book reviews
Book reviews for horror fans; weather a sleepless night with literary accounts of hauntings, possessions, zombies, vampires and beyond.
The Scariest Horror Stories You’ve Never Read
Unearthing Forgotten and Overlooked Tales of Terror By [Mehedi Hasan] | The New Yorker Horror fiction has long been a staple of literary terror, with names like Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, and Shirley Jackson dominating the conversation. But lurking in the shadows of obscurity are chilling tales that have slipped through the cracks—stories so unsettling that they’ve been forgotten, suppressed, or simply overlooked. In this deep dive into the macabre, we uncover some of the scariest horror stories you’ve likely never read. These are not the usual suspects from The Tell-Tale Heart or The Lottery, but rather obscure, bizarre, and deeply disturbing works that deserve a second look—if you dare.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The female horror film audience : viewing pleasures and fan practices. Part: 01
29 March, 1999 Abstract The Female Horror Film Audience: Viewing Pleasures and Fan Practices What is at stake for female fans and followers of horror cinema? This study explores the pleasures in horror film viewing for female members of the audience. The findings presented here confirm that female viewers of horror do not refuse to look but actively enjoy horror films and read such films in feminine ways. Part 1 of this thesis suggests that questions about the female viewer and her consumption of the horror film cannot be answered solely by a consideration of the text-reader relationship or by theoretical models of spectatorship and identification. A profile of female horror film fans and followers can therefore be developed only through an audience study. Part 2 presents a profile of female horror fans and followers. The participants in the study were largely drawn from the memberships of horror fan groups and from the readerships of a cross-section of professional and fan horror magazines. Qualitative data were collected through focus groups, interviews, open-ended questions included in the questionnaire and through the ommunication of opinions and experiences in letters and other written material. Part 3 sheds light on the modes of interpretation and attempts to position the female viewers as active consumers of horror films. This study concludes with a model of the female horror film viewer which points towards areas of female horror film spectatorship which require further analysis. The value of investigating the invisible experiences of women with popular culture is demonstrated by the very large proportion of respondents who expressed their delight and thanks in having an opportunity to speak about their experiences. This study of female horror film viewers allows the voice of an otherwise marginalised and invisible audience to be heard, their experiences recorded, the possibilities for resistance explored, and the
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Best Horror Books of All Time – Esquire
Horror literature has the unique power to unsettle, terrify, and linger in the mind long after the final page is turned. From Gothic classics to modern psychological thrillers, the genre has produced some of the most chilling and thought-provoking works in fiction. Whether you're a seasoned horror fan or a newcomer looking for a good scare, this list of the best horror books of all time—curated in the spirit of Esquire—will guide you through the most haunting tales ever written.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers in the Snow: A Real Horror Story from Kashmir
Kashmir—often called “Paradise on Earth”—is known for its snowcapped mountains, serene lakes, and blooming tulips. But beneath this breathtaking beauty lies a land shaped by centuries of mystery, war, and whispers of the supernatural. While many stories from the region speak of its political tensions or poetic charm, some tales drift far into the shadows. This is one such story—based on chilling accounts whispered in the villages and passed down in hushed voices. A real horror story from Kashmir, it’s a reminder that not all that’s beautiful is safe.
