book reviews
Book reviews for horror fans; weather a sleepless night with literary accounts of hauntings, possessions, zombies, vampires and beyond.
The Devil's Bible: A Tale of Mystery and Mastery
Picture this: a dimly lit monastery, the air thick with the scent of ink and vellum, and a lone monk hunched over a massive tome, his quill scratching away in the flickering candlelight. It’s the kind of scene that feels ripped from a gothic novel, right? But this isn’t fiction. This is the story of the Codex Gigas, the largest medieval manuscript in the world, a book so strange and captivating it’s earned the chilling nickname: the Devil’s Bible. Ever heard of it? If not, buckle up, because this tale is a wild ride.
By KWAO LEARNER WINFREDabout a year ago in Horror
The Midnight Dressmaker
In the quiet village of Gallowmere, where the moon always seemed just a little too full and the air always smelled faintly of roses and ash, there was once a woman named Elara. She was known far and wide as The Midnight Dressmaker. She wasn’t called that because she worked late. No—Elara only opened her boutique at midnight. That was when her shop lit up with soft candlelight, and she’d welcome anyone who knocked on her tall, black wooden door. By dawn, the shop would vanish into darkness again—shutters closed, windows covered, as if it had never opened. Elara was beautiful. Not in a warm, friendly way, but in the kind of beauty that made your heart skip—icy and elegant, like snow that had never been touched. Her eyes were grey, like storm clouds, and her voice was soft as silk. But what truly made her famous were her dresses. People claimed her gowns could make anyone breathtaking. If you wore one of Elara’s creations, you’d be the center of any room, the dream of every eye. Brides came from miles away. Actors begged for her designs. No matter how rich or poor you were, if she accepted your request… she never charged a coin. She only asked for something personal—something that "held a memory." A necklace, a diary, even a single teardrop on a handkerchief. And people always gave it. They said she worked with shadows and lace, with whispers and dreams. But those who wore her dresses never talked about them afterward. Not even once. That would’ve been the end of the story—just an eerie village rumor—if not for Maera, a curious 17-year-old girl who lived down the lane from Elara’s shop. Maera loved fairy tales, especially the ones that ended badly. She had a heart full of wonder and just enough foolish bravery to think she could solve any mystery. One night, when the air was thick with summer and the stars blinked like watchful eyes, Maera did something nobody else had dared: she snuck into Elara’s shop. She waited until the bell chimed midnight and the shop’s windows glowed golden. Then, wearing her father’s dark coat and her own trembling courage, she slipped through the side door that Elara had forgotten to lock. Inside, the boutique was like a dream stitched together by nightmares. Mannequins stood frozen like statues, all wearing half-finished gowns. Some dresses shimmered with golden thread, others were made of dark, feathery silk that seemed to breathe. There were mirrors—tall, warped, and dusty—lining the walls. None of them showed her reflection. At the center of the room, Elara stood with her back turned, humming a lullaby no one had heard in years. On a pedestal was her latest work: a gown so beautiful it almost made Maera cry. It glittered like midnight waves and smelled like old flowers and ink. But then Maera saw something that made her knees shake. The hem of the dress—dripping. Not with paint. Not with dye. With something darker, thicker. Blood. Elara turned slowly, her fingers still holding a silver needle threaded with red. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice as soft as snow. Maera tried to run, but her feet were rooted. Her voice didn’t come. Elara smiled—not cruelly, but with a sadness that filled the room like fog. “You’re just like I was,” she whispered. “Curious. Bright. Foolish.” Then she told Maera the truth—the truth that stitched everything together like seams no one ever saw. Elara had once been a simple girl too. Many, many years ago. She was in love. But her village had burned during a war, and she lost everything—her home, her family, her love. In her grief, she cried by the ruins until a stranger approached her. He was cloaked in black, with eyes like coals. He offered her a gift: The Needle of Remembrance. With it, she could sew beauty from pain, create gowns that captured memory, desire, sorrow… even life. But magic always comes at a cost. For every dress she made, a little piece of her soul was stitched inside. And for each masterpiece, someone had to pay—in blood, or in time. The dress would steal something from its wearer: their voice, their dreams, sometimes even their shadow. That’s why they never spoke afterward. And now, the needle had begun to whisper. It was hungry again. Tired of old memories. It wanted new ones. Maera’s. Elara pleaded with the needle to spare the girl. But the needle had rules. Only one way out: if Elara gave herself entirely to the final stitch. And she did. In front of Maera, Elara pricked her finger, whispering an ancient word. The thread blazed red, and the dress curled around her like vines. Her body shimmered, then folded into the fabric. She vanished—forever sewn into her last creation. The dress fell limp. Still beautiful, but empty now. Quiet. Maera dropped to her knees, breathless. The next morning, the boutique was gone. Just an old, boarded-up house, filled with cobwebs and dust. People say Maera was never the same after that. She stopped speaking for a year. But then one day, she began to sew. Just simple things at first. Scarves. Ribbons. Shawls. But with every stitch, her hands moved like they’d done it a thousand times before. She never used red thread. She never sewed at night. And if anyone asked why she kept a silver needle locked in a glass case on her shelf, she’d only smile and say: “Some dresses are too beautiful to wear. And some beauty... is better left unfinished.” The End.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Ghoul’s Cave – Curse of Blood
Part One: The Ghoul’s Cave In a remote village surrounded by dense forests and silent mountains, there was an old legend passed down for generations, warning people never to enter the Black Cave on the western slope. They said whoever entered never returned, and their screams echoed through the mountains for days.
