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 Last Summer at the Lake
Title: The Last Summer at the Lake Subtitle: Some Promises Are Never Meant to Be Broken I sighed and pulled my hat brim down to shield my face from the blazing summer sun. Just a few more chapters, I told myself, flipping open my book again, though I’d read the same paragraph four times already. My eyes drifted off the page, pulled by the lake's gentle shimmer, and the book quietly fell into my lap.
By Saeed Ullah about a year ago in Horror
Directed By Death
Ring…Ring…Ring…Ring… Buzz…Buzz…Buzz…Buzz… Woody laid in his bed staring at the ceiling fan. He had been awake for a while. Woody wondered if he had even slept at all. His phone and alarm clock continued to go off. Woody made no effort to turn off either. He counted how many times his phone rang. It would ring for a time, paused, then continued to ring. After the seventh round of ringing, Woody turned over to silence both devices. He knew the reason for his phone ringing off the hook. It was another homicide scene in Houston. Woody was a fourteen year veteran of the Houston PD Homicide team. His job was to take pictures of the crime scene. Lately the memories of past assignments were wearing down on his psyche.
By Desirae Anayaabout a year ago in Horror
Zombies everywhere
Demi Moss ran for her life, the undead were rising all over England. Crawling out of the mud, like horrible little bugs. Gravestones were turning over, cemeteries had become danger zones, as zombie hordes gathered where people once mourned lost loved ones. It was like something out of a classic horror movie, as crippled men and women, with skin running off their bones, came shambling towards the living who fled from them in frantic terror! Whole cities were overrun with these monsters. Demi was in London when a horde of them burst from a diesel train in the underground. She was waiting in the subway to go home, but immediately fled back towards the city as hundreds of undead raced out of the metal carriages, their eyes burned red with a fiery rage unlike anything Demi had ever seen before. It terrified her, she and a hundred others joined a stampede racing upstairs, breaking through the barriers to resurface in Piccadilly Circus, the heart of the city. It was chaos, Demi didn't know where to look, at every turn; there were people killing people and it was almost impossible to tell who was infected or not. If that's what this was, Demi didn't know what was causing the zombie outbreak. It was a strange virus (if it was one) as the undead laughed and grinned, some even chanted; "the return of Lucien at last!" Or "our dark lord has resurrected!" Over and over again. No, this couldn't be a viral infection, it had to be something far darker than even that. She had heard about the return of Big Foot, Moth Man, Loch Ness Monster and then dinosaurs in America. Now there were zombies in England, something foul and menacing was a foot. Demi couldn't think about it at all, she just ran and ran, away from the horror, screaming in frantic terror! There had to be a way out of London, there just had to be. She searched for it endlessly, climbing high above the walking dead, jumping on top of stationary vehicles that had crashed in the outbreak. Smoke rose over the city, buildings were set on fire. Riot police were already storming the streets and alleyways, Demi looked high above the skyline, she saw army planes and helicopters, paratroopers were gliding in to save the day. There were panic bells, it was red alert! "There's something here from somewhere else!" A soldier yelled, as war machines sprung to life, shooting madly, "call the troops out in a hurry! This is it, boys, this is war!" He cried, as a hundred red and bloody zombies ran by. Demi hid from the gunfire, as these camouflaged superheroes stormed in to shoot the undead down, they weren't just from the sky, but crashing in with battle tanks, squashing the walking corpses like pesky insects. Demi didn't know what she was afraid of more, the marching men with high tech weaponry or the beasts from beyond the grave. She was hiding inside an abandoned building, with other survivors gathering close by, they became a gang of desperate people, eager to escape this living hell. It seemed impossible, so they all hid upstairs, watching from the windows high above, the war on land was neverending. The building collapsed before their feet, a missile crashed into the second floor, it made the walls around them crumble and shake violently. Demi and the others all tried to run back down to ground, but the stairs cracked and split wide open. Demi lost her footing, falling to her death. The last thing she heard was the others screaming, before the back of her head smashed the ground.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Horror
"The House That Time Forgot"
Across the corners of the world, thousands of ancient buildings exist, but among them, there is one structure whose mere mention makes the hairs on one's neck stand up. This building is located in a mountainous region of Romania and is known as the most haunted building in the world. Its name is "Casa de los Espíritus", which means "The House of Spirits."
By Furqan Elahiabout a year ago in Horror
Tenebrae is a Great Murder Mystery Tale with Multiple Twists That Keeps You Guessing Until the End
Dario Argento is one of my horror favorite directors. He has made so many films I have come to love, he is the reason why I became obsessed with Giallo murder mysteries!
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
The Shadow . AI-Generated.
Title: shadow Subtitle:The A vallage, a boy, and a shadow that never left Night had settled thickly over the village. The moon peeked now and then through scattered clouds, and the wind carried a strange silence. It was the kind of night that made even the bravest souls pull their blankets tighter.
By MIND VERSEabout a year ago in Horror
The Call Lasted for Thirteen Seconds. Content Warning.
I wasn’t supposed to answer the phone. It was 2:13 a.m. I was alone in the apartment, lights off, laptop closed, and every part of me convinced the ringing was a dream.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
Flesh Tunnels and Honey Roads . Content Warning.
