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.

My daughter told me she’s not scared of the dark
Makeda has always been an amazing child — bright, energetic, always full of laughter and curiosity. The absolute joy of my existence.
By Dblkroseabout a year ago in Horror
THE HOSPITAL OF UNKNITTING
Season 1 CHAPTER 1: THE ADMISSION INTERVIEW The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps as Dr. Eleanor Lorne gripped the clipboard. Patient #4479's intake form kept rewriting itself...the ink bubbling up into fresh words before her eyes.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
The Substance is a Body Horror Triumph with Incredible Practical Effects
The Substance follows the story of a woman named Elisabeth Sparkle, who is now turning 50 years old. She appears to be living her best life. She is a fitness instructor for a TV show, she is beautiful and rich.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
The Room No One Opens
They say apartment 4B has been empty for 13 years. No tenants. No furniture. No power. But every night, at exactly 3:00 AM, the lights flicker on.
By Aya Nabilabout a year ago in Horror
The Forgotten Room
The Forgotten Room The apartment was dirt cheap, and Jacob was broke. After months of couch surfing and sleeping in his car, even the creaky floorboards and sour mildew scent felt like luxury. The landlord, a wiry man with yellowed eyes, had only one request as Jacob signed the lease.
By Kamal khanabout a year ago in Horror
Open Me Only When I’m Dead. Content Warning.
She was dead now. My grandmother. And I had the crowbar in my hands. Grandmother wasn’t the sentimental type. Cold-blooded, my mother used to say. “She raised me like a plant she forgot to water.” Yet at the funeral, they buried her with a rosary clenched so tightly in her fist it left red imprints on her bones. She died with her jaw unhinged. Not metaphorically — it literally hung open, dislocated, as if she’d been screaming when her heart stopped. I moved into her house a week later. Inherited, though not by choice. The walls still smelled like rosewater and sulfur. Her bedroom was locked from the inside. I didn’t have the key. But the attic was open. I found the box beneath a mound of old quilts and moth-chewed dolls. There was no lock. Just those handwritten words again: OPEN ME ONLY WHEN I’M DEAD. I pried at the lid. The first nail screamed. The second snapped. The third oozed black rotten liquid of who knows what. Inside were photographs — dozens of them — all of the same man. Middle-aged, unsmiling, his eyes blurred as if he’d moved during every shot. His face looked… wrong. Like the camera couldn’t focus on him properly. Beneath the photos was a sealed letter addressed to “The Last Living Girl.” Me. It read: You must not look directly at him. If you’re reading this, the seal is broken, and he knows. He does not live in the photos. He lives in the act of looking. That’s how I trapped him. That’s how he’ll find you. — Jennifer it's from grandma. That night, my phone buzzed at 3:04 a.m. A photo had been taken. In my camera roll: a shot of my bedroom doorway. Pitch black — except for one thing. A blurred figure in the frame. Not inside the room. Just outside, as if watching me through the cracked door. I deleted the image. It came back an hour later. I deleted it again. By sunrise, there were six. The thing was, I’d seen that man before. Only not in life. In dreams. And sometimes in reflections — like he was just behind the skin of the world, pressing in. But now he was sharper. Hungrier. Like the photos had fed him. And I’d opened the box. I’d broken the seal. On the second day, I heard breathing in the walls. Heavy. Wet. And scratching. God, the scratching. I tore open a section of drywall and found claw marks inside — from the inside out. Some fresh. Some decades old. Some in sets of four. Some… human. By the third night, I began coughing up hair. Not mine. Coarse. Grey. Wiry. Like something had nested in my throat and died screaming. I stopped sleeping. Because in the dark, he came closer. Every blink was a shutter click. I burned the photographