Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
The Real Ghost in Room 313
I never believed I would be the person who writes one of these stories. Ghosts were the stuff of old family tales, or movies you watch when you want to scare yourself on a rainy night. I used to laugh when people said they’d seen a ghost, until I checked into a run-down hotel off Highway 22 one cold October night, and ended up in Room 313.
By Express Laneabout a year ago in Horror
The Unbreakable Bond
Life often surprises us in the most unexpected ways. Sometimes with joy, sometimes with sorrow, but always with purpose. This is the story of Zayan, a young man whose world turned upside down, only to discover that love, once planted deep in the heart, never truly fades. Zayan had always been close to his father, Saeed. More than just a parent, Saeed was his mentor, his cricket buddy, his confidant. He taught Zayan how to tie his shoelaces, ride a bicycle, and face life with courage. His deep voice would echo through the house every morning with a cheerful “Rise and shine, champ!” And no matter how rough the day had been, it ended with a cup of chai and his father’s wisdom shared on their old rooftop under the stars. But nothing lasts forever. It was a regular Wednesday morning when Zayan received the phone call. A traffic accident. A rushed drive to the hospital. And just like that—silence. The man who had been his guiding light was gone. The days that followed were a blur. Friends came and went. Prayers were whispered. Condolences poured in. But nothing could fill the hollow ache in Zayan’s chest. His home felt different. Empty. The laughter was missing. The rooftop had turned cold. Zayan stopped going to college. He didn’t touch his cricket bat. His journal lay closed, collecting dust. Life felt meaningless without the one person who made everything make sense. One evening, weeks after the funeral, Zayan found himself in his father’s study. He sat in Saeed’s old chair, the leather still holding his scent. As he reached for a drawer, he discovered a sealed envelope addressed to him. It read: "To my champion Zayan, in case I’m no longer around..." His hands trembled as he opened it. The letter wasn’t long, but every word felt like Saeed was sitting right there. "My son, if you're reading this, then life has taken its course. I won’t ask you not to cry, because grief is love that has nowhere to go. But remember, I am always with you. In your smile. In your courage. In every act of kindness you show. Live for me, not in sorrow, but in strength. Don’t stop dreaming. Don’t stop loving. And never stop being you." Tears streamed down Zayan’s face. For the first time in weeks, he let himself cry—really cry—not from pain, but from the overwhelming reminder of the love that still surrounded him. That night, he went to the rooftop, looked at the stars, and whispered, “I’m still your champ, Abu.” From that moment, something shifted. Zayan began to rebuild. Slowly, but surely. He returned to college. He picked up his bat again. And he began writing—letters to his father, memories he cherished, and stories of hope. He turned grief into strength and pain into purpose. Months later, he launched a blog called “Echoes of Love”—a space for people grieving the loss of loved ones. It became a safe haven for thousands across the world. People from all walks of life shared stories, poems, photos, and messages. It wasn’t just a blog. It was a movement—born from loss, built on love. Every month, Zayan would host a live session, where he’d read letters written by people to those they lost. He ended each session the same way: “They may be gone from our sight, but never from our soul.” One day, a woman named Meher wrote in. She had lost her brother and had been unable to cope. Zayan responded personally. They exchanged thoughts, tears, and healing words. Over time, they became friends, supporting each other in their healing journeys. Slowly, what began in sorrow blossomed into something beautiful. Two years after Saeed’s passing, Zayan stood on that same rooftop, now holding Meher’s hand, both looking at the stars. “This place gave me pain, but it also gave me strength,” Zayan said. Meher smiled, “And it gave you a purpose.” Zayan nodded. “And maybe even a second chance at happiness.”The bond Zayan shared with his father was never truly broken. It transformed. It grew through grief, through hope, through helping others. Because love, real love, doesn’t end. It echoes. It inspires. And in Zayan’s case, it built a legacy.
By Current affairs about a year ago in Horror
The Walk Home
The Walk Home By [Zia Urrehman] Every day after school, I take the long way home. Not because the view is nice—it's mostly cracked sidewalks, flickering street lamps, and the occasional barking dog—but because of the house on the corner. Mrs. DeLaney’s house.
By Zia Urrehmanabout a year ago in Horror
I Am Only a Reflection. Content Warning.
I don’t remember when I stopped being me. I think it happened quietly. Like everything else in my life. Like the day I started signing his name on the electric bill instead of mine. Or when I stopped wearing perfume because he said it gave him a headache. Or when I looked in the mirror and realized I didn’t recognize the shape of my own mouth anymore.
By Anita Zielkeabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers of Miani Sahib. Content Warning.
The air was heavy with dust and abandoned prayers as Hamza walked through the broken gates of Miani Sahib Graveyard. The air held the smell of dry roses and incense, and the distant thrum of city sounds disappeared behind the walls. Within this sprawling necropolis more than 1,200,000 graves deep time had folded into stillness.
By Zubair Ullah Khanabout a year ago in Horror
No One Leaves the Lighthouse
The wind howled like a living thing, tearing at the cliffs and battering the lone lighthouse that stood against the endless gray of the sea. Inside, Keeper Elias Rowan lit the final lantern, his hands steady despite the storm that raged beyond the thick glass panes. His face, carved from years of solitude, betrayed no fear, no surprise. He knew this storm well. It came every year, on this very night.