By Farhan Rafidabout a year ago in Horror
The Djinn’s Wife in the Mountains: A Forbidden Encounter Beyond the Veil of Reality
It was during a period of deep emotional turmoil that I decided to escape into the mountains. Life in the city had become a blur — noise, pressure, expectations. I felt suffocated. I needed silence. I needed nature. And maybe, without realizing it then, I needed answers from a world far older than mine. There were rumors about an ancient valley hidden deep in the hills, unreachable by any vehicle and avoided even by the locals. They said strange lights flickered there at night. Some called it cursed, others whispered about spirits. That only made me more curious. I packed a small bag, told no one, and set out at dawn. The path grew steeper and the trees darker with each passing mile. I could feel the atmosphere changing. It wasn’t just the altitude — it was something else, something deeper. The birds became silent. The wind carried a chill, even though it was summer. And then I found it. A narrow, winding trail veiled with creeping vines and pale-blue flowers led to a cave hidden behind a curtain of hanging moss. It was like walking through time. The entrance of the cave was marked with symbols — old, unfamiliar, and powerful. Still, I entered. Inside, it wasn’t cold as I expected. It was warm, dimly lit by oil lanterns hanging from jagged rocks. The air was heavy with the scent of burning herbs. As I stepped further in, I realized this place wasn’t abandoned. It was inhabited — not by man, but by presence. And then I saw her. She sat in front of a fire that burned without wood. Her long, jet-black hair flowed like liquid ink, reaching the ground. Her robe was white but shimmered with silvery tones as if stitched with moonlight. Most unsettling of all — I could not see her face. A veil of mist, or shadow, concealed it entirely. And yet... I could feel her eyes on me. She did not move. She simply said, “You have come.” My throat tightened. “I didn’t know where I was going.” “You never do. But your soul does.” I was frozen in place, not from fear, but from awe. The firelight danced, reflecting symbols on the cave walls. I dared to sit. “I am the wife of the Djinn who guards these hills,” she said calmly, her voice echoing as if from the mouth of the earth itself. My heart thudded. I had heard legends about djinns — creatures of smokeless fire, living in hidden realms, both feared and revered. But this... this was no legend. She was real. “Why me?” I asked. “You’re breaking,” she replied. “And we do not let broken souls wander. Sometimes we heal them. Sometimes... we keep them.” Her words were neither threat nor comfort. Just truth. “I didn’t mean to trespass,” I whispered. “But you were called,” she said. “Not all who wander are lost. Some are led.” Then, from a pouch beside her, she pulled out a black stone, smooth and warm. “Keep this. It will protect you from what follows. For now... leave.” Before I could ask more, the fire roared upward. The lanterns flickered violently. I blinked — and she was gone. The warmth vanished. The cave grew cold and still. I stumbled out, stone clenched in my hand, and found the path back. But nothing looked the same. The valley seemed older now. More watchful. Since that day, I’ve never been the same. I see shadows where none should be. I hear whispers in languages I don’t understand. And the stone she gave me? It still burns faintly at night. Sometimes I dream of her — the faceless woman in white. And sometimes... I hear her voice just before sleep. “Broken things still belong somewhere...”
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Exorcist (1973): A Cinematic Masterpiece of Horror
Introduction Few films have left as indelible a mark on the horror genre as The Exorcist (1973). Directed by William Friedkin and based on William Peter Blatty’s 1971 novel of the same name, The Exorcist is widely regarded as one of the greatest and most terrifying horror films ever made. Its shocking imagery, intense performances, and profound exploration of faith and evil have cemented its place in cinematic history. Upon its release, The Exorcist became a cultural phenomenon, sparking controversy, inspiring countless imitations, and leaving audiences traumatized. Even decades later, its power to unsettle remains undiminished. This article delves into the film’s production, themes, impact, and legacy, examining why it continues to haunt viewers to this day. The Origins of The Exorcist William Peter Blatty’s Inspiration The story of The Exorcist was inspired by a real-life 1949 exorcism case involving a young boy (referred to as "Roland Doe" in records). William Peter Blatty, a novelist and screenwriter, came across the story while studying at Georgetown University and was fascinated by the themes of demonic possession and the battle between good