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.

Nightwatch (1994) is a Disturbing and Unpredictable Murder Mystery
I don't normally include the year that a film is made in the title. However, since there are quite a few films and I think a TV show with the same title, I added the year so that readers wouldn't be confused with which film I'm going to be discussing today.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
The Night My Reflection Walked Away
"Some mirrors don’t just reflect—they warn. One night, a medical student’s reflection walks away, leaving him to confront his choices and hidden fears." I never believed in ghosts. Even as a child, when cousins whispered horror stories during power cuts, I would laugh them off and distract myself with books. My faith was always in science, not shadows. But one winter night in Lahore, that belief cracked.
By MS Pulseabout a year ago in Horror
SEASON 3 : The Black Lung Communion: How a Surgeon’s Journal Sparked a Demonic Outbreak
CHAPTER 5: THE BONE TASBEEH They didn't stop running until the heavy iron door of the old wing was far behind them, its darkness swallowed by the marginally lighter gloom of the main corridor. Liam slammed his body against the wall, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin. Althea leaned over, hands on her knees, vomiting onto the clean linoleum.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
The Subway Horror
The underground station echoed with metallic groans as the last train screeched away. A gust of stale wind blew trash across the platform. Samantha and Kevin, exhausted after their late shift, dragged their feet toward the exit escalator.
By Zidaneabout a year ago in Horror
Talk to Me is a Cutthroat Tale of Grief and Horror
I have watched this movie several years ago, and I was so impressed by how disturbing and gory this film was. The trailer barely gave anything away, and I knew I was in for a good time once I saw this film in theaters. It takes a lot for me to look away from the screen from gory scenes, but man, some parts of this film were so damn brutal!
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
Cuckoo is One of the Most Scariest and Original Monster Flicks Ever Made
I wasn’t sure what to expect when it came to the late-night screening of Cuckoo. When I saw the trailer, I knew I had to watch this film. There was so much mystery behind the horror, and I was immediately intrigued.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
Slasher Ripper is a Victorian Murder Mystery Show that Features Some of the Best Grisly Murders
Slasher Ripper is a spin off limited series based on another show about a killer going after a group of people known as Slasher.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
Story – The Desert Ride
In 2019, I took a solo trip through the American Southwest. I’d flown into Phoenix, rented a car, and planned to drive across Arizona, dipping into New Mexico and back, just to see the desert landscapes I’d only ever read about. One afternoon, I left a small town called Holbrook with the intention of reaching Albuquerque before nightfall. It was about a four-hour drive on the interstate, but halfway through I decided to get off the highway. The idea of cutting across a back road, maybe catching a sunset over the desert, sounded romantic. Besides, the GPS showed a straight line through. The road I turned onto was paved at first, wide and flat, but after about twenty minutes the asphalt gave way to gravel. Dust kicked up behind my car and blurred the rearview mirror. At first I didn’t mind — the scenery was breathtaking: long stretches of red sand, mesas in the distance, the occasional tumbleweed. But then the fuel gauge caught my eye. I was already under half a tank, and the next gas station wasn’t anywhere on my map. Still, I pressed on. After another half hour, the road narrowed, winding between low ridges. That’s when I noticed a white van parked on the shoulder ahead. Its hood was up, steam or smoke curling into the air. As I slowed, a man stepped out. He waved both arms and called for help. I rolled the window down just a crack. His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t had water in a while. He said he’d broken down and needed a ride to the nearest town. Something about him made me uneasy, though. He was sweating, but not like someone stranded in the desert should be — more like he was agitated. His eyes kept darting behind me, scanning the road. I told him I was low on gas and couldn’t risk it. He stepped closer to my window, his hand resting on the edge of the door. That’s when I saw movement — the passenger side of the van. Another man, crouched low, like he was waiting. A jolt of fear shot through me. I slammed the car into drive and hit the gas. The man shouted, pounding his palm on my window, but I swerved past and sped down the gravel road. In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse: the second man had stepped out now, watching me leave. Neither of them tried to chase me, but the image of both standing in that endless desert stuck with me. The problem was, I didn’t know where the road led anymore. My phone had no signal, the sun was sliding toward the horizon, and my fuel gauge was dipping closer to empty. My mind kept replaying what would’ve happened if I’d stopped. Two men, a remote desert, no one around for miles. I drove another hour before finally hitting pavement again. By the time I found a gas station on the edge of a Navajo reservation, it was nearly dark. The attendant asked where I’d come from, and when I mentioned the gravel road, his face tightened. He told me in a flat voice that people sometimes staged breakdowns out there. “You did the right thing,” he said. “You never stop for anyone on those back roads.” That night I booked a motel in Albuquerque, but I hardly slept. Every time headlights passed my window, I jolted awake, convinced the white van had followed me. I still love road trips, but I stick to the highways now. The open desert is beautiful, but it hides more than just mesas and sunsets. And when I think back to that moment — two men, one waving me down, the other crouched low — I’m grateful instinct told me to hit the gas.
By Qaseem Ahmadzaiabout a year ago in Horror
VHS: Beyond is One of the Best Films in the Franchise
The V/H/S horror franchise has now gone to space, going down the sci — fi train of terror through the use of found footage. This film has now become one of my favorite films in the franchise!
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
The Neon Funeral. Content Warning.
