Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
The Room Upstairs
The first time I saw the photograph, I didn't recognize the face. It was tucked behind the loose panel in the hallway upstairs, the one that always clicked when you walked past after dark. We'd lived in the house six months before I found it—a black-and-white photo folded neatly and wedged between the laths, as though it had been waiting.
By Lucien v. Crowabout a year ago in Horror
The Haunted Train and the Scary Pumpkin
The village of Chandpur was small, quiet, and surrounded by dense forests. But hidden beneath its peaceful appearance was a long-forgotten legend — the tale of Mohini, a witch so powerful and evil that the villagers had once trapped her spirit inside a cursed pumpkin and sealed it aboard an abandoned train. That train was sent into the forest and never seen again.
By Masih Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
The Basement Door That Wasn't There Yesterday
Hey, wanna hear a scary story? One of those that sounds made-up, but feels just real enough to make you check the corners of your room tonight? This story is about a kid named Jamie, who found a door in his basement that wasn’t there before. Not a tiny crack, not a hidden panel—an actual wooden door with black hinges and a knob that looked like an old eyeball. No one in his family knew how it got there. But Jamie? He opened it anyway. And that’s when everything started to go wrong. Chapter 1: The New House Jamie had just moved with his parents and his older sister, Tessa, to a small town called Red Hollow. It was the kind of place where nothing exciting ever happened. The biggest event of the year was the Pumpkin Parade, and even that ended by 7 p.m. The house they moved into was old—like, creaky-floorboards-and-random-cold-spots old. But it was big, and it had a giant backyard, so Jamie didn’t complain. Except for the basement. From the very first day, Jamie hated it. It smelled like wet dirt and old socks, and sometimes it made weird tapping noises—like fingers drumming against wood. “Probably mice,” his dad said. But mice don’t whisper. Chapter 2: The Door Appears One morning, Jamie went downstairs to grab a soda from the basement fridge. And there it was. A door. In the back corner. Where yesterday there had just been brick wall. He blinked. It was tall, almost to the ceiling. Painted black. Its doorknob looked like it was made of yellowed glass—or maybe… an eyeball? He ran upstairs. “Mom! There’s a weird door in the basement!” His mom looked confused. “You mean the furnace room?” “No! It’s new! I swear!” But when she came down… the door was gone. Just bricks. Chapter 3: Night Whispers That night, Jamie had trouble sleeping. He kept hearing the tapping again. Except this time, it was above his room. In the attic. And then it moved to the wall behind his bed. Tap. Tap. Tap. He sat up, holding his breath. A whisper followed. “You saw me.” Jamie jumped up, turned on the light. Nothing. But the tapping continued. All. Night. Long. Chapter 4: Tessa Gets Curious Tessa didn’t believe Jamie at first. Until two days later—she saw the door too. She went downstairs to get laundry and ran back up two minutes later, pale and shaking. “You’re right,” she whispered. “It’s there.” Their parents still didn’t believe them. “You two are spending too much time on horror movies,” their dad said. So that night, Jamie and Tessa decided to record the door on Jamie’s phone. They crept downstairs, careful not to wake anyone. And yes—the door was there. This time, it was slightly open. Just a crack. Enough to feel cold air leaking through. And a low sound. Like… breathing. Chapter 5: The Video Back in Jamie’s room, they watched the recording. But when they played the video… The door wasn’t there. Just an empty wall. Jamie tapped the screen. “What the heck?!” Tessa leaned closer. “Wait—what’s that?” In the lower corner of the video, barely visible, a pair of white eyes glowed in the dark. Watching them. Chapter 6: The Note Under the Pillow The next morning, Jamie woke up to find a folded paper under his pillow. His name was written in dark red ink. Inside, it said: “YOU OPENED IT. NOW IT WANTS OUT.” He dropped the note like it was on fire. Tessa ran into the room holding her own. Same handwriting. Hers said: “DON’T SLEEP TONIGHT.” Chapter 7: The Night They Stayed Awake Jamie and Tessa decided to stay awake together, with flashlights and snacks. At exactly 2:17 a.m., the power went out. The house went dead silent. And then the tapping started again. But this time, it was louder. Angrier. Like something trying to claw its way through. They held hands and listened. Scritch. Scritch. Tap. THUD. Then a voice whispered right outside Jamie’s bedroom door: “Let me in.” Tessa grabbed the doorknob and held it tight. The knob twisted. Click. Click. But it never opened. They didn’t sleep that night. Chapter 8: The Hidden History The next day, they snuck into the town library and asked the oldest librarian about their address. Her face went pale when she heard the street name. “Oh… that house,” she whispered. “I thought it was demolished.” “Why?” Jamie asked. She pulled out an old newspaper. The headline read: “Family Vanishes. Only Door Left Behind.” The article was from 1963. It said a family disappeared overnight. No sign of struggle. Just a strange black door in the basement that had never been there before. The house was sealed off. Until someone rebuilt it. Their house. Chapter 9: Facing the Door That night, they knew what they had to do. No more running. They crept down into the basement together. The door was