street—a second-floor unit in a building that hadn't seen fresh paint in years. The rent was cheap, and he didn’t mind the creaky floors or the fog that clung stubbornly to the windows each morning. He was alone, newly single, and the silence suited him. But the footprints didn't. That morning, groggy and half-blind without coffee, Michael walked into the hallway and stopped mid-step. The carpet, dull green and flattened from years of wear, was wet—not just damp, but soaked. More troubling were the footprints: barefoot, small, and muddy, trailing from his bedroom door to the front door. He stared. They weren’t his. He lived alone. At first, he convinced himself it was a prank. Maybe the maintenance guy had come in and tracked dirt. But when he checked the lock, it was still bolted from the inside. No signs of tampering. No broken window. Nothing. He cleaned up the mess and went to work, brushing it off as strange but explainable. Thursday morning, they were back. Same size. Same path. This time, Michael didn’t just stare—he followed them. They ended at the door, but didn’t start from the bedroom like before. Now, they began halfway down the hall, as if someone had appeared in the middle of the night. He checked every corner of the apartment. Closets. Cabinets. Even under the bed. Nothing. And yet the muddy prints sat there, fading slowly into the carpet as the fog outside thickened against the windows. By Friday, he wasn’t sleeping. He kept the lights on. Set up his phone to record the hallway overnight. In the morning, the prints were there again—but the phone had stopped recording at 2:17 AM. It simply shut off, battery drained, even though it had been fully charged. When he turned it back on, the camera app was frozen, like it had been forced closed. Michael’s hands trembled as he wiped the latest set of footprints, darker than before, like the mud had seeped into the floor itself. He called the landlord, asked if someone had ever died there. The landlord laughed it off. “People ask that all the time,” he said. “Old building. It creaks. Things settle. Your mind plays tricks.” Michael didn’t laugh.
By Ikhtisham Hayatabout a year ago in Horror
The Room That Wasn’t There
Okay, so listen. I gotta tell you about this super weird thing that happened to my friend Lucas last summer. Like, it still gives me goosebumps just thinking about it. Lucas and his family moved into this old house in a town called Pine Hollow. The house was huge, with creaky wooden floors and a dusty attic and those big windows that always look kinda spooky at night. But the weirdest thing about the house was how it sometimes felt bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside. You know how in cartoons, a tiny box can hold a million things? Like that.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The House That Listens
Eliza Thorne arrived at the old cottage just after sunset, her car tires crunching over gravel as a cold wind stirred the surrounding pines. She had rented the place for an entire month—no neighbors, no distractions, just her and her stubborn manuscript. The listing promised it was “perfect for writers,” and she desperately needed that now more than ever. Her novel was overdue, her creative well had run dry, and her agent’s calls had stopped. Yet, standing before the house, with ivy crawling up the cracked stone walls and the scent of damp earth heavy in the air, Eliza felt a strange stirring inside her chest—was it hope? Or something darker, something ancient?
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Horror