and evil. His novel The Exorcist became a bestseller, blending horror with deep philosophical and theological questions. From Page to Screen Blatty adapted his own novel into a screenplay, and Warner Bros. enlisted William Friedkin, fresh off the success of The French Connection (1971), to direct. Friedkin approached the film with a documentary-like realism, insisting on authenticity in performances and special effects. This commitment to realism would contribute to the film’s visceral impact. Production: A Grueling and Controversial Process Casting and Performances Ellen Burstyn as Chris MacNeil – The actress brought emotional depth to the role of a desperate mother. Linda Blair as Regan MacNeil – Only 12 years old during filming, Blair delivered a performance that was both innocent and horrifying. Her physical and psychological transformation remains one of cinema’s most disturbing portrayals. Jason Miller as Father Damien Karras – A struggling priest grappling with faith, Miller’s performance added profound emotional weight. Max von Sydow as Father Lankester Merrin – Though only 44 at the time, von Sydow was aged with makeup to play the veteran exorcist. His presence brought gravitas to the film. Mercedes McCambridge as the Demon’s Voice – Her guttural, otherworldly vocal performance heightened the terror. Challenges on Set The production was plagued by rumors of a "curse," including injuries, fires, and even deaths among crew members. Whether coincidence or superstition, these incidents added to the film’s mystique. Friedkin pushed his actors to extremes: Burstyn suffered a permanent back injury during a violent scene. Blair endured grueling makeup sessions and psychological strain. The infamous "spider-walk" scene (cut from the original release but restored in later versions) required a stunt double to crawl backward down stairs. Groundbreaking Special Effects Special effects artist Dick Smith created some of the most iconic horror imagery: Regan’s spinning head, levitation, and vomit scenes. The grotesque makeup for her possessed state. Practical effects like freezing breath and furniture moving on its own. These effects were revolutionary for their time and remain disturbing even by modern standards. Themes: More Than Just a Horror Film Faith and Doubt At its core, The Exorcist is a story about faith. Father Karras, a psychiatrist and priest, struggles with his belief in God after his mother’s death. His crisis mirrors the film’s central question: How can evil exist in a world governed by a benevolent God? The exorcism becomes not just a battle for Regan’s soul but a test of Karras’s own faith. Science vs. Religion The film contrasts medical and supernatural explanations for Regan’s condition. Doctors initially diagnose her with neurological disorders, but as her condition worsens, science fails to provide answers. The exorcism ritual, though archaic, becomes the only solution—suggesting that some evils lie beyond human comprehension. Innocence Corrupted Regan’s possession represents the ultimate violation of innocence. Her transformation from a sweet child into a profane, violent entity is deeply unsettling, tapping into primal fears about the corruption of youth. Release and Cultural Impact Initial Reception Upon its release on December 26, 1973, The Exorcist became a box office sensation, earning over $441 million worldwide (adjusted for inflation). It was nominated for 10 Academy Awards, including Best Picture—a rarity for a horror film. Audiences reacted viscerally: Reports of fainting, vomiting, and panic attacks in theaters. Religious groups protested, accusing the film of being blasphemous or Satanic. Some theaters provided "barf bags" for viewers. Legacy and Influence The Exorcist reshaped horror cinema: Demonic possession films became a subgenre (The Omen, The Conjuring universe). Foundational for psychological horror—its slow buildup and realism influenced later films like Hereditary and The Babadook. Enduring popularity—multiple re-releases, director’s cuts, and a franchise (sequels, prequels, TV series). Why The Exorcist Still Terrifies Psychological Horror Unlike modern jump-scare-heavy horror, The Exorcist relies on dread and psychological torment. The idea of an unseen, malevolent force violating a child taps into deep-seated fears. Religious Terror For believers (and even non-believers), the film’s depiction of demonic forces challenges the safety of the spiritual world. The exorcism scenes feel like a genuine confrontation with evil. Uncanny Realism Friedkin’s documentary-style direction makes the supernatural events feel plausible. The lack of overt CGI (compared to modern films) enhances the horror. Conclusion More than 50 years after its release, The Exorcist remains the gold standard of horror cinema. Its masterful blend of psychological terror, groundbreaking effects, and profound themes ensures its place in film history. Whether viewed as a terrifying supernatural tale or a deep meditation on faith, The Exorcist continues to shock, disturb, and captivate audiences—proving that true horror never dies. Final Thought The Exorcist isn’t just a movie; it’s an experience. And like all great horror, its true power lies in what it makes us believe—even after the credits roll.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