By Alaa Atallahabout a year ago in Horror
The Mirror of Mirah
Once, nestled between the jagged peaks of a forgotten mountain range, there stood an ancient mansion known as "Mirah's Keep." This was not a place whispered about in the bustling towns below, nor was it known to those who dared venture too far into the desolate wilderness. It was a relic, an enigma, existing in a realm untouched by time and civilization. Some claimed it was abandoned long ago, while others believed it was still inhabited, not by the living, but by the spirits of the long-dead. The legend of the mansion was as old as the mountains themselves, and it all centered around a peculiar, ornate mirror that hung in the grand hall—a mirror that could not only show your reflection but also the reflection of your deepest, darkest desires. Mirah, the lady of the house, was said to be as beautiful as the dawn and as haunting as the moonlit night. She had been married to a nobleman of vast wealth, but it was her beauty, not her wealth, that captured the attention of all who met her. People traveled from distant lands to glimpse her face, but none ever spoke of her eyes—not until it was too late. For Mirah’s eyes, deep and endless, held a secret—one that no one was meant to discover. Beneath the soft, porcelain surface of her flawless skin and the delicate curve of her lips was a soul stained by dark, unspoken things. She was not simply beautiful, she was cursed, and the mansion in which she lived was as much a prison as it was a sanctuary. Her marriage, once full of promise, began to decay with the years. Mirah’s noble husband became obsessed with the idea of immortality, and his obsession led him to the very mirror that hung in their hall. The mirror, according to ancient texts, was said to grant a glimpse into the future, to show the soul’s truest desires, and to unlock the deepest secrets of the universe. But no one knew the full price of such knowledge. One evening, as a storm raged outside, the nobleman stood before the mirror, gazing deeply into it. His reflection shimmered with an eerie glow, but there was something off. The face staring back at him was not his own. It was a pale, gaunt figure with hollow eyes, its skin cracked like old parchment. As he stared, entranced, he felt a sudden chill creep over him—then, with a gasp, he realized the figure was reaching out from the depths of the mirror. Its fingers were long and bony, stretched impossibly thin, and it beckoned him with a call that promised endless life, but at a terrible cost. The mirror had offered him immortality, but it came at the price of his soul. The nobleman tried to pull away, but it was too late. The reflection in the mirror reached out and seized him. Mirah, hearing his screams, rushed into the hall, but by the time she reached him, the nobleman had already disappeared—swallowed whole by the mirror, his body lost to time and space. Mirah, heartbroken and terrified, stood frozen in front of the glass. The mirror, now calm, reflected nothing but the soft glow of the storm's light as it flickered through the windows. She dared not look too long, for fear of seeing her own reflection—a reflection that, over the years, had begun to twist into something... wrong. In the days that followed, Mirah was consumed by grief and guilt. She spent her nights weeping, searching for a way to undo the curse that had claimed her husband. It was during these desperate hours that she realized the truth of the mirror—it did not just show what you wanted to see, it took what you loved most, until there was nothing left of you but emptiness. The mansion, once alive with the sounds of laughter and music, fell silent. Mirah’s once radiant beauty began to fade. Her face grew pale and gaunt, her eyes sunken as if the mirror had already begun to claim her. But what was most unsettling was her reflection. It grew darker, shifting each day, her image no longer her own. As Mirah spiraled into madness, the mansion itself began to change. The once-grand hall grew cold, the walls blackened, and strange, haunting whispers filled the empty corridors. The villagers, who had heard of the strange occurrences within Mirah’s Keep, began to speak of the house as a cursed place. It was said that anyone who dared look into the mirror would be trapped within its depths, doomed to spend eternity staring at their own shattered soul. Years passed, and the mansion decayed. The world moved on, and the whispers of Mirah’s story became little more than a faint echo in the wind. But the mirror—oh, the mirror—remained. Then, one day, a young traveler named Eamon, seeking shelter from a storm, stumbled upon the mansion. He was weary and lost, his journey having taken him far from his home. As he entered the mansion, the heavy door creaking open, he felt