wide open now. And beyond it was… a hallway. Dark. Wet. Breathing. They stepped inside. The walls closed behind them. Inside the hallway, they heard whispers: “We were hungry.” “You opened it.” “Now you stay.” They ran. Through twisting halls, mirrors, hands reaching from the dark. But then—Tessa slipped. She screamed, and Jamie turned back. But she was already being dragged away. Into the shadows. Gone. Chapter 10: The Locked Room Jamie woke up in his bed. His parents were acting normal. Like Tessa had never existed. Her room? Empty. Her name? Gone from family photos. At school? No one remembered her. But Jamie did. He always would. And the door? Still there. Waiting. Epilogue: Your Turn They say some doors shouldn’t be opened. They’re not locked to keep you out—they’re locked to keep something else in. And if you ever find one? Don’t listen when it whispers. Don’t look when it breathes. And never open it… …unless you’re ready to be forgotten too.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Mirror That Remembers
Hey, wanna hear a scary story? I’m serious, this one’s not like those cheesy ghost stories where you can guess what happens. This one? It actually happened to someone I know. Well, a friend of a friend’s cousin. But still—people talk about it like it’s real. I’ll tell it to you like a friend, the way you tell someone a secret that still gives you chills. It all started with a mirror. Not a magic mirror, not a mirror in a castle or anything. Just a regular, dusty old mirror in a school hallway. But there was something wrong with it. And the first kid who noticed? Her name was Riley. Chapter 1: The Mirror No One Cleaned Riley was 12. Smart. Kinda quiet. She liked sketching monsters in her notebook and reading books about space and ghosts. She wasn’t the type to go looking for trouble. But she noticed things. Like how everyone at Pinebrook Middle School walked past the mirror in Hall B but never looked into it. You’d think a big mirror—almost seven feet tall, shaped like an old grandfather clock—would attract attention, right? But no one ever stopped. Teachers rushed past it. Students acted like it wasn’t there. Even the janitor never wiped it down. Riley thought that was weird. So one day… she looked. Chapter 2: Not Her Reflection It was late. Riley stayed after school to help the art teacher. She walked down Hall B alone, the floors quiet and the lights buzzing overhead. She stopped in front of the mirror. It was dusty. Cracked in one corner. But she could still see her reflection. Except… it wasn’t quite right. Her reflection smiled first. She didn’t. It raised its hand slowly. She didn’t move. Then it winked. Riley stumbled back, heart racing. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, looked again. Now the mirror showed her as normal. Like nothing had happened. But it had. Chapter 3: The Library Clue The next day, Riley searched the school library for any stories about the mirror. The school was old—over 100 years. There had to be something. And sure enough, buried in a dusty yearbook from 1974, she found a photo. The mirror was in it. Right behind a group of kids. But one kid—right in front of the mirror—had no face. Just… blank skin. She showed it to her friend Eli. “It’s probably just a messed-up photo,” he said. But his voice shook a little. That night, Riley had a dream. She was standing in front of the mirror. And her reflection whispered: “I see you now.” Chapter 4: The Vanishing The next week, a kid named Jonah went missing. No one talked about it much. Teachers got weird. The principal said he had transferred. But Riley saw his locker. His books were still there. And then she remembered—Jonah had been staring at the mirror during lunch the day before he vanished. She went back and checked the mirror again. There was a handprint on the inside. Like someone had slapped the other side of the glass. Like someone was trapped inside. Chapter 5: The Dare Riley told Eli everything. He thought she was joking… until he looked into the mirror himself. And saw his own face smiling… with way too many teeth. They made a plan. That Friday night, during the school’s fall festival, they would sneak back in and record what the mirror showed after dark. They brought a flashlight. A camera. Salt (because of something Riley read online about spirits). And a hammer—just in case. When they got to Hall B, the mirror was already glowing. Not brightly. Just faint. Like a TV on mute. The reflection of the hallway looked… off. Like it was made of shadows. They turned on the camera. Eli stepped forward. And the mirror reached out. Chapter 6: Pulled In It happened fast. A hand—thin, bony, and gray—burst through the glass and grabbed Eli’s arm. He screamed. Riley tried to pull him back, but the mirror was like a vacuum. It sucked the air around them. The hallway lights flickered. Riley had one second to decide. And she jumped in after him. Chapter 7: The Backside Inside the mirror, everything looked twisted. Hall B was there… but the lockers were bleeding rust. The floors were sticky. The ceiling had no lights—just blinking, black eyes watching them. Eli was frozen. Pale. Riley pulled him up, and they started running. Behind them, their own reflections chased them—smiling, giggling, crawling like spiders on the walls. “This isn’t the school!” Eli shouted. “No,” Riley said. “It’s the mirror’s version of the school.” “Why does it exist?” Riley swallowed hard. “Because it remembers everyone who looks at it.” Chapter 8: The Room of Echoes They hid inside what used to be the library. Books whispered. Pages turned by themselves. Then, from