Buried Alive: The Echoes Beneath
The sun had just slipped behind the horizon, draping the village in shades of rust and violet. A cold wind brushed past me, whispering secrets through the dry leaves, as I walked briskly along a seldom-used path. My shortcut home passed dangerously close to the graveyard — a place even the bravest avoided once the sky darkened. Tonight, however, I had no choice. As I neared the low stone boundary, something unusual caught my attention. It wasn’t the rustling of trees or the call of an owl. It was a sound I couldn’t name — a faint moan, soaked in agony, carried on the wind. I froze. Every instinct screamed at me to run. But something deeper — perhaps fate — held me in place. Then, another sound: a dull, rhythmic thud. It echoed like a heartbeat under the earth. Driven by an indescribable force, I climbed over the wall. The graveyard was older than the village itself, its stones worn and weeping with moss. As I ventured deeper, the sounds became clearer — moans, gasps, desperate thuds. They came from a freshly dug grave. I knelt beside it. A simple wooden plaque bore a name I recognized: Zainab. A young girl, no older than twenty, recently declared dead after being struck by lightning. The village had mourned her sudden loss — I remembered the somber procession. But now, her grave was alive with movement. I whispered, “Hello?” My voice cracked in the silence. The earth shifted. From behind a twisted tree, a hunched figure emerged — Old Man Qasim, the graveyard keeper. His eyes met mine, tired and hollow. “You heard it too?” he rasped. “It’s Zainab. She won’t stay quiet.” My breath caught. “What do you mean?” “They say her spirit’s trapped. Been like this since we buried her.” Just then, the soil shifted again — violently. A small fissure formed in the mound. I reached forward, brushing away the loose earth with trembling hands. And then I heard it — a gasp. Wet. Real. Alive. Qasim and I dug with frantic urgency. The earth flew from our hands. And then — we saw it. A hand. Pale. Clawing upward. With all our strength, we pulled open the cheap wooden coffin. And there she was. Zainab. Her wide, terror-filled eyes met mine. She gasped, choking on the stale air. She was weak, shaking, filthy — but alive. We lifted her out, her fragile body barely responding. She was rushed to the doctor — a young woman from the city. Shocked, the doctor examined her and unraveled the truth. Zainab had never died. The lightning strike had induced a coma so deep her breathing and heartbeat had slowed beyond detection. The villagers, terrified by her sudden collapse, mistook her state for death. Bound by custom and fear, they buried her within hours. But Zainab’s body had fought. Deep beneath the soil, she regained consciousness. Trapped. Alone. Suffocating. Her sounds — the thuds, the moans — were cries for help. The village reeled with guilt. The miracle of her survival was shadowed by the horror of what could have been. Zainab’s story became legend — not just of fear, but of awakening, of listening closely to the things we dismiss. As for me, I never took that shortcut again. But I still hear it, sometimes — the echo of her whispers beneath the ground. A reminder that sometimes, the dead are not dead at all.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
"Aokigahara: Japan’s Haunted Suicide Forest and Its Dark Secrets"
Japan’s Aokigahara Forest, often called the "Suicide Forest," is one of the most infamous natural locations in the world—not for its beauty or wildlife, but for the chilling stories and dark history that cling to its ancient trees. Nestled at the northwest base of Mount Fuji, this dense forest spans over 35 square kilometers and is both mesmerizing and terrifying. To many, it is a place of silence, mystery, and unexplainable dread.
By Farhan Rafidabout a year ago in Horror
The Town That Vanished Overnight
What if one day, an entire town just… disappeared? No goodbye. No sign of struggle. Just silence. In the snowy wilderness of Canada lies one of the creepiest unsolved mysteries in North American history—a haunting legend that continues to baffle investigators, conspiracy theorists, and horror fans alike. Welcome to Lake Anjikuni, a place tied to one of the eeriest disappearances ever recorded. This is not fiction. This is a real story. And it’s scarier than most horror movies you've ever watched.