a strange chill fill the air. The dust that had settled over the place gave off a musty scent, and the floorboards groaned beneath his feet as he explored the empty rooms. It was when he entered the grand hall that he saw it—the mirror. Its surface was clouded with age, but still, it stood majestic, towering over him like a sentient being, waiting. Drawn to it, Eamon approached, not knowing the history it carried. As his reflection appeared in the glass, he froze. For a moment, he didn’t recognize the person staring back at him. It wasn’t just his face that seemed off, it was... his eyes. They were wide, terrified—haunted by something he could not understand. But the reflection didn’t stop there. Slowly, impossibly, the figure in the mirror began to change, its features warping, twisting into something dark, something alien. The face morphed into that of a gaunt, pale woman, her eyes hollow and unblinking. Eamon gasped as her lips curled into a smile. “You should not have come here,” the figure whispered, her voice like the rustling of dry leaves. “Now you are mine.” The air grew cold, the walls seemed to close in, and Eamon’s heart pounded in his chest. He tried to turn and flee, but the reflection in the mirror reached out with long, bony fingers, pulling him into the glass. The last thing Eamon saw was his own terrified expression as the world around him went dark, the mirror’s surface rippling with his own trapped soul. And in that forsaken mansion, the mirror waited, its surface calm once more—silent, patient, as it had always been. The End
By Lucien Hollow about a year ago in Horror
"The Man Who Lives on Floor 13"
The Man Who Lives on Floor 13 your Ahmar In the heart of a forgotten part of the city, where the air always smelled faintly of mildew and the streetlamps flickered like dying stars, stood the Elderpine Apartments—a towering, concrete relic from the 1970s with more secrets than tenants.
By Muhammad Ahmar about a year ago in Horror
Whispers in the Jungle. AI-Generated.
It was supposed to be the perfect getaway. Three friends, Ayaan, Bilal, and Usman, had been planning their jungle adventure for months. The idea was simple: to escape the busy city life, explore the unknown, and challenge themselves to survive in the wilderness. Ayaan had heard stories of a forgotten jungle, nestled deep in the mountains — untouched, mysterious, and waiting to be explored.
By nasir shahabout 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 Voice at the Door
The rain was a steady, mournful rhythm against the windows, a soundtrack to the oppressive silence inside our small cottage. Three days. It had been three days since we’d buried my mother, Clara. Three days since her vibrant laughter, her comforting presence, had been reduced to a cold, sterile memory. The grief was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, making every breath an effort. My wife, Sarah, sat across from me, her face pale and drawn. She hadn't cried much, not openly, but I could see the sorrow etched in the lines around her eyes, the way she clutched the steaming mug of tea, as if seeking warmth against an internal chill. She had loved my mother, truly loved her, and her quiet suffering was almost harder to bear than my own. A sudden, sharp rap echoed through the house, cutting through the rain and our unspoken grief. We both stiffened, our eyes meeting across the dimly lit room. It was late, past midnight. Who could it be? Another rap, louder this time, more insistent. I pushed myself up from the armchair. “I’ll get it,” I murmured, my voice raspy. “No!” Sarah’s voice was sharp, a sudden tremor in her tone. She stood up, her eyes wide, almost pleading. “Don’t, Daniel. Don’t open it.” I paused, surprised by her vehemence. “Sarah, it’s probably just a neighbor, or someone lost. It’s pouring outside.” “No,” she repeated, stepping towards me, her hand reaching out to grasp my arm. Her fingers were cold. “Please, just… don’t.” Before I could question her, a sound, faint but unmistakable, drifted from the front door. A voice. A voice that sent a jolt of ice through my veins, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. “Daniel? Are you there, my son? It’s your mother. Let me in, it’s so cold out here.” My blood ran cold. It was Mother’s voice. Her gentle, slightly reedy tone, the familiar way she elongated the ‘so’ in ‘so cold.’ Impossible. My mind screamed in protest. This had to be a cruel, sadistic prank. But who would do such a thing? I turned to Sarah, my face a mask of disbelief and dawning horror. “Sarah… did you hear that? It’s Mother! But… how?” Sarah’s grip on my arm tightened, her nails digging into my skin. Her eyes, usually so warm, were filled with a profound, terrifying dread. “Don’t open the door, Daniel!” she hissed, her voice barely a whisper, yet filled with an urgency that terrified me. “Please, for God’s sake, don’t!” Another series of knocks, more frantic now, accompanied by that voice, pleading, cajoling. “Daniel, darling, please. My old bones are freezing. Just a moment, let me come in. I need my son.” My heart was a war drum in my chest. Every fiber of my being yearned to rush to the door, to throw it open, to embrace the mother I had just buried. My grief-stricken mind wrestled with the horrifying reality. She was dead. We had stood by her grave just three days ago, watched the coffin lowered into the earth. “It’s not her, Daniel,” Sarah choked out, tears finally streaming down her face. “It can’t be. It’s… it’s something else. Something trying to get in.” Her words made a chilling kind of sense, even as my emotions fought against them. The raw, desperate need in that voice, the way it played on my deepest sorrow, felt predatory. But the resemblance was uncanny. Every inflection, every nuance, was exactly like Mother. The knocking escalated into a frantic pounding, rattling the doorframe. And the voice changed, subtly. The soft pleading took on a sharper edge, a hint of impatience, even anger. “Daniel! Are you going to leave your mother out in the storm? After all I’ve done for you? After all these years?” A shiver of genuine fear ran down my spine. Mother, for all her love, had never resorted to emotional manipulation, not like this. This was a twisted mimicry, a violation of her memory. “Who are you?” I yelled back, my voice trembling, cracking. “Leave us alone!” A silence fell, thick and unnerving, broken only by the relentless rain. My heart pounded so loudly I thought Sarah must hear it. Then, a low, guttural chuckle emanated from the other side of the door. It wasn't Mother’s laughter. It was something else. Something ancient and malevolent, devoid of humor, filled with contempt. And then the voice returned, but this time, it was a chilling, distorted parody of my mother’s voice, stretched and deepened, laced with a faint, gurgling sound, like water bubbling through mud. “You buried me, Daniel. You put me in the cold, dark ground. But I’m still here. And I need to come home.” The pounding on the door intensified, becoming violent, as if something heavy was slamming against it. The entire frame shuddered. Sarah let out a strangled cry, burying her face in my shoulder. I could feel her shaking uncontrollably. “It knows,” I whispered, my eyes fixed on the trembling wood of the door. “It knows we buried her.” “It’s not her, Daniel,” Sarah sobbed into my shirt. “It's using her… to get to us.” Suddenly, the pounding stopped. Another silence, even more terrifying than the last. Then, a scratching sound began, slow and deliberate, like long, sharp nails dragging across the wood, moving from the doorknob, upwards. And then, I heard it. A faint, wet sniffing sound from directly outside the keyhole, followed by a soft, almost inaudible sigh. Then, the voice again, a whisper now, right at the keyhole, raw and intimate, filled with a horrific intimacy that turned my stomach. “I can smell your fear, Daniel. And I can smell your grief. Such a heavy grief. It’s almost as heavy as the earth on my coffin.” I stumbled back, pulling Sarah with me, away from the door. My mind reeled. This wasn't some trick of sound or light. This was real. Something was out there. Something that had taken on my mother’s voice, her memories, to gain entry. Something that was preying on my sorrow. The scratching continued, now higher up the door, then lower, as if whatever was outside was circling, testing, searching for a weakness. A faint, earthy scent, like damp grave soil, began to seep through the cracks around the doorframe, mixing with the clean smell of rain. Sarah clung to me, her face buried against my chest. “What does it want?” she whimpered. The voice answered, a low, satisfied murmur from the other side of the door. “I want to be warm again, my son. And you are so warm. You held my hand when I was cold. Now, let me hold yours. Forever.” A chilling sound, like a wet, sucking noise, came from the keyhole, followed by a faint, clicking sound, as if something was attempting to turn the lock from the outside. Panic surged through me, cold and absolute. It wasn't just a voice. It was trying to get in. It was trying to claim me, just as it had claimed Mother’s voice. I dragged Sarah back, away from the door, towards the deepest part of the house, the small, enclosed pantry where we kept emergency supplies. We huddled there, in the oppressive darkness, listening to the rain, and to the faint, persistent scratching that continued at the front door. It went on and on, punctuated by the chilling whispers of a voice that was both familiar and utterly alien. I knew then, with a sickening certainty, that the grave had not held her. And now, the thing that had followed her back was patiently waiting, clawing at the door, to finally claim what it believed was its due. My mother's voice, transformed into a siren's call from the abyss. And the night was long. So very long.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Grave That Waited
