Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
🩸 "The Thirteenth Room"
It started with a floor plan. Evelyn moved into the old Ashcroft building in late October, chasing a job and cheaper rent. The building was strange—tall and narrow, with creaky wood floors and a permanent draft—but it had character. And at night, the halls smelled faintly of lilac, like someone, somewhere, had spilled perfume years ago that never faded.
By Pir Ashfaq Ahmadabout a year ago in Horror
Possessed by the Phone: A Jinn Inside the Device
Possessed by the Phone: A Jinn Inside the Device I had just moved to a new city for university. Money was tight, so I bought a second-hand smartphone from a quiet electronics shop tucked into a dark corner of a bazaar. The shopkeeper — an old man with unusually pale eyes — placed the device in my hands with a strange warning: "Don’t use it after midnight." I laughed it off. It was a sleek phone. Perfect condition. Too perfect, actually, for its price. The first few days were normal — fast internet, smooth apps, great camera. Then, strange things began. The phone would unlock by itself. Messages I never typed appeared in my drafts. The flashlight blinked in patterns I couldn’t decode. And every night at exactly 12:37 a.m., the screen lit up — even when powered off. Once, while half-asleep, I heard it vibrate. I picked it up and saw a call in progress. Caller ID: “Inside You” I dropped it. I reset it the next day. It didn't help. New apps began appearing — with names in unfamiliar scripts. Arabic-like, but not Arabic. Whenever I tried to uninstall them, the phone would freeze and whisper something in a deep, raspy voice. Yes. Whisper. From the speaker, even when the volume was off. I recorded it once and played it back for a friend. He turned pale. “Bro… that’s not human.” The next day, he stopped answering my calls. I started having nightmares. A tall, smoky figure with burning eyes would stand at the foot of my bed, holding the phone in one hand — pointing at me with the other. It spoke without lips. “Mine now.” My grades dropped. My energy drained. My thoughts were no longer mine. I forgot names, directions, even prayers. Once, during Jummah prayer, my phone rang — loudly. But I had turned it off. When I checked, it had deleted all Quranic apps. Only one remained, with the name “Obey Him.” I opened it. A single screen: A red eye, blinking. Underneath: "Say yes." I threw the phone in the river. Relieved, I went home. But that night… it buzzed under my pillow. Same phone. Same scratch on the screen. Same background image — a selfie I never took, of me sleeping. I took it to a maulana. He read ruqyah, then held it up. The screen cracked into three pieces. Smoke hissed from the speaker. “Who sold this to you?” he asked. I returned to the bazaar. The shop was gone. Not closed — erased. No one remembered it. Not even the other shopkeepers. And now? The phone no longer needs to be touched. It types on its own. Sometimes, when I sleep, it live streams — but the viewer count is always “1”... and the viewer’s name is written in ancient script I now understand: "Malik al-Zulm." I don't know how much time I have left. But if you're reading this, and your phone behaves oddly — Don’t scroll. Don’t tap. Don’t whisper. Just run. Or... kneel.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Silent Boy Who Never Grew Up
The Silent Boy Who Never Grew Up I had just accepted a new job as the night custodian of an old orphanage in the outskirts of Lahore. It was called Dar-ul-Zia, a crumbling colonial-era building wrapped in mist and memory. The pay wasn’t great, but I needed the peace.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Mirror Remembers
In the heart of a forgotten manor, buried in the mists of the English countryside, stood a mirror no one dared to touch. Its frame was carved from black walnut, scorched with symbols long faded by time, and its surface shimmered like still water, catching not just your image—but something more. Something hidden. Something buried. No one had lived in the manor for over a century. That is, until Elara came. She wasn’t looking for ghosts. Only peace. A writer burned out by city life, she inherited the house from an uncle she never met, a man whose name was spoken with a hush even in her family. She thought it a strange gift—this crumbling mansion tucked between the hills—but welcomed the solitude. She needed quiet. She needed stillness. She needed to escape. On her second night, she found the mirror. It was buried behind an old canvas in the attic, wrapped in moth-eaten sheets and strands of silver cobweb. Elara didn’t know why she was drawn to it, but something in her bones whispered curiosity. She cleaned the surface with the edge of her sleeve. Her face stared back, tired and pale. But then, the reflection blinked—before she did. She stumbled back. Laughed nervously. "Just tired," she told herself. But the mirror had awakened. That night, her dreams were full of fractured images—flashes of a woman in a violet dress screaming into the glass, a man with eyes like coal whispering to his reflection, and a child’s laughter echoing through hollow rooms. Elara awoke in sweat, heart pounding. Over the next few days, strange things began to happen. When she passed the mirror, it sometimes showed her standing still—even as she walked. Once, it displayed her with a cut on her cheek, though her skin was untouched. Another time, she saw someone else entirely—a girl in a nightgown, eyes wide with terror, pressing her hands against the inside of