By Haroon Bahramzaiabout a year ago in Horror
The Jinn Who Waited by the Grave
Zayd and Naqeel: The Promise of Love Zayd had never missed a Thursday. Since the day his grandfather passed away, he had made it his ritual to visit the grave every week. He would carry a small bottle of rosewater, a Quran, and a heart full of quiet longing. That grave beneath the ancient tree had become his sanctuary — a hidden corner where time seemed to pause and memories whispered softly in the breeze. But peace, as Zayd was about to learn, is not always what it seems. One Thursday afternoon, as the sun bled golden across the sky, Zayd arrived earlier than usual. The graveyard was silent except for the soft rustling of the dry leaves. He sat beside the grave and began reciting Surah Yasin. His voice trembled slightly, though he didn’t understand why. The wind was gentle, yet it carried an unusual chill that sent a shiver down his spine. He suddenly felt... watched. He brushed the feeling aside as mere imagination and continued his recitation, but the strange sensation lingered. The following week, the feeling returned, stronger this time. The week after that, it grew even more intense. Each Thursday, it was as if unseen eyes followed his every move. Then came the dream. In the depths of night, Zayd saw a tall figure cloaked in swirling blue smoke standing beside his grandfather’s grave. Its eyes glowed softly, not with menace, but with a deep sorrow. “You are not alone here,” the jinn whispered in the dream, “and you never were.” Zayd awoke with a start, trembling. The fear wasn’t of the figure itself — there was no fear, only confusion. He chose to tell no one. That very night, long after Maghrib prayer, he made his way back to the graveyard alone. The moonlight draped the land in a silver glow, casting eerie shadows between the tombstones. As he neared the ancient tree, he heard a faint rustling behind it. “Zayd,” came a soft voice. He turned and saw him. Not a monster. Not a demon. A tall, cloaked figure shimmering faintly like heat rising off the desert sand. Its presence was powerful yet calm — commanding yet kind. “I have waited long enough,” the figure said. “Your grandfather promised you would come.” “Who? My grandfather?” Zayd’s heart pounded as he stepped back. The jinn nodded slowly. “Fifty years ago, your grandfather found me wounded at the edge of the old woods. He cared for me in secret, nursing my wounds and hiding me from those who would harm me. In return, I vowed to protect him and one of his descendants — whoever first sat beside this grave with the same love and devotion.” Zayd’s breath caught. “But why me?” “Because you didn’t come out of duty,” the jinn replied. “You came out of love. And love... fulfills promises.” Zayd’s knees weakened, and he sank to the ground. The jinn continued, “There is danger around you, though you do not know it yet. Darker beings are stirring, shadows that seek to harm. You will need help. I am here for that.” In disbelief, Zayd whispered, “What exactly are you?” “I am called Naqeel,” the jinn said softly. “And I serve those who honor the dead.” From that day forward, subtle changes crept into Zayd’s life. The shadows that once lurked behind his house vanished as if chased away by an unseen light. Nightmares that haunted his sleep stopped altogether. He began to sense things before they happened — whispers of coming events, the faintest stirrings of danger. Where once he had been quiet and unsure, now he spoke with a strange wisdom that surprised even himself. Yet, he never spoke of Naqeel to anyone. The secret remained locked deep within his heart. Years passed, and Zayd grew old and frail. One night, many years later, he sat once again beside the same grave beneath the ancient tree. His voice barely a whisper, he called out, “Naqeel... are you still here?” The wind answered with a soft hum. “I am always near,” came the voice behind him. Zayd smiled faintly, closing his eyes. In his final dream, he stood beside his grandfather and Naqeel, who was tall and radiant, bowed in greeting. --- When Zayd’s family laid him to rest next to his grandfather, his youngest grandson, barely six years old, began insisting on visiting the grave every Thursday. No one understood why. But beneath the old tree, watching silently, stood a jinn — still bound by love, still guarding the promise. --- The Hidden Depths of Love and Protection Zayd’s life had always