The dreams began subtly, a faint whisper in the dark, then grew into a suffocating presence. It was always the same: a patch of untamed earth, overgrown with thorny weeds and gnarled roots, under a sky the color of bruised plums. And in the center, a freshly dug grave. The earth around it was dark, clumpy, as if disturbed only moments before. But the truly chilling detail was the simple, unadorned headstone. No ornate carvings, no flowery epitaphs. Just one word, starkly etched into the grey stone: Rania. My name. I'd wake up in a cold sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs, the metallic taste of fear coating my tongue. For days, I dismissed it. Stress. Too many late-night thrillers. My overactive imagination. I was a practical, logical person. Dreams were just subconscious noise, right? But the dreams persisted, night after night, each one more vivid, more insistent than the last. I could almost smell the damp earth, feel the oppressive silence of the gravesite. In one dream, I saw my reflection in the still water gathered at the bottom of the pit — my face pale and distorted by the murky depths. In another, a faint, cold breeze whispered from the grave, carrying a sound I couldn't quite decipher — a sigh, a lament, or perhaps, an invitation. I started avoiding sleep. Coffee became my best friend, anxiety my constant companion. My usually calm demeanor frayed at the edges. My parents noticed my pallor, my jumpiness. > “Are you feeling alright, Rania?” My mother would ask, her brow furrowed with concern. I’d force a smile, mumbling something about deadlines at university. How could I tell them I was being haunted by a grave with my own name on it? They’d think I was losing my mind. One particularly grueling night, the dream took an even more sinister turn. I was standing at the edge of the grave, looking down. The name RANIA on the headstone seemed to glow with an internal, malevolent light. Then, slowly, terrifyingly, a hand — pale and skeletal — emerged from the dark soil within the grave. Its fingers, tipped with dirt-caked nails, curled upward, beckoning. A low, raspy whisper, chillingly devoid of emotion, echoed in the dreamscape: > "Come, Rania. It's time." I jolted awake with a scream caught in my throat, my body trembling uncontrollably. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, casting weak, grey light into my room. I flung myself out of bed, needing to escape the lingering horror, to ground myself in reality. I stumbled into the kitchen, desperately needing a glass of water — anything to wash away the nightmare. As I leaned against the counter, trying to steady my racing pulse, my gaze drifted toward the window that overlooked our backyard. It was a small, neglected patch of land, mostly overgrown, but peaceful. We rarely went back there, preferring the front garden. And then I saw it. At first, I thought it was just a shadow, a trick of the early morning light. But as my eyes adjusted, my breath hitched in my throat. There, at the very back of our yard, nestled amongst the wild bushes and tangled vines, was a patch of freshly disturbed earth. Dark, clumpy soil — exactly like in my dreams. My mind reeled. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. My logical brain screamed for a rational explanation. A neighbor digging? A fallen tree uprooting the soil? But the shape… it was too precise, too distinct. An oblong rectangle, unmistakably like… > A grave. My heart hammered so violently it felt like it would burst through my chest. My legs felt like lead, yet an uncontrollable urge pulled me toward the back door. Every step was a battle against the overwhelming dread. The air in the house seemed to grow heavy, thick with an unspoken presence. I pushed open the back door, and the cool morning air hit me, mingling with a faint, earthy scent. The kind of smell that clings to freshly turned soil. I walked slowly, cautiously, my eyes fixed on the disturbing sight. As I got closer, the details sharpened, solidifying the nightmare into a horrifying reality. It was exactly as in my dreams. The same patch of untamed earth, the same gnarled roots, the same ominous stillness. And there, driven into the ground at the head of the dug-out plot, was a simple, grey stone. My blood turned to ice. On it, etched with chilling precision, was the single word: > RANIA A strangled whimper escaped my lips. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a hallucination. This was real. The grave was real. It was in my backyard. It had appeared overnight, out of nothing. I stumbled backwards, my mind screaming in protest. Who would do this? Why? Was this a twisted prank? But the sheer audacity, the disturbing accuracy to my dreams, ruled out any mundane explanation. This was something else. Something far more sinister. I looked around frantically. The house was quiet. My parents were still asleep. I was alone with this impossible horror. Then, a faint sound, like dry leaves rustling, came from within the freshly dug grave. My eyes widened in terror. The earth at the bottom of the pit seemed to shift, subtly, almost imperceptibly. And then — just as in my nightmare — a pale, slender hand, covered in dark soil, slowly began to emerge from the depths. Its fingers, long and delicate, curled upwards, reaching, beckoning. A cold, unseen presence enveloped me, chilling me to the bone. I could feel a faint whisper against my ear — not quite a sound, more like a thought, a dreadful certainty: > "You shouldn't have seen it. But now that you have... you have to fill it." My gaze locked onto the hand, which was now fully exposed, reaching higher, almost out of the pit. The fingernails were long and sharp, coated with a glistening, dark mud. It wasn't skeletal, as in my dream, but disturbingly fleshy — yet so incredibly pale. A primal scream tore from my throat, raw and desperate. I turned and fled, tripping over my own feet, not looking back. I burst through the back door, slamming it shut behind me, fumbling with the lock. I ran through the living room, my legs burning, until I reached my parents' bedroom, banging frantically on the door, sobbing incoherently. > “Mom! Dad! Wake up! Please! There’s… there’s a grave… in the backyard… and it has my name on it!” I knew they wouldn't believe me. Not at first. How could they? But as I sank to the floor, gasping for breath, the image of that hand — reaching, beckoning — branded itself onto my mind. The grave was waiting. And something was in it… waiting for me. And I knew, with a horrifying certainty, that it wouldn't wait forever.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Shadow's Embrace
The old polaroid camera was a relic, a bulky, dusty testament to a bygone era. Liam, my younger brother, had unearthed it from our grandpa’s attic, declaring it his new obsession. > “It captures moments, Elara,” he’d explained, his eyes alight with the thrill of his discovery. “Not just pixels, but the actual feel of a second in time.” I’d humored him, watching as he meticulously cleaned the lens, loaded the faded film pack, and, with a triumphant click, took his first self-portrait. He’d beamed at the developing square, holding it up for me to see. It was a typical Liam photo – messy brown hair, a wide, slightly goofy grin, and the faint freckles dusting his nose. But then he frowned. > “Huh,” he muttered, tilting the picture. “What’s that?” I leaned closer. In the dim, dusty corner of the attic behind him, a faint, elongated smudge of darkness seemed to cling to the wall. It was barely perceptible, easily dismissed as a trick of the light or a flaw in the old film. > “Just a shadow, Liam,” I’d said, shrugging. “It’s an old camera. Probably some light leak.” He’d hummed, unconvinced, but soon enough, his attention had shifted to other projects. --- The next few days were a whirlwind of Liam’s photographic endeavors. He took pictures of everything: our grumpy cat, the half-eaten pizza on the counter, the sunset from his bedroom window. And, of course, more self-portraits. He was obsessed with documenting himself, almost as if he was trying to capture every fleeting moment of his existence. One evening, I found him hunched over his desk, a stack of freshly developed polaroids fanned out before him. The room was dark, save for the glow of his phone screen, casting an eerie blue light on his face. He looked pale, and there was a tremor in his hand as he picked up a photo. > “Look, Elara,” he whispered, his voice tight with a fear I hadn’t heard before. It was another self-portrait, taken in his room. He was sitting on his bed, a textbook open in his lap, looking up at the camera with a casual, almost bored expression. But beside him, standing just inches from his shoulder, was the shadow. It was clearer this time — a distinct, human-like silhouette, impossibly dark, with edges that seemed to drink in the light. Its form was elongated, almost stretched, and where its face should have been, there was only an inky void. My heart gave a sudden lurch. > “Liam, what is that?” > “I don’t know,” he breathed, his eyes wide. “It’s in all of them. Every single one since the attic.” He shuffled through the stack. – A picture of him reading on the couch – the shadow lurked behind the cushions. – A