Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
It Lives in the Sewers
Hey, wanna hear something really messed up? So there's this town called Derry. Sounds normal, right? Trees, bikes, ice cream trucks… but Derry has a secret. Every 27 years, something horrible wakes up under the town. And when it wakes up… kids start disappearing. It happened to this boy named Georgie.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Mirror in Room 12
It was a rain-heavy evening when Emily Rourke pulled her suitcase through the muddy gravel lot of the Hollow Pine Inn. She hadn’t meant to stop in the tiny town of Delmere, but the storm had grown too intense to drive through, and the glowing Vacancy sign felt like a beacon in the dark. The innkeeper, a pale woman named Marian with a permanent frown, handed over an old-fashioned brass key. "Room 12," she said, avoiding eye contact. "Top of the stairs. Don’t use the mirror." Emily blinked. "Excuse me?" Marian looked up then, her eyes rimmed red, as if from sleeplessness. "You’ll see it, but don’t look into it. Especially not at night." Emily half-laughed. “Is this some local legend thing?” “No,” Marian said quietly. “It’s just a warning.” Brushing it off as a tired local’s strange humor, Emily climbed the creaky staircase. Room 12 was at the far end of the hall. The key stuck slightly before turning with a reluctant click. Inside, the room was cleaner than she expected—warm, even cozy, with a large bed and a vintage writing desk. But as soon as she stepped inside, she saw it: the mirror. An ornate, tall, oval mirror stood in the corner. It had a thick black wood frame carved with twisting vines and faces — or what looked like faces. It dominated the room, drawing her attention like a magnet. Emily stared for a moment. Her reflection stared back. But something felt… off. Shrugging off a chill, she turned away, unpacked, and got ready for bed. --- At midnight, Emily awoke to a creaking sound. The wind? A tree branch? She sat up. The room was dark, save for the flickering glow of the streetlamp outside — which cast just enough light for her to see the mirror. Her reflection was not in it. Instead, a tall figure stood inside. Pale. Eyeless. And smiling. Emily froze. The air felt thick, heavy like water. The figure didn’t move—but the moment stretched, crawling over her skin like insects. Then, slowly, it raised a finger and pointed at her. She blinked, and it was gone. Her own frightened face stared back. --- In the morning, she convinced herself it was a dream. Lack of sleep, stress, or maybe a trick of the light. She decided she’d check out early—but Marian was nowhere to be found. Emily tried the front desk bell, knocked on doors, even stepped outside. The town was eerily quiet. Not even a car on the street. Her phone had no signal. Frustrated, she returned to Room 12. The mirror stood as it had before — but now something was different. A smudge. No — a handprint. From the inside. She snapped a photo with her phone, but the screen stayed black. That night, she didn’t sleep. She sat on the bed, lights on, watching the mirror. Just before 3 a.m., her reflection blinked — but she didn’t. Then it grinned. And stepped forward. Emily screamed. --- When Marian returned in the morning, Room 12 was silent. The bed was made. The suitcase gone. But the mirror had changed. Now, two figures stood in it. One eyeless, smiling. The other, wide-eyed and open-mouthed — a scream frozen forever. Marian didn’t enter. She never did. Instead, she hung a small sign on the doorknob: “Out of Order.” But she didn’t take the room off the books. She never did that, either. Sometimes people needed a place to stay. And some things… well, some things need company.
