Latest Stories

Most recently published stories in Horror.

The Room
I already knew where I was when I opened my eyes. The sting on the back of my neck confirmed my worst fear. I never liked needles.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
The Mirror in My Room
🎬 Prologue: A Quiet Apartment moved here to get away from the past. New life, new city, and no recollections. It was on the fifth floor.
By FH STORYLINE about a year ago in Horror
THE WHISPERING WALLS OF BLACKFIELD ASYLUM
By Silas Blackwood Dr. Eleanor Shaw had read every file, studied every case history, and yet nothing could have prepared her for Blackfield Asylum. The abandoned psychiatric hospital loomed at the end of a crumbling road, its brick facade choked by ivy, its barred windows staring like hollow eyes. It was the last place Eleanor wanted to be, but the university’s research grant—and her own stubborn curiosity—had dragged her here. "Six months," the department head had said. *"Document the architecture, the patient records, anything that could help our study on 20th-century mental health practices."* But Blackfield had other plans. THE FIRST NIGHT Eleanor set up her equipment in the old staff lounge—a dusty room with peeling yellow wallpaper and the faint, metallic scent of something long since dried into the floorboards. Her first recording was routine: "October 3rd, 10:17 PM. Initial survey of the west wing. No signs of structural collapse. Minor rodent activity. No—" A sound cut her off. A whisper. Not from the hallway. Not from the vents. From the wall behind her. A woman’s voice, so close it could have been leaning over her shoulder: "You shouldn’t be here." Eleanor spun, her flashlight beam slicing through the dark. Nothing. Just cracked plaster and a single, rusted nail jutting from the wall like a broken tooth. She played back the recording. Silence. "Stress," she told herself. "Echoes. Old buildings settle." But then she noticed the writing. Scratched into the wallpaper, so faint she’d missed it before: "THEY MADE US INTO THE WALLS." THE SECOND WEEK The whispers grew louder. Eleanor would wake to the sound of weeping in the walls, of fingernails dragging slowly, deliberately, down the other side of the plaster. Her camera captured shadows where none should be—figures slumped in corners, faces pressed against doorways, all vanishing the moment she turned. Then came the patient records. Blackfield hadn’t just housed the mentally ill. It had experimented on them. Electroshock therapy. Ice baths. Surgeries that left patients hollowed out and docile. One file stood out: Patient #447 - "The Whispering Woman" "Subject claims the walls speak to her. Begs to be moved. Attempts to claw through plaster result in severe lacerations. After 72 hours of isolation, subject found deceased. Autopsy notes: ‘Vocal cords shredded. As if she screamed until they tore.’" Eleanor’s blood ran cold. Because now, in the dead of night, she could hear it too— The walls weren’t whispering. They were screaming. Muffled. Distant. But undeniably human. And they were getting louder. THE FINAL RECORDING The university found Eleanor’s equipment three weeks later. Her notes were meticulous—right up until the last entry. The final audio file was mostly static, but beneath the noise, a voice can be heard: Eleanor’s. Terrified. "They’re not in the walls— THEY ARE THE WALLS. The doctors… they didn’t just bury the bodies. They BUILT with them— Oh God, I can see the faces in the plaster— THEY’RE LOOKING AT ME—" Then, a wet, crunching sound. And a new voice. Not a whisper. A chorus. "Stay with us." The camera was recovered from the basement, its lens cracked, its last image a blur of peeling wallpaper—and what might be a hand, reaching out. As for Eleanor? The police found no trace. But the next research team swears… Sometimes, when the asylum falls silent… The walls breathe.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Reflection Room
An abandoned palace known to the locals as "Bhabishyer Bari"—the House of the Future—was situated on the outskirts of Sylhet, concealed by a dense forest and a winding, narrow road. Even though it had been deserted for decades, lights occasionally flickered through its broken windows, and on evenings when there was no moon, a faint hum could be heard coming from inside. Arif, a paranormal enthusiast and university student, had long been interested in the location. People that entered Bhabishyer Bari either went insane or were never seen again, according to his companions' warnings. However, cautions just stoked Arif's interest. He made the decision to bring his camera and flashlight to the mansion one late November evening in order to record what he discovered. The cold air brushed against his skin as he entered through the creaking iron gate. The mansion's outside walls were choked with vines, and each window appeared to be a monitoring eye. Surprisingly, the front door was unlocked. It moaned open with a shove.
By Ahnaf Fardin Khanabout a year ago in Horror
Your Least Favorite Creation: An Open Letter from What You Flushed. Content Warning.