been humble, filled with the simple joys and struggles of daily living. But his heart held a secret bond — an unspoken love for his grandfather, who had been his guide, protector, and storyteller. The stories his grandfather told of ancient times, wisdom, and kindness had shaped Zayd’s world. After his grandfather’s passing, Zayd’s visits to the grave were not just acts of remembrance but a way to keep that connection alive. The bottle of rosewater was more than a fragrance; it was a symbol of purity and love. The Quran he carried was a shield, and the quiet longing in his heart was a bridge between worlds. Meeting Naqeel revealed to Zayd a world beyond human understanding — a realm where promises are sacred, where love can bind beings across time, and where protection comes in unseen forms. Naqeel was not just a guardian spirit; he was a witness to the bond between Zayd’s family and the unseen forces of the world. The promise made decades ago between Zayd’s grandfather and Naqeel was a pact forged in kindness and trust, reminding us all that honoring those who have passed is more than ritual — it is a sacred duty that commands respect from even the supernatural. --- Legacy and the Unseen Watchers The story of Zayd and Naqeel is not merely about one man’s love for his grandfather. It is a timeless tale about how love, loyalty, and honor transcend death. It tells us that some promises are eternal, that protection can come from the most unexpected places, and that the spirits of those who have gone before us sometimes remain close, watching over those they left behind. And perhaps, when a child insists on visiting a grave every week without explanation, it is because some unseen guardian is quietly waiting — a silent protector bound by a promise of love.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
"Waking Into Darkness"
--- It started on a cold, silent night. My chest tightened, my breath turned shallow, and my voice faded to a whisper. Alone in my apartment, the darkness closed in until everything went black. I thought I had died. But I awoke in a strange forest, beneath a sickly green sky. The trees were barren, their twisted limbs like claws. The silence pressed in, heavy and unnatural. Shadows darted through the trees, whispers slithered through the air. I was being watched. Driven by instinct, I walked. Eventually, I came to a crooked bridge over a river of black water. A pale figure in a tattered cloak waited on the other side. He silently raised his arm and pointed behind me. I turned—and saw a monstrous creature of shadow and flame. Its voice didn’t enter through my ears but pressed into my thoughts: “You have crossed into the realm of the forgotten.” I ran. I sprinted through darkness until I collapsed. The earth beneath me cracked open, and I fell—through layers of time, voices, and screams—before landing hard in a new nightmare. Now I was in a fleshy hallway with pulsing walls and flickering lights. The air reeked of rot. At the end was a door... my apartment door. Inside, everything looked normal. But the TV screen reflected silent figures standing behind me. I turned. Nothing. Then the TV switched on. A news anchor’s voice: “The young man who died last night was buried today. Neighbors report strange occurrences.” My picture flashed on the screen. I touched my face—cold. My breath left no fog. I screamed. Then I woke up. In my bed. Safe. Breathing. Just a dream. Or so I thought—until I saw fingerprints outside my window. My door, which I’d locked, was ajar. A shadow shifted in the corner. I tried to dismiss it as sleep paralysis. I even called a friend. He laughed—until he glanced into the dark corner. His expression changed instantly. “Who lives with you now?” he whispered. “Please tell me you didn’t actually die.” He left in a panic, refusing to explain. That night, I didn’t sleep. The shadow moved along the walls, lights failed, my phone died. My TV showed my funeral—mourners walking past my coffin as I watched from the couch. Again, I screamed. No one heard. Then I woke up. Again. Now I was on a train. The passengers sat frozen, staring forward. I asked where we were going. No one answered. Outside the window: the same dead forest. The same crooked bridge. We were going back. Then it clicked. Each time I “woke up,” I was still dreaming—or sinking deeper into something else. Each layer peeled reality away. Finally, I awoke once more—in a coffin. The lid creaked open to reveal my apartment ceiling. I sat up, gasping. And I realized the truth. I had never really woken up. Maybe I never would. Or maybe… I was still dead. ---