On the night the funeral began, the rain fell like neon oil slicks, painting the pavement in broken reds, blues, and sickly greens. The lights from the signs didn’t just glow—they pulsed, as if every advertisement had learned how to breathe. And down on 42nd Street, beneath the buzzing of a dozen flickering marquees, people gathered in silence. No one spoke about who had died. The crowd wasn’t made of mourners in black; it was a mess of taxi drivers, bartenders, students, vagrants, and insomniacs—all drawn by something they couldn’t explain. They simply stood there, watching as the lights above twisted themselves into shapes that almost resembled words. WELCOME TO THE FUNERAL. --- I. The Invitation Daniel Crowe hadn’t planned on attending. He’d just left work at the all-night copy shop, headphones pressed tight, ready to drown himself in static and bass. But the moment the first sign bent its letters into a funeral procession, his phone died in his hand. No glow. No notification. Just a blank screen. Everywhere he turned, the city hummed at him. A cheap noodle joint’s neon bowl tilted until its steam curled into skeletal fingers. A pawn shop’s “OPEN” stuttered until it looked like O—PEN. And the funeral began to march. He should have run. He should have ignored the pull. But Daniel felt the same instinct that led a moth into fire: a compulsion beyond choice. --- II. The Procession The crowd shifted forward as if strings tugged them. In the lead, the signs reshaped themselves into pallbearers—bright, faceless silhouettes formed out of pink and yellow tubing, hoisting a coffin made of pure light. It pulsed with an unnatural glow, its surface rippling with images of rain-slick streets, subway tunnels, and blurred human faces screaming without sound. Daniel tried to tell himself it was a trick of exhaustion, that maybe he’d stumbled into a flash mob, an art installation. But then he noticed something: people he thought were part of the crowd weren’t breathing. The man next to him wore a cab driver’s jacket, but his eyes flickered green, numbers scrolling across them like stock tickers. The woman on his other side was pale as plastic, her lips silently mouthing advertisements. These weren’t people—they were props, puppets dressed as citizens. And yet they marched, all toward the heart of the funeral. --- II. The Funeral Director The coffin halted in front of a boarded theater whose last marquee once screamed GRAND CINEMA before half its letters burned out. Tonight, the dead bulbs flared alive with a new name: FUNERAL HOME. The doors yawned open. The stench of burnt wires rolled out. A figure stepped through. He wore a tuxedo, black as a shadow melted into form. But his face—Daniel couldn’t look directly at it. It was not a face but a panel, like a television screen filled with white noise. When he spoke, his voice was the hiss between stations. “You’ve all come,” the director said. “As you were meant to.” He gestured toward the glowing coffin, which hovered in the air, dripping sparks like blood. “One must be chosen to lie within. One among you is owed to the lights.” Daniel felt every eye—human and otherwise—turn toward him. --- IV. The Deceased He tried to back away. His throat was raw, his legs trembling. “I—I don’t belong here. I didn’t even—” The director’s voice cut him off, sharp as a snapped wire. “You already died, Daniel Crowe. Do you not remember?” The words crawled into his skull, unearthing memories he’d buried under night shifts and cheap liquor: the accident. The glass. The red wash of tail lights. The last sound of his lungs collapsing under the wheel of a taxi. He staggered. No. That couldn’t be true. He was alive. He was here. He felt the cold rain. But when he lifted his hands, the neon reflected clean through them. His fingers glowed, hollow, outlined by electric blue veins of light. He wasn’t alive. He was unfinished. The city had been keeping him warm, feeding him scraps of false hours. Tonight, the funeral came to collect. --- V. The Coffin The pallbearers tilted the coffin open. Inside, instead of wood or silk, was a blinding well of color, a bottomless pit of shifting advertisements and lost voices. Daniel saw himself reflected in it—a copy-shop clerk doomed to repeat endless nights, a ghost in fluorescent purgatory. “No,” he whispered. “Not me. Not yet.” He ran. The city screamed in light. Storefronts flashed OPEN—CLOSED—OPEN—CLOSED like a heartbeat. Streetlamps bent down like jaws. Billboards spat static. Every sign turned into a neon claw reaching for him, dragging him toward the glowing coffin. Daniel fought, tearing free, stumbling into the rain. His chest burned. His legs gave way. For one fleeting moment, he thought he’d escaped. Then the theater’s marquee boomed like thunder: DANIEL CROWE — TONIGHT’S FEATURE PRESENTATION. --- VI. The Neon Funeral The coffin swallowed him whole. The crowd applauded—not with hands, but with a roar of electricity. The director bowed, his face crackling with snow. The lights dimmed. The procession dissolved into a thousand dying sparks, drifting back into the city’s endless web of advertisements. The rain hissed against the pavement. By morning, 42nd Street looked normal again—just another washed-out strip of bars, shops, and neon. No one would remember the funeral, no one except those still humming under the lights. And somewhere inside the current, trapped between circuits and tubes, Daniel Crowe’s face flickered in the glow of a diner’s red “OPEN” sign. His mouth moved without sound, repeating the same words forever: “Not me. Not yet.” But the city never listened. Because the funeral was already looking for the next name.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Message
It started with a message... Emma, a 23-year-old student from London, had always been curious about the darker side of the internet. A self-proclaimed “paranormal enthusiast,” she loved browsing through mysterious forums, reading creepy tales, and watching strange, unsolved disappearances. One night, after scrolling through a forum she hadn’t visited before, she came across an unusual post titled “Send a Message to the Future, and It Will Reply.”
By ABDU LLAHabout a year ago in Horror
The Mother’s Shadow
Lila, 16, always knew her mother, Ellen, was hiding something. The way Ellen’s eyes darted away when Lila asked about her childhood, the locked attic door in their creaky old house—it was like a wall between them. Lila’s phone was her escape, her group chats buzzing with memes and gossip. But tonight, as rain battered the windows, she craved answers. Ellen was at her night shift at the hospital, leaving Lila alone to snoop.
By Muhammad Riazabout a year ago in Horror