shot of him eating breakfast – the shadow stood just outside the kitchen window, a faint, distorted reflection. Each photo showed the shadow closer, more defined, its presence more imposing. > “It wasn’t there when I took them,” he insisted, his voice rising. “I swear, I was alone.” I tried to rationalize it. > “Maybe it’s a double exposure? Or… a prank? Are you messing with me?” He shook his head vehemently. > “No! Look at this one.” He handed me the most recent photo. It was taken just minutes ago, from his bedside table, pointing towards his bed. Liam was lying on his back, looking directly at the camera, a faint, uneasy smile on his lips. And standing right over him, leaning down as if whispering into his ear, was the shadow. It was so close, so intimately positioned, that its form seemed to almost merge with his. Its edges were no longer blurred; they were sharp, distinct. And for the first time, I felt an icy dread crawl up my spine. There was an unsettling weight to its presence, even in the two-dimensional image. > “It feels cold, Elara,” Liam murmured, his voice barely audible. “When I took that last one, I felt a chill. Like someone was breathing on my neck.” He pointed to the inky void where the shadow’s face should have been. > “And sometimes… sometimes I think I can see something in there. Like a black hole. Or eyes, watching me.” I wanted to tell him it was his imagination, to dismiss it as a trick of his old camera. But the fear in his eyes, the undeniable progression in the photos, was too real. > “Liam,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “put that camera away. Don’t take any more pictures. Not tonight.” He nodded, too frightened to argue. We spent the rest of the evening in the living room, watching a movie, the lights on bright. I kept glancing at him, reassuring myself that he was fine, that it was all just a bizarre coincidence. He seemed to relax a little, but every so often, I’d catch him looking over his shoulder, as if expecting something to appear. --- Before bed, he came into my room. > “Goodnight, Elara,” he said, his voice softer than usual. He hesitated at the door. “You think… you think it’s just the camera, right?” I forced a smile. > “Of course, little brother. Just a faulty old camera.” He nodded, a flicker of relief in his eyes, and went to his room. I stayed up for a while, scrolling through my phone, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling. Around midnight, I heard a faint thud from Liam’s room. I frowned, wondering what it was, but then dismissed it as him knocking something over. Kids are always clumsy. --- The next morning, I woke up to an unsettling silence. Our house was rarely this quiet. Liam was usually up early, blasting music or making a racket in the kitchen. I called his name, but there was no response. A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. I got out of bed and walked to his room. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open. The room was still dark, the curtains drawn. Liam was in his bed, covers pulled up to his chin. I exhaled, a wave of relief washing over me. He was just sleeping in. > “Liam,” I said softly, walking over to his bed. “Come on, wake up, lazybones.” I reached out to shake his shoulder, but stopped. Something was wrong. The air in the room was impossibly cold, colder than the deepest winter morning. And there was a faint, metallic scent, almost like… rust. Then I saw it. Lying on his pillow, beside his head, was the polaroid camera. And on top of it, a newly developed photo. My blood ran cold. He hadn’t listened. He’d taken another picture. I reached for it, my hand trembling so violently I almost dropped it. It was a close-up. Liam’s face, pale and still, his eyes closed. And behind him, so close it was almost consuming him, was the shadow. But it wasn’t just a shadow anymore. Its form was no longer flat; it had depth, texture. And where its face had been an inky void, there was now a faint, terrible outline. Not a face, but an impression of one — twisted in a silent, predatory grin. The most horrifying detail was what the shadow was doing. Its elongated, dark arm was wrapped around Liam, almost like an embrace. And its hand, with long, shadowy fingers, was pressed firmly over Liam’s mouth, as if to silence a scream that never came. I dropped the photo, a strangled cry escaping my lips. My gaze snapped back to Liam. He lay perfectly still, his chest unmoving. His lips were slightly parted, but no breath escaped. His skin was as cold as the room. And for a fleeting, terrifying moment, I thought I saw it — a ripple in the darkness behind him, a shifting of shadows, as if something had just slipped away, leaving behind only the profound, suffocating silence.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
