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.
The Long-Awaited Finale Awaits You - Now Live on Tales That Breathe at Night
Announcement as promised! As promised, the season finale is now live on my Ko-fi page. Come lets see the finale together. This chapter carries with it all the emotions, chills, and quiet moments I’ve been saving for you - the kind that linger long after the last word. Writing it felt like closing the final page of a well-worn diary, one we’ve been filling together, night after night.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
Route 19 Has No End
I was the only passenger left on the bus. The others had trickled off one by one—college kids with backpacks, an old man who tipped his hat to no one in particular, a woman in a puffy coat who muttered “wrong stop” before disappearing into the fog. By midnight, it was just me and the driver. And he hadn’t blinked once. I noticed it first when I looked up from my phone. The dim interior lights flickered, casting his reflection in the smudged windshield. His eyes were locked on the road, wide and unblinking, the same way you’d stare at a horizon you couldn’t quite reach. “The schedule says ‘Last Stop – 11:45 PM,’” I called out, my voice carrying oddly in the empty bus. “It’s now 2:12.” No response. The wheels hummed on the asphalt. The scenery outside—if you could call it that—was nothing but a smear of blackness. Streetlights had disappeared more than an hour ago, along with the familiar gas stations, convenience stores, and late-night diners. The road itself seemed… wrong. Too narrow. Too empty. I pressed the stop-request button. The ding rang sharp in the still air, but the driver didn’t slow down. “Hey!” I stood, walking toward the front. “You missed the last stop.” He didn’t flinch. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles pale, as if prying them away would take force. His jaw moved slightly, like he was chewing invisible words. I leaned closer. That’s when I heard it. He was whispering. Not English. Not anything I recognized. The syllables were too fluid, like water flowing backward. My skin prickled, and I took a step back. “You okay, man?” I asked, though I knew the answer. Still no blink. Still no sign he’d even heard me. I glanced out the front windshield again. The road curved sharply to the right, but instead of turning, the bus drove straight ahead—through the guardrail. My stomach lurched. I braced for the crash. It never came. Instead, we rolled onto a smooth, silver surface that looked like fog made solid. There was no sky, no ground—just an endless gray-white expanse stretching in every direction. The hum of the engine sounded distant now, like it was coming from underwater. “What the hell…” I muttered. I looked at the driver again. His mouth had stopped moving, but his eyes—God, his eyes—were no longer brown. They were reflecting something behind me. I turned. Every seat on the bus was filled. Not with people. Not exactly. They were shapes. Pale, thin outlines of bodies, like the first sketch marks an artist makes before deciding on details. No faces, no clothes, no features—just human-shaped spaces that shimmered faintly, as if lit from inside. One of them turned its head toward me. The motion was slow, deliberate. I backed away, but the aisle seemed longer now, stretching endlessly between those blank silhouettes. My heart hammered against my ribs. The driver finally spoke. His voice was flat, mechanical. “Route 19 has no end.” “What?” “You boarded. You ride. We all ride.” “I want to get off,” I said, my voice breaking. “I want to go home.” He didn’t answer. The silver surface outside shifted. Shapes began to rise from it—arches, towers, and streets made of the same misty material. They twisted and curled into a city that looked almost real, almost alive, except it had no color and no sound. The bus slowed. The pale figures began to stand, one by one, turning toward the front. As they moved, I felt the air grow colder, like they were drawing heat out of me. The doors hissed open. None of them stepped off. Instead, they turned back toward me, waiting. I didn’t want to go near them, but the aisle pulled at me like a current. I stumbled forward, gripping the seatbacks. One of the figures reached out, its hand passing through my wrist. A shock of cold shot up my arm, and for a second, my vision dimmed. When it cleared, I saw something that made my breath stop. Through the windows, in the misty city, there was a bus stop. At that bus stop stood a version of me. Same coat. Same shoes. Same tired eyes. He looked up, right at me, and mouthed the words: Don’t board. The doors closed. The driver’s hands tightened on the wheel. Without another word, the bus pulled away from the city, back onto the silver road. The other me vanished into the fog. Hours—maybe days—passed. The clock on the bus stayed stuck at 2:12 AM. I stopped checking my phone when I realized there was no signal. Eventually, the pale figures sat down again, still faceless, still watching. I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw the other me at that bus stop, his mouth moving in slow, desperate warning. And somewhere, deep down, I knew the truth. He had been riding this bus once. And one day, I’ll be standing at that stop, mouthing the same words to someone else. Because Route 19 has no end.
By Sahir E Shafqatabout a year ago in Horror
When I turned around, the bridge was empty.
The Last Day of Summer It was the last Sunday in August—the kind of day that feels like it’s clutching at summer with both hands. The trees were still green, the air was warm, and the river flowed smooth and quiet beneath the old wooden bridge.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Horror
Midnight Conversations with Shadows
Midnight Conversations with Shadows The apartment was quiet—or at least, I thought it was. It began the first night I moved in. Boxes were scattered, the smell of fresh paint still hung in the air, and the city hummed softly outside the window. I was unpacking books when I heard it: a faint whisper, just beyond the corner of the room.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Horror
Send to Kill. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
The weeks following the chaos in Akkerstad felt like a waking nightmare. On a routine morning, a police officer sat in his van outside a colleague’s home, waiting for him to leave. The stillness was shattered by gunfire; the officer was struck down before he could react. His colleague emerged from the house, breathless and frantic, only to find his partner lifeless in the driver’s seat, the van stained with the brutality of the moment.
By Winston Benjaminabout a year ago in Horror
My Childhood Doll Started Breathing
I never planned to open the box. It had been sitting in my parents’ attic for over twenty years, wedged between old Christmas decorations and stacks of yellowing magazines. Inside was my childhood doll—Lily. I’d forgotten most of the details until recently: porcelain face, glass eyes, strawberry-blonde curls, and a little blue dress. She’d been my favorite, but also the source of nightmares I could never explain.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Horror
Welcome to the Hotel Canfield
"Dude, this is epic!" Cole's dazzling hazel eyes boggled out of his skull, his pale, freckly cheeks stretching in an absolutely giddy grin. The seventeen-year-old hadn't even gotten out of the car yet, and he was already about to wet himself from excitement. Just seeing that look on his face almost made this entire, crazy idea worth it.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Horror
The Whisper House
The realtor’s brochure called it a "quaint fixer-upper brimming with potential." Eleanor Vance, still adrift in the numb silence following her husband Robert’s sudden passing six months prior, saw it as an escape. Nestled at the dead-end of Sycamore Lane, shrouded by ancient, weeping willows, the Victorian house wasn’t quaint. It was *watchful*. Its asymmetrical gables hunched like brooding shoulders, the once-vibrant clapboard weathered to a sickly grey. Most unsettling were the windows – tall, narrow panes reflecting the encroaching woods with a depth that felt less like glass and more like stagnant water. Eleanor signed the papers. The price was absurdly low.
By Danyal Hashmiabout a year ago in Horror