By Nasir Khanabout a year ago in Horror
When I Died in My Dream
The story begins on a cold, gloomy night when I felt my chest tighten and my breath grow shallow. I was alone in my apartment, silence screaming around me. I tried to call for help, but my voice cracked into whispers. Darkness started to blur the edges of my vision until everything went black. I died. Or so I thought. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in the middle of an unfamiliar forest. The sky above me was a sickly shade of green, and the air was heavy with an unbearable silence. The trees had no leaves, only crooked, bony branches that reached out like claws. I stood up, confused and terrified, and started walking. I didn’t know where I was, but something deep inside told me that I shouldn’t stay still. As I walked, I noticed strange shadows moving behind the trees, too quick to fully see, but always there. I could hear whispers—soft, unintelligible words that made my skin crawl. I wasn’t alone. I was being watched. Soon, I reached a crooked bridge hanging over a river of black water. On the other side, a figure waited for me. A tall, pale man in a torn cloak with hollow eyes. He raised his arm and pointed behind me. I turned. Behind me stood a massive creature—half shadow, half flame. Its voice entered my mind, not through my ears, but like a memory being inserted without permission. “You have crossed the realm of the forgotten.” I ran. I didn’t know where I was going, but I ran until my legs gave out and I fell. The ground opened beneath me, and I fell through darkness, through centuries of whispers, through layers of screams and laughter and silence, until I hit the cold, hard ground. I woke up in a narrow hallway. The walls pulsed like veins, and the floor was soft like flesh. Lights flickered above me. I stumbled forward, gagging from the rotten stench in the air. At the end of the hallway was a door, and behind it... my apartment. I walked through. Everything looked exactly as it had before I “died.” But I wasn’t alone. In the reflection of my TV screen, I saw them—figures standing silently behind me, staring, waiting. I turned quickly. Nothing. Then the TV flickered on by itself. A news reporter’s voice said, “The young man who died last night was buried today—neighbors report strange sightings in the area since his passing.” My photo was on the screen. Panic filled me. I touched my face. I was cold. My breath didn’t fog the window. I screamed. Then I woke up. In my bed. Safe. Warm. Breathing. Just a dream. I laughed, shaking. Just a horrible nightmare. But when I looked at my window, I saw fingerprints from the outside. My door was slightly open, though I remembered locking it. And in the corner of the room... A shadow moved. Not everything you dream is a dream. Some dreams follow you back. I tried to convince myself it was sleep paralysis, a leftover echo of the nightmare. But every time I blinked, the shadow seemed closer. I called a friend over, needing someone to confirm reality. He laughed when I told him the story, but when he looked into the dark corner... His smile vanished. "Who lives with you now?" he asked, backing toward the door. "Tell me you didn’t actually die." He left in a rush, refusing to explain what he saw. That night, I didn’t sleep. The shadow crept along the walls like ink spilled in water. My lights wouldn’t turn on. My phone stopped working. Every time I looked at the TV, it played my funeral. I was sitting there, watching mourners walk past my coffin. I screamed again. But no one heard me. And then... I woke up. Again. Now I wasn’t in my room, but on a train. Everyone around me was silent, motionless, staring ahead. I asked where we were going. No one responded. I looked out the window and saw the same forest, the same bridge. We were going back. I began to understand. Every time I woke up, I was still dreaming. Each layer brought me closer to something real—or perhaps further away from it. The final time I woke up, I was in the coffin. The lid creaked open slowly, and I saw my apartment ceiling. I gasped, sat up, drenched in sweat. This time... I knew. I had never really woken up. I was still dreaming. Or worse... Still dead.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