By Waseem Khan about a year ago in Horror
The Mirror Never Lies
When Anna inherited the old Victorian house from her late aunt, she didn’t know what to expect. The house had been empty for years, its paint peeling, windows dusty, and floorboards creaking with each step. Yet, the moment she entered, one item caught her attention: a large, ornate mirror standing tall in the dim corner of the parlor.
By Story Masterabout a year ago in Horror
The last witness
Monday, July 12 – 08:00 AM The alarm rings. I open my eyes before the sound reaches me. It’s not the noise that wakes me up, it’s the habit. My body knows what’s coming. I sit up, letting my feet touch the cold floor. As always. I turn to the nightstand and tear off the calendar page. Monday. July 12.
By Kara Celine Amundsenabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Message
I never believed in ghosts. Not until my phone buzzed at exactly 3:17 AM—the same time my sister Emily died one year ago today. The message was simple: “Help me. It wasn’t an accident.” My blood ran cold. I sat up in bed, heart pounding so hard I could hear it echo in the room. Emily had died in a car crash on her way home from our family house in Brookwood. The official report said it was reckless driving. Everyone moved on. Everyone but me. Emily never drove fast. She was a rule-follower to the core. She never even jaywalked. I stared at the glowing screen. The message had come from her number. The same number that had been disconnected last winter. I’d tried calling it for weeks after she passed, desperate to hear her voice on the voicemail. Eventually, it went dead. So how could I receive this? I replied with shaking fingers: “Who is this? Is this some kind of joke?” Three dots appeared… then vanished. Nothing. At exactly 3:30 AM, another message appeared. A photo. It was dark and grainy, but I recognized it instantly: our childhood attic. The cracked window, the crooked lamp, and in the corner—the green wooden trunk we used to play hide-and-seek in. I hadn’t been to the house since the funeral. It had been left abandoned, like everything else from that life. I should have ignored it. Called the phone company. Blocked the number. But something in me—maybe grief, maybe guilt—drove me there that morning. --- The house was silent when I arrived. Peeling paint clung to the sides, vines creeping through the cracks. I found the key where we always kept it, under the third flowerpot. I climbed the attic stairs, the boards groaning under my weight. The air smelled like dust and time. The green trunk sat just where it always had. Inside, under old blankets and a moth-eaten scarf, was Emily’s journal. The leather cover was scratched, the pages yellowed. Most of the pages were innocent—lists, doodles, entries about school, about me. Then I found the torn page tucked deep in the binding. It was frantic, written in smudged pen. “He said if I told anyone, I’d disappear. But I have to leave clues. He can’t watch everything. The ring. Watch the ring.” At the bottom was a crude sketch. A circle with rays—like a sun—with a single eye in the middle. I froze. Jason. Her ex. He had a ring with that same symbol. I remembered how she hated it, said it creeped her out. He said it was from a “private group” he was part of. After her death, he didn’t even come to the funeral. --- I did something reckless. I took a photo of the journal page and sent it to Jason. No words. Just the image. He responded within minutes. “We need to talk. Alone.” --- We met at a coffee shop on the edge of town. I spotted him instantly—he looked thinner, older. Haunted. “You’ve been to the attic,” he said, voice low. “I know you lied about that night,” I said. He didn’t deny it. “She found out about the group,” he said. “We meet in secret. No names. No pasts. Just symbols.” “What did she find out?” I asked. He looked around, paranoid. “She found a file. On her dad’s laptop. Something he was hiding. About the group. About what they were doing with the town’s water supply—contracts, payoffs, cancer cases. She wasn’t supposed to see it.” My heart sank. Our father was the town’s chief engineer for twenty years. “She told me she was going to report it,” Jason continued. “I tried to stop her. I didn’t mean to hurt her.” I saw something flicker in his eyes. Regret—or fear? “She wasn’t dead,” he whispered. “When she fell. She was breathing. But they came. They finished it.” I didn’t want to believe him. But something in me already did. He pushed a flash drive across the table. “Everything she found is on this.” Then he got up and left. I never saw him again. --- The flash drive contained documents, audio files, and one grainy video from the night she died. It showed Emily arguing with Jason. Then two men—faces blurred—dragging her into her car. She didn’t crash. They drove her off the road. The video and documents were enough. Within weeks, arrests were made. The group was real. A cult-like circle embedded deep in our town’s leadership. My father… had been forced into it years ago. Emily’s discovery cost her life. --- The case went national. Her story sparked protests, new laws. Emily became a symbol of truth—of justice. But every year, on July 3rd at exactly 3:17 AM, I still receive a message. Always from her number. Always brief. Last night, it simply said: “I knew you’d come.” --- Author's Note: Sometimes the dead don’t want to haunt you. They just want to be heard.
By Kausar Hayat about a year ago in Horror
The House at Hollow Creek
They told us never to go near Hollow Creek. The stories varied—some spoke of restless spirits, others of people who vanished without a trace. As kids, we traded those tales like haunted currency, each of us swearing we’d never dare to approach the sagging house perched at the water’s edge.
By Waseem Khan about a year ago in Horror
"The Light Beyond"
The Light Beyond Emma was a photographer with a fascination for the forgotten—abandoned houses, decaying factories, and desolate, long-forgotten cemeteries. Her portfolio was filled with images of places that time seemed to have swallowed whole, and she reveled in capturing the haunting beauty of the empty, the decayed, the lost. Yet, beneath her passion for photography, there was an unease, a constant niggling feeling that something was watching her, waiting for her to take the next step.
By lony banzaabout a year ago in Horror