WARNING: This Story Will Ruin Your Appetite Forever (Seriously. Put down that snack. You’ll thank me later.) The Letter That Should’ve Stayed Unread
By Feb Leonard Ladietabout a year ago in Horror
Dark Castle
Once upon a time there was a dark castle, it stood high and mighty on top of a tall black mountain. You could see this castle upon the skyline, standing against the bright red sun. The castle was magnificent and villagers all across the realm came to gaze upon it. Yet it always looked eerie at night time, like a dark shadow over the land, looming and threatening the folk down below on the ground before the mountain. Rumours speculated among the magic folk, that it belonged to an evil emperor or empress, one that stayed away from the rest of medieval society. The castle was older than anybody realised, some villagers lived whole lives from birth to death (of old age) with that castle still standing there upon the tall horizon. It was as old as the realm itself, as if the first building God had made. Of course it had to be built by human hands, God made mountains and trees, not brick, stone and structures. Yet nobody, not even in all the other realms, could tell you who exactly created this thing. Many debated on whether or not the castle was abandoned, many brave knights and explorers had dared to travel up there, but none ever returned. Rumours of a beautiful princess trapped in the tallest tower of the castle began to spread, it inspired many fairytales that are still talked about to this very day in 2025. Theories of a big red dragon dwelling there began to spread too, as worries of it one day coming down to earth from the castle to burn everyone alive down below, became a much feared tale. This superstition got so overwhelming, the king of the village that looked up at it, demanded a brave fellowship of knights to climb all the way up to the top of mount Solaride and investigate the strange structure. That they did, the fellowship consisted of five brave men and women, the toughest warriors in all the land. They were gone for almost three whole weeks, but only one of them returned to tell her tale. It was Victoria Kingsley who was the sole survivor and this was her terrifying tale: We got to the top of the mountain, there stood the incredible and huge dark castle, it was frightening just to be near. Yet, despite this unsettling feeling, we matched forwards, before entering the abandoned interior. The castle was abandoned, just as we always thought, or so it seemed. We tore down the cobwebs, killed some of the bugs and spiders that dwelled upon the walls and stone floors. It wasn't until foolish Scott decided to grab as much treasure from the old, dead king's throne room where his skeleton still sat next to his long dead queen upon the thrones. This disturbed the dead king, his skeleton became animated before our very eyes, even the queen skeleton was suddenly animated. "Trespassers!" They screamed, their skeletal jaws dropping and closing in a frantic speed, one that filled me with terror! Their eye sockets flew red and green, flashing like a dying flame. I could not comprehend the origin of this dark power. Soon the knights of this old Kingdom came crashing through the doors, all were skeletons too, dressed in armour with metal axes, swords and shields. We fought bravely, but the skeleton army proved deadly and unkillable, they were immortal or perhaps already long dead. We had lifted some ancient curse. I watched in horror, as my company was slaughtered before my very scared eyes. John's head was squashed like a bug beneath my feet, blood and gore squirting everywhere! Scott was second to die, he was dismembered in half by a huge axe. Then there were only three of us left, I was a coward I must confess, but only I survived by spinning on my heels and running away! I could hear that undead army chase me down the mountain, it somehow felt far longer getting back home than it did when we departed. Somehow, three or four hours later, I shook them, I escaped their grasp and they lost my sight. A week later, villagers began to see the scary skeletons. They crept out at night, eye sockets shining like the devil's hell, orange, red and green. At first they just watched the humans, frightening children and adults too, then one they at midnight when most of them were asleep, the skeleton army sneaked into their cottages and slit their throats as they slept, killing most of them in one fell swoop.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Horror
The Forgotten Door
There was an old Victorian home in the sleepy hamlet of Elmridge, surrounded by forgotten woods and fading hills, that no one feared to visit. After decades of eerie silence and shadowy windows, the locals murmured about it, referring to it as The Hollow House. Teenagers took selfies at the rusting gate at night and children issued dares, but nobody entered. Not since the disappearance of the Turner family in 1985. Curiosity drew in a fresh victim thirty years later. One misty afternoon, Jenna Ross, a young freelance writer and urban adventurer, came to Elmridge. She set out to discover the truth about The Hollow House with a flashlight, a GoPro, and an interest in the paranormal. She had told her fans, "Every house has a tale." "It is been a long time since this one was recounted."