They say the roads under the city used to be for mail runners, then smugglers, then something else. Not trains. Not cars. Not even footsteps. Just... something else. The first time I saw one, I thought it was an animal burrow — a hole in the alley wall, just wide enough for a child to crawl through. It glistened in the moonlight, slick and warm-looking, like the inside of a throat. It pulsed. That’s when I knew it wasn’t made of stone. Three nights later, I returned. The mouth of the tunnel had grown teeth — not sharp, but soft and petal-shaped. They trembled as I approached, parting as though the tunnel were sighing me in. I hesitated. Then I heard the hum. Sweet and low. Like bees inside a cello. It filled my chest and whispered beneath my ribs. I knelt down, reached into the tunnel with a trembling hand— And felt honey. Not real honey. Something like it. Warm and golden and wrong. I was sixteen then. My brother was missing. So was our neighbor. And the milkman. No one cared — or worse, they pretended not to notice. My town had a way of swallowing the inconvenient. That’s why I went back every night. That’s why I entered. The tunnel was alive. The walls flexed. Fleshy, veined. I crawled deeper, dragging myself through a throat that did not gag or choke, but welcomed. The humming grew louder — not in volume, but intensity. It coated my skin, sank into my spine. After a while, I stopped crawling. The tunnel began to move me. I don’t know how long I was inside. There were no landmarks. No up or down. Just a strange rhythm in the walls and the honey that coated everything — sweet, cloying, almost addictive. I drank it when I grew thirsty. It tasted like summer afternoons and rot. Then I came to a hault. Two paths. One hummed with voices. The other... with music. I chose the music. The Honey Road was lit from within — soft amber light glowing beneath translucent membranes, revealing silhouettes of things walking above. I recognized none of them. Long-legged things with lanterns for eyes. A headless woman whose hair floated behind her like smoke. A man dragging his own skin in a wheelbarrow. No one looked at me. I walked until my knees gave out. Then I crawled. The honey grew thicker. And the walls began to whisper. “You taste good.” “Will you stay?” “You have your brother’s smile.” That’s when I knew. My brother had come this way. Maybe years ago. Maybe days. Time was thick here — like the honey. Things moved differently, breathed differently. The tunnel remembered him. It wanted me because of him. And yet, I didn’t turn back. Eventually, I reached the chambers. A vast hollow in the belly of the road — a cathedral of flesh. The walls beat like a heart. There were others there, kneeling, their bodies fused to the floor with golden tendrils. Some whispered. Some screamed. And one of them was my brother. He opened his eyes when I touched his face. “You came through the flesh.” I nodded. “Do you understand what this place is?” he asked. I didn’t. He laughed — honey dripped from his mouth. “It’s not a tunnel. It’s not a road. It’s a vein. We are inside something older than cities. Older than stories. It feeds on memory and offers sweetness in return.” “You chose this?” I whispered. “I chose to be remembered.” He pointed at the others. “They begged to be forgotten. You’ll see them in dreams, not in obituaries.” I wanted to scream, but the honey was in my throat. My brother pulled me closer, and for a moment, I saw the world as he did. Endless roads beneath every city. A network of mouths and arteries, pulsing beneath our feet, hungering. And above — people building homes on top of sleeping people, never asking what lay below the stone. “I can take you home,” he said. “But you’ll always feel the pull. Once the honey touches your tongue, it remembers you.” The tunnel behind me had closed. Ahead, another door of flesh opened, revealing moonlight, trees, wind. A way out. I left him there. Half-sunk, half-smiling. Back on the surface, the world was loud. Unkind. Sharp. I vomited honey for weeks. Sometimes, I wake up in strange places — alleys, drains, under bridges — with it on my hands. Sometimes I hum without knowing why. And sometimes, late at night, I see new tunnels forming in places they shouldn’t be — behind mirrors, under beds, between cracks in plaster. They’re always warm. Always sighing. And always remembering me. Thanks for reading. If this story lingered in your mind, drop a like, leave a comment, and follow for more strange paths you were never meant to walk. 🐝
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
She Doesn't Know She Killed Me
She stares into the mirror again. I watch her from behind the cracks. Every morning, she tries to remember who she is. And every morning, she forgets who I was.
By Jhonabout a year ago in Horror
Pathogen: Ch. 16. Content Warning.
This was bad. This was very, very, very bad. Alarms screamed all around Marnie as she barreled down the hall, racing for the elevator as fast as her high heels could carry her. General Hackett or one of his scientists must have flipped a switch, because the lights went out around her within a second of her taking off. All she had to see by were the hazard lights, slowly flashing red to the tempo of the alarm.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Horror
Putt Putt Park
Alba wanted a cute night out with Amos after a long week. She wanted to play putt putt, but was tired of the same ones in the town. She searched on her phone and found one that was located within a small town next to their own. They drove the 50 minutes in order to enjoy the new found spot. When they arrived the place seemed rusted, abandoned, and overgrown. They walked into the front building to pay. A man who seemed to be around 80 was standing at a desk. He did not look up and continued to read the book in front of him. He only pointed to the sign next to him that showed, "18 holes: $5 per person."
By Seashell Harpspring about a year ago in Horror
That One Night
I should have taken the bus. That thought kept repeating in my head as I walked down Elmwood Avenue, the shortcut I always promised myself I'd never take again. But after pulling a double shift at the diner for the third night this week, my feet ached and my eyelids felt like sandpaper. All I wanted was to collapse onto my mattress and sleep for twelve hours straight. The rain had stopped hours ago, but the air still hung heavy with moisture, smelling like wet concrete and something else—something coppery that made the hairs on my neck stand up.
By Emma Walkerabout a year ago in Horror