the glass as if it were a window. Elara couldn’t ignore it anymore. She researched the manor’s history. She learned that the mirror once belonged to Cassandra Vale, an acclaimed spiritualist who claimed it could reveal hidden truths. Some believed it was cursed. Others believed it was a relic—an artifact from a forgotten age where mirrors were more than reflections. They were recordings of the soul. Cassandra died under mysterious circumstances. Witnesses claimed she was pulled into the mirror, vanishing in front of a crowd during a séance. Her husband went mad trying to "bring her back." Elara scoffed—at first. But each night, the mirror grew more alive. She began to see herself, but older—sometimes angry, sometimes crying, always watching. The line between her and the reflection blurred. Her memories started to distort. She would forget what day it was, where she placed her pen, or how she got to a room. One evening, she placed her palm on the glass and whispered, “What are you trying to show me?” The surface rippled like disturbed water, and suddenly—she was inside. She stood in the manor, but not as she knew it. The furniture was pristine, the air warm with candlelight. A woman in a violet dress stood before her. Cassandra. “You opened the door,” Cassandra said. “You remember.” “Remember what?” Elara asked, trembling. “That this isn’t your first life. You’ve lived this story before. You always return to the mirror.” Elara’s heart thudded. “I don’t understand.” “You are the last in the line. Each of us trapped in this glass, recording the past. Hoping someone will change it.” And then, she saw them. Dozens of faces, hovering behind the glass walls—women, men, children—all echoes of herself. All versions. All waiting. “I’m not like you,” Elara whispered. “But you are,” Cassandra said gently. “You came here for answers. For truth. Look into the glass and see who you were… and who you must become.” And Elara did. Memories flooded back—flashes of ancient rituals, forbidden knowledge, choices made and unmade. She had been the mirror’s keeper before. Each life a cycle. Each life a test. When she awoke, she stood before the mirror once more. But now, it was silent. Still. Her reflection stared back—perfectly aligned. For the first time, the mirror did not flicker. Did not ripple. It remembered, yes—but no longer needed to warn her. Elara remembered too. She covered the mirror again—not out of fear, but respect. Some truths are not meant for the world. Some reflections are better left in silence. But should someone gaze too long, too deep… The mirror will always remember. And so will you.
By Mati Henry about a year ago in Horror
City of Whispers
The City of Whispers shimmered under a sky of liquid starlight, its spires woven from the dreams of sleepers. Buildings pulsed with iridescent colors—crimson desires, sapphire fears, golden hopes—each structure a fragment of someone’s unconscious mind. Streets twisted like half-remembered thoughts, curling into alleys that vanished when you blinked. Detective Elias Varn stepped onto a cobblestone path that hummed faintly, as if whispering secrets. His own memories, fractured and fleeting, clung to him like fog. A woman’s face, a gunshot, a scream—shards of a past he couldn’t piece together. Somewhere in this city, a murder had occurred, not in flesh but in the shared dream of its inhabitants, and Elias was tasked with finding the killer.
By Nahida Mansourabout a year ago in Horror
The Red Eyes at Midnight
“The Red Eyes at Midnight” by Ali Asad Ullah There are moments in life that don’t just haunt your memory—they consume it. For me, it was the red eyes. I saw them when I was sixteen, and I’ve never been the same since. I grew up in a small, remote village surrounded by endless wheat fields and dense forests. Our home was modest, and the nights were so quiet and dark that you could hear your own heartbeat. There were no streetlights, no passing cars, just the thick presence of nature and shadows. And stories. My grandmother, a deeply spiritual woman, used to tell me tales of djinns, cursed places, and the one legend that chilled me the most—the red eyes that appeared at midnight.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
"I Found a Hidden Room in My House"
I Found a Hidden Room in My House I never expected to inherit anything from my great-uncle. He was the kind of relative you heard about only at funerals—quiet, distant, strange. When he passed away in 2022, I received a letter from his lawyer informing me that I’d inherited his house. No explanation, just a key and an address scribbled on thick parchment.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
The 3:17 Visitor” horror story
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a light sleeper. Every sound, every creak, and even the faintest whisper of wind wakes me. So when I moved into my grandfather’s old countryside house after his death, I expected many sleepless nights. What I didn’t expect was what began exactly one week later—at 3:17 a.m.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
My Favorite Short Scary Stories
My Favorite Short Scary Stories By: Zoea Marland, Class 12 There’s nothing I enjoy more than a good scary story—the adrenaline rush, the sudden chill down your spine, and that irresistible suspense that makes your heart race. If you know me, you know that I live for eerie tales, especially the kind you share during a late-night sleepover, flashlight in hand and blankets pulled up to your chin.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