By Abdul Musawer about a year ago in Horror
🕯 Title: “The Whispers from Room 306”
It was a rainy Friday evening when Adeel checked into the Ridgewood Inn, a crumbling old hotel on the outskirts of town. He was traveling for work and needed a cheap place to stay the night. The sign outside flickered with broken neon: “WELCOME TO RIDGEW__D.” Inside, the lobby smelled of damp carpet and stale air. An old man at the desk barely looked up as Adeel walked in. “One night,” Adeel said, handing over his ID. The man’s eyes narrowed. “Room 306,” he mumbled, pushing a brass key across the counter. “Elevator’s out. Take the stairs.” As Adeel turned to go, the man added, almost as a whisper, “Don’t open the closet.” Adeel paused. “What?” The man smiled faintly. “Nothing. Enjoy your stay.” Thinking it was just a weird joke, Adeel climbed three flights of creaky wooden stairs. The hallway was dimly lit, lined with faded wallpaper and doors that hadn’t seen paint in decades. His room—306—was at the far end. He stepped inside. It was… fine. Old, but clean enough. A queen bed, a dusty mirror, an armchair near the window, and a large oak wardrobe in the corner. The rain tapped gently at the window as night fell. Adeel lay on the bed scrolling through his phone. No signal. Of course. He got up to plug in his charger, and as he passed the wardrobe, he noticed something strange. There was a piece of string tied around the handles, keeping it shut. Not a lock—just an old, fraying string. He remembered the old man’s words: Don’t open the closet. Now it felt less like a joke and more like a warning. Curiosity prickled his skin. He walked up to the wardrobe, stared at it for a moment… and untied the string. Nothing happened. He opened the door slowly. It was empty—just shadows, old hangers, and the faint scent of dust and cedar. He chuckled at himself. “Scared of an old wardrobe. Pathetic.” But as he turned to walk away, he heard it. A soft whisper. Faint. Dry. Like someone breathing secrets into his ear. He froze. He turned back to the wardrobe. Nothing. He leaned closer. Still nothing. Shaking his head, he sat back on the bed. Probably just the wind or the building settling. Old places make sounds. No big deal. Then the whisper came again. Clearer this time. “He opened it…” Adeel’s spine stiffened. He turned slowly. The wardrobe door was open—just an inch more than before. He was certain he had closed it. He stood up. Creeeaak. The wardrobe opened a little wider. He took a step back. Inside, it was darker than it should have been. Pitch black, like a void, sucking the light around it. And then something moved. Not fast. Not sharp. Just a slow shifting, like cloth sliding across the floor. Like someone—or something—was inside. “Hello?” Adeel whispered. Silence. Then— Thump. A single footstep from inside the wardrobe. Adeel slammed the door shut, wrapped the string around the handles, and backed away. The whisper came again, now from right behind him: “You let it out.” He spun around—no one there. The room was empty. Still. But the air had changed. Heavy. Cold. He grabbed his bag and bolted out the door, running down the hallway toward the stairs. Each step echoed behind him—more than just his own. He reached the lobby, breathless. The old man was still at the desk. “I—I opened it,” Adeel gasped. “The wardrobe in 306. There’s something—something in there.” The man didn’t react. Instead, he slowly looked up and said, “You weren’t supposed to go in that room.” “What? You gave me the key!” “No,” the man said. “I gave you Room 307.” He turned the ledger around. Adeel looked. It read: Adeel Khan – Room 307. He felt sick. “Then who’s in 306?” he whispered. The man’s voice was flat. “No one. Not for forty years.” Adeel turned to run, but the lobby door wouldn’t budge. He banged on it, screaming. Behind him, footsteps came down the stairs—slow and wet, like someone dragging their feet through water. He didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. But he felt it. The cold breath on his neck. The whisper that followed him from that day forward: “You let me out.” --- ☠️ Moral of the Story: Some doors are locked for your safety—not theirs.
By Adil Aslam Smiabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Voicemail
The Last Voicemail It was a cold October evening when the phone rang. I was curled up on the couch with a blanket over my shoulders, scrolling through photos of my brother, Sami, who had been missing for over a month. The police had done their job—or at least claimed they had—but the search had gone cold. No leads. No clues. Just an empty car found near the edge of Bear Ridge Forest and a few footprints in the mud that led nowhere. My parents were destroyed, barely functioning. And I—well, I still believed he was alive. I didn’t know how. I just did.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers of the Forgotten
In the shadow of the mountains, where the mist never seemed to lift and the trees swayed even when there was no wind, lay the forgotten village of Darya. Once a thriving settlement with laughter echoing through its narrow streets, Darya was now a ghost town—abandoned, silent, and cloaked in rumors of dark happenings.
By NIAZ Muhammadabout a year ago in Horror