By Ahnaf Fardin Khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Shadow in Blackwood House
The Shadow in Blackwood House Jake Carter never believed in ghosts. Horror movies were just fiction, and haunted house stories were mere campfire tales. But Blackwood House—an ancient, ivy-covered mansion that loomed over the woods changed all of that. It didn’t whisper fear. It breathed it. It started with the whispers. Jake and his three friends Emily, Ryan, and Lisa—had ventured into Blackwood House on a dare. Local legends called it cursed. Children vanished, voices echoed when no one was there, and every Halloween, someone tried to stay the night. None ever lasted until morning. “Nobody stays the night in Blackwood,” the townspeople warned, eyes dark with something deeper than fear. They laughed it off. The first night, the house seemed quiet—too quiet. That stillness that presses against your ears like cotton. Jake lay awake in his sleeping bag in the upstairs bedroom, surrounded by peeling wallpaper and shattered picture frames. Then, just past 2:00 a.m., he heard them: footsteps in the hallway. Not the kind made by settling wood—but heavy, deliberate, pacing footsteps. He sat up, heart racing, and pointed his flashlight toward the door. Something moved. Quick. Too quick. A flicker just beyond the beam's reach. Then came the giggling. Soft. High-pitched. A child’s laugh, distant yet close, drifting down from the attic like a lullaby dipped in dread. Emily didn’t sleep at all. She sat upright, her face pale. “I saw her,” she whispered. “At the end of the hallway. A girl in a white dress.” Jake frowned. “A girl?” “She was just standing there… Her eyes they were black. All black.” By the second night, the house had come alive. Doors slammed on their own. Cold spots moved through the rooms, like something unseen brushing past. Ryan, ever the skeptic, recorded everything. But when they reviewed the footage, his hands trembled. Behind him, in one frame, stood a tall shadow. No face. No eyes. Just a shape. Ryan swore no one had been there. That same night, messages started to appear. Scratched deep into the bedroom walls: LEAVE. Written in the fog on the bathroom mirror after Lisa’s shower: YOU’RE NEXT. On the third night, the power died. Their flashlights flickered like dying stars. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, clinging to corners, bending in ways that defied logic. Then something moved. It stepped from the hallway into their circle of light tall, thin, limbs bent like broken branches, its movements jerky, unnatural. Lisa screamed first. Then the lights went out entirely. Morning came. They found Lisa curled inside a closet, her fingernails torn from desperate scratching. She couldn’t speak. Her mouth moved, but only one word came out, soundless: “Attic.” Jake didn’t hesitate. He climbed the rotting stairs alone. The attic door creaked open, already ajar. Inside, the air was thick and cold. Dust danced like ash in the pale morning light. A rope hung from a wooden beam, swaying slightly as if someone had just stepped off. The walls were covered in handprints. Small. Child-sized. Hundreds of them, overlapping, reaching, clawing. Jake turned as a whisper brushed his ear. "You stayed too long." When the police arrived that afternoon, they found four bodies. Jake was in the attic, hanging from the noose, his face frozen in wide-eyed terror. Emily and Ryan lay in the hallway, their mouths open, locked in silent screams. Lisa was still in the closet, her hands pressed flat against the door as if she were still trying to claw her way out. And on the attic wall, freshly scratched in jagged letters, was one final message: “THEY NEVER LEFT.” Now, when the wind howls and the moon casts its silver gaze over the shattered windows, locals say you can still hear the giggling echoing from within. Some say the shadows move behind the curtains. Some say the house calls out with whispers: "Come inside..." But those who do? They never leave.
By Mayaabout a year ago in Horror
The Unconventional Exorcist. Content Warning.
Disclaimer: I would like to get this story officially published somewhere, I just need some more beta reading/editing done beforehand. I have two sections of exposition that I'm not sure how to change, so any feedback would be great.
By Allison 'AllieV' Van Oirschotabout a year ago in Horror
REVIEW - The Caretaker (Directed by Luke Tedder)
Born in Woking, England, Luke Tedder (A Long Way from Home, On the Cusp, The Last Job, Limbo, All Folds Barred, Precognition) is an award-winning filmmaker, and founder of Landa Pictures, a production company specialising in making original short films.
By Fortean Film Festivalabout a year ago in Horror
The Vanishing Light
By the year 2160, the city of Lumina was known as the "City of Light." Towering solar arrays stretched across the horizon, harvesting endless energy from the sun to power its gleaming skyscrapers and endless neon streets. The citizens lived without fear of darkness, basking in a perpetual glow.
By Razu Islam – Lifestyle & Futuristic Writerabout a year ago in Horror
The Silent Orchard
The year was 2153, and New Kyoto’s outskirts were home to the largest fruit orchard in the world. It was a marvel of biotechnology — genetically engineered trees designed to produce fruit year-round, capable of feeding millions. The orchard’s bounty was a symbol of humanity’s triumph over nature.
By Razu Islam – Lifestyle & Futuristic Writerabout a year ago in Horror