the dark shelves, a voice said: “You shouldn’t have looked.” It was Jonah. Pale, empty-eyed, and smiling. “You can’t leave,” he said. “Not unless it lets you.” “What is it?!” Riley shouted. He pointed at the mirror. “A collector. It takes your reflection. Then your face. Then your voice. Until you're just… gone.” Riley reached into her pocket. She still had the salt. Chapter 9: One Shot She poured a circle of salt around herself and Eli. The reflections screamed and hissed, but they couldn’t enter. Riley smashed the mirror fragment she had carried in her pocket. There was a sound like thunder and shattering glass. The world twisted. And they were back. In Hall B. On the floor. The mirror? Still there. Untouched. But now, it was covered… with hundreds of handprints on the inside. Chapter 10: Never Look Again No one believed them. Jonah was still “transferred.” The mirror was still there. But Riley and Eli never walked past it again. They told their friends to avoid Hall B. They warned new students. And every year, the mirror gained a new handprint. One more face it remembered. One more soul it was waiting for. So, if you ever walk past a big old mirror—especially in a school—don’t stop. Don’t look. And whatever you do… Don’t let it see you first. Because some mirrors? They don’t show reflections. They collect them.
By Lucien Hollow about a year ago in Horror
The House That Spoke at Midnight
The house at the end of Willow Lane had been empty for decades. Children dared each other to run up to the porch and knock on the front door, but none ever made it past the rusted gate. The older folks whispered that it once belonged to a writer who vanished in the middle of the night, leaving behind a manuscript no one ever found. Sarah Clayton, 16, didn’t believe in ghost stories. She believed in logic, and in the comforting weight of books and facts. But one thing she did believe in — fiercely — was stories. As an aspiring writer, she often wandered around old places for inspiration. That’s what brought her to the fence of the Hawthorn House, just as the sky turned orange on the last day of October. It was Halloween. Midnight was a few hours away. “I bet there’s nothing in there but dust and raccoons,” she mumbled, pushing open the gate. It groaned like a warning, but she stepped through. The porch creaked under her sneakers. The door wasn’t locked — in fact, it opened the moment she touched the knob, as if it had been waiting. Inside, the air smelled of paper and rain. Cobwebs hung like curtains. Dust blanketed the furniture like a snowstorm frozen in time. She took out her phone, using its flashlight to navigate. Books lined the walls in the front room. An ancient typewriter sat on a desk near the fireplace. “This place is a gold mine,” she whispered, pulling out her notebook. “Perfect for a haunted house story.” Then, the fireplace flared to life. Sarah yelped and dropped her phone. It clattered on the floor, light flickering across the walls. And then… the whisper came. > “You came to finish the story.” Sarah froze. Her breath caught in her throat. “Who said that?” No reply — just the crackling of fire and the tick of a clock somewhere deep in the house. She picked up her phone and turned in a slow circle. The house was empty. She should’ve run. Any sane person would have. But the writer in her… was intrigued. “What story?” she asked aloud. > “The one I never finished. The one that must be told.” The typewriter on the desk clicked once. Cautiously, Sarah stepped forward. One word had been typed: STAY. --- The air shifted. The walls seemed to lean in, listening. Sarah sat down in the dusty chair and placed her fingers on the keys. They moved on their own. Not pulling her, but guiding her — as if the story lived inside the machine, waiting to be released. She typed for hours. The story poured out: a tale of a boy who found a mirror that showed the future, and how knowing too much unraveled everything he loved. It wasn’t her idea. The words didn’t feel like hers. But she couldn’t stop. Midnight struck. The fireplace died out. And then the final words typed themselves: “The story ends when the next writer begins.” Suddenly, the house was silent. Lifeless. Sarah stood, trembling. The room was cold again. The typewriter sat still. No whispers. No fire. Just silence. But her notebook was full. Every word she'd typed had somehow transferred to the pages. A complete story — better than anything she’d ever written. She left the house quietly, closing the door behind her. --- Over the next month, strange things happened. She submitted the story to a national writing contest — and won first place. Publishers reached out. A literary agent called her a “prodigy.” But Sarah couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. One night, she dreamed of the house again. In her dream, the typewriter was clicking. And a new girl — someone else — was sitting in the chair, her fingers moving just as Sarah’s had. And the whisper said again: > “The story ends when the next writer begins.” --- Ten years later Willow Lane had changed. New homes, new people. But the house still stood, untouched and untouched by time. A girl named Emma was walking home from a Halloween party. She’d just turned sixteen and wanted to be a writer. She’d heard the stories about the haunted house at the end of the road. Everyone said it was just a myth. But when she pushed open the gate, it didn’t creak. And when she knocked, the door opened on its own. Inside, the fireplace glowed. And a whisper said:
By Abdul Musawer about a year ago in Horror
Improvised play PART 4. AI-Generated.
