fiction
Horror fiction that delivers on its promise to scare, startle, frighten and unsettle. These stories are fake, but the shivers down your spine won't be.
5 Minute Horror: Mother’s Ghost
The house is quieter now. I sit in your rocking chair and recall the sound of your voice echoing through the halls, down the stairs, to my bedroom. The way you hummed while washing the dishes in the sink. I think about your smile as you stirred a pot of spaghetti, telling me how you saw a chef on the TV do something you too wanted to try. This house is empty, but the creak of the rocking chair against the wooden floor staves off the silence. It’s a numbing kind of comfort, focusing on the back and forth, back and forth.
By Valerie Taylorabout a year ago in Horror
Voices
It’s a demon, he thought. It has to be. For the past week, he had had migraine-like headaches which he believed was a supernatural occurrence. This spirit, had gained entry to his mind, and now it wanted to get out, but it couldn’t, so banged away at his skull in an attempt to find an exit, rather like a spider in a bath, unaware of the plughole from which it came. He took all the pills he could without overdosing, but they didn’t work. He tried to convince himself that the voice inside was his own conscience, but concluded that a demon had taken over, and demanded to be let out. It didn’t possess him enough to control his actions, but it still resided in his mind.
By John Jonesabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers of the Forgotten: A Descent into Eldoria Manor
Season 1 Whispers of the Forgotten: A Descent into Eldoria Manor Chapter 1 The wind howled its mournful song, a dirge for the dying day and the ancient secrets it stirred. Eldoria Manor stood silhouetted against a bruise-purple sky, a monolithic scar on the horizon, its skeletal chimneys clawing at the clouds. Locals whispered of its blight, of the unspeakable acts that stained its foundations, but for Professor Alistair Finch, a seasoned parapsychologist with more skeptical victories than genuine encounters, Eldoria represented a new kind of challenge .. a legacy he couldn't afford to ignore.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
Werewolf
Eddy Bauer sat in the driver’s seat of a semi – truck. It idled noisily as the big monster semi slid into the parking lot of the Shady Pines Truck Stop. Eddy’s hair was white and thinning. He wore a camouflage hat that said Hell Yeah. He shut off the radio which had been blaring Willy Nelson’s on the road again. Eddy jumped out of the semi and he filled up with diesel gasoline. He walked inside the little, shack like gas station and he approached the cube like, checkout counter. A man with straight black hair and glasses stood behind the counter. His nametag read Hank. He wore square looking glasses and he was abnormally thin. “That’ll be 15.75.” hank said stiffly.
By DJ Robbinsabout a year ago in Horror
My life was cursed with four trials. The last one was at Narita Airport.
My life has been defined by a prophecy. When I was three years old and dying, my grandmother carried me to a temple on Mount Putuo, a sacred site for Guanyin, the Bodhisattva of Compassion. A wise old abbess told her that my life was not written in the stars; it was a gift, stolen from fate by Guanyin herself. But such gifts come with a price. I would face four great trials—four moments where fate would try to reclaim me. They would come at ages three, thirteen, twenty-three, and thirty-three. Each one would be harder to survive than the last.
By SupernaturalEastabout a year ago in Horror
The House That Waited for Me
M Mehran The house had been abandoned for nearly twenty years, yet the moment I stepped onto its front porch, it felt alive—like it had been waiting for me all along. When I was a child, my grandmother often told me stories about this place. She would point at the hill from her garden and whisper, “That house remembers things.” At the time, I thought she meant it in a poetic way. Now, as an adult returning to my hometown after her passing, I wasn’t so sure. The door creaked open with the gentlest push, as though it had been oiled just yesterday. Dust swirled in the slivers of sunlight cutting through broken shutters, and the air carried that strange mixture of mildew and something sweeter—like faded perfume. I wasn’t there just to satisfy curiosity. My grandmother had left me a note, tucked inside her will, with three short words: “Find the truth.” No explanation, no instructions, just that. --- The First Night I decided to stay overnight with nothing but a sleeping bag, a lantern, and my notebook. Most people would call it foolish, but grief has a way of dulling fear. Around midnight, the silence grew heavier. I could hear the old house sigh with every gust of wind. Then, faintly, came another sound—footsteps. Slow. Steady. As if someone was walking the halls upstairs. I froze. I told myself it was the house settling. I even laughed nervously to chase away the unease. But the laughter died when I remembered something: the second floor had collapsed years ago. --- The Portrait The next morning, I explored what was left of the dining room. The wallpaper peeled like shedding skin, and broken chairs lay in piles. But one thing stood untouched—a portrait hanging above the fireplace. It was of a young woman in a long dress, her gaze sharp and unsettling. The strangest part was how new it looked, the paint still vibrant despite the decay around it. I leaned closer and felt an icy draft brush my neck. Beneath the frame, scratched into the wood, was a single word: “Stay.” --- Secrets in the Walls By the third day, I knew I wasn’t alone. Objects shifted places. My lantern flickered at precise moments, like a signal. I began writing down everything, piecing together a timeline. That’s when I found the letters. They were hidden inside a hollow part of the wall behind the kitchen cabinet, tied with a red ribbon. Most were dated in the 1940s, written by a woman named Elena to a man named Thomas. Elena’s words were filled with longing and fear. She wrote about being trapped in the house, about a family who forbade her from leaving. Her last letter ended abruptly: > “If you find this, know that I tried to escape. But the house does not forgive.” --- The Final Night The fourth night, I decided to confront whatever was happening. I sat in the living room with the portrait in view, whispering Elena’s name. The temperature dropped instantly. My breath came out in clouds, and the shadows in the corners deepened. Then I saw her—faint, like smoke, stepping out of the painting. Her eyes locked onto mine. “You came,” she whispered, though her lips never moved. I wanted to run, but something rooted me in place. She reached out, her hand trembling as though centuries of sorrow weighed on her. “Free me.” --- The Ending The next morning, I buried the letters beside my grandmother’s grave. She must have known about Elena, must have carried the secret her whole life. Perhaps that’s why she told me the house “remembers.” When I returned to the house one last time, the portrait was gone. The air was lighter, as though the walls had finally exhaled after decades of holding their breath. I locked the door behind me and left the key on the porch. Some truths aren’t meant to be kept. Some are meant to be set free.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Horror