Maor woke up suddenly. Not frightened, not sweating—just awake, like someone who hadn’t truly slept. He rose from the bed, took a deep breath, and began descending the stairs quietly, one step at a time, as if each movement might awaken something dormant in the house. His three-story apartment in the heart of Tel Aviv was supposed to be a safe haven. In fact, it was exactly that—at least on paper. Three well-ordered floors: an entrance level with a bright living room, a functional kitchen, and a guest toilet. The second floor held his bedroom, a guest room turned storage filled with old clothes, shoes, and buried memories, along with a spacious bathroom. And the third floor—a rooftop level, with open air, one more room, and a small bathroom that always felt slightly out of place.
By ADIR SEGALabout a year ago in Horror
The Man Who Borrowed My Face
A few months ago, I downloaded this face-filter app called TrueFace AI. It wasn’t like TikTok filters. This one was supposed to be “hyper-real” — for people who want to look slightly better in Zoom calls, or on stream. I thought I’d try it once, maybe for a laugh.
By huzaifa Khanabout a year ago in Horror
AM I PREETY? 😈😈
The night air in the small village of Sakamura hung heavy with fog. Crickets had long gone quiet, and even the wind seemed afraid to whisper. Beneath a pale moon, narrow streets wound between old houses like veins, pulsing with a fear no one dared to name. The villagers had always whispered of something that walked after dark. Something cursed. Something that once used to be human. High above the village rooftops, a streetlight flickered like a failing heartbeat. Its dim glow spilled over a quiet sidewalk where a boy of sixteen trudged alone, his schoolbag weighing more than usual on his back. Kenji Nakamura had stayed late after cram school to prepare for his university entrance exams. He lived with his grandmother, who always warned him not to take the long road through the old district after sundown. But tonight, he was tired. The shortcut through the abandoned part of town would save him fifteen minutes. He told himself he didn't believe in ghost stories anyway. Until he saw her. At the end of the street, standing beneath the sputtering streetlamp, was a woman in a beige coat. Her long, black hair covered most of her face, and a surgical mask wrapped tightly around her mouth. She stood unnaturally still, as though the world had stopped moving just for her. Kenji froze. "Maybe she needs help," he whispered to himself, though his voice trembled. He took a step forward. The woman looked up. Her eyes locked with his. Then she spoke. "Am I pretty?" Her voice was soft, almost kind. Kenji hesitated. The story his classmates told in hushed tones came rushing back. They had laughed nervously, but now the memory brought no comfort. “Just say yes,” they had told him. “Always say yes.” Kenji managed a nod. “Y-yes. You’re pretty.” The woman tilted her head. Slowly, she reached up to her face and pulled down the mask. Kenji’s breath caught in his throat. Her mouth had been split open from ear to ear. Her lips were stretched into a grotesque, permanent smile, the flesh jagged and scarred, teeth exposed like broken glass. Blood crusted the corners of her mouth. “Am I still pretty?” she asked again, her tone darker, more deliberate. Kenji’s knees buckled. He stumbled back. “Y-yes... You’re beautiful,” he stammered. For a moment, silence. Then, she grinned wider. “Liar.” She lunged. Kenji screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the night. The streetlight above him died with a pop. The next morning, villagers gathered around a small alley just behind the old bakery. Kenji’s body was found sprawled in the dirt, eyes wide with horror, mouth slit open from ear to ear. A single line was carved into the ground beside his corpse, written in his own blood: "She is still pretty." THE END. Please drop a comment after reading and follow CreepVille
By CreepVille Horror Storiesabout a year ago in Horror
The Woman at the Door
I was twelve when I first saw her. It was a rainy Thursday night, the kind where thunder rumbled so loud the windows shook. I had just gotten out of the shower, and the house was already too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your chest feel heavy, like the air itself is warning you to run. My little brother, Eli, was already asleep. I passed his room on the way to mine and paused to pull his covers tighter over him. He looked so small, barely seven years old. He had this habit of kicking off his blanket while sleeping, and Mom always said he’d catch a cold like that. I left his door slightly open and headed to my room across the hall. The first sign that something was wrong came at 2:47 a.m. I woke suddenly, no sound, no movement, just this cold pressure sitting on my chest. Not sleep paralysis. I could move. But I didn’t want to. Because she was there. Standing at the edge of my doorway, half in shadow, half bathed in pale moonlight, was a woman. Blood-red skin. Black eyes like holes dug into her skull. And her hair—shoulder-length, jet black, and deathly still despite the breeze from my fan. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe. She only stared. And then, slowly, she raised one arm and pointed. Not at me. At Eli’s door. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. My tongue felt like stone in my mouth. I blinked once. She vanished. I jumped up, heart slamming in my chest, and ran straight to Eli’s room. He was still in bed, sleeping soundly, as if nothing had happened. But his skin… It was pale before. That soft peachy tone of a healthy kid. But now, it had a faint red hue, almost like the beginning of a sunburn. I shook him awake. “Eli,” I whispered. “Eli, wake up.” He opened his eyes slowly, groggy, confused. “What?” he mumbled, rubbing his face. “Do you feel okay? Does your skin hurt?” He blinked at me, his lip quivering slightly. “She was here.” My blood ran cold. “Who?” “The red woman. She stood by my bed.” By morning, Eli had a fever. His skin was redder. My mom brushed it off as a viral infection. “Kids catch things,” she said, preparing a bowl of soup. “You’re just stressed, that’s all.” But I knew. Over the next three days, Eli’s condition worsened. His eyes sunk deeper, his lips cracked, and he became thinner. He barely ate. He barely spoke. Except when he slept. At night, he whispered things. Horrible things. “She’s watching me.” “She’s in the corner.” “She wants me to go with her.” I recorded him once. I wanted proof. But the audio was corrupted the next morning. A screeching static replaced his voice. I played it again and again, trying to find something useful. But then I heard it—hidden behind the noise. A woman’s laugh. Not loud. Not mocking. A slow, breathy chuckle like she was savoring something. I stopped the recording and deleted it. I couldn’t sleep. I stayed up every night, watching his room from the hallway. Praying. Pleading silently for her not to return. But on the seventh night, she did. It started with Eli screaming. I rushed into his room, Mom right behind me, and we both froze. He wasn’t on the bed. He was standing in the middle of the room, back arched, eyes rolled up into his head. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, and his hands were twisted like claws. A red glow flickered across his skin, as if his veins were glowing. Then she stepped from the corner. Not from the doorway. From the shadows themselves. Her black eyes met mine. And she smiled. “Give him to me,” she said, voice low, crackling, like dry leaves burning. “No!” I shouted. I ran to Eli and wrapped my arms around him. Mom was screaming. Crying. Praying out loud. “She’s not real!” she kept yelling. “It’s a dream! Wake up!” But it wasn’t a dream. The woman raised her hand again. And this time, she pointed at me. “I’ll come back for you,” she said. Then everything went black. Eli died that night. The doctors said it was some kind of organ failure, sudden and unexplainable. No illness. No virus. Nothing in his blood. Just death. His face was frozen in terror. Eyes wide, lips parted in a silent scream. Skin red like fresh blood. Mom never spoke of it again. She moved us to a new town. Burned his clothes. Removed every picture of him from the house. Said it was the only way she could cope. But I couldn’t forget. I saw her. I heard her. And she wasn’t done with me. Months passed. I tried to live normally. Went to school. Tried making friends. But the fear never left. Until one night, while brushing my teeth, I glanced up at the mirror. She was behind me. No reflection. No noise. Just her. Smiling. She leaned forward and whispered into my ear. “You blinked.” I screamed and dropped to the floor. When Mom rushed in, I begged her to believe me. I cried for hours. But she just held me and repeated, “It’s the trauma, baby. It’s just the trauma.” I stopped talking about it after that. But she kept showing up. In the mirror. In the windows. Reflected on my phone screen when it was off. She was always there. Watching. Waiting. The End...... What's the word count? Of the story above?
By CreepVille Horror Storiesabout a year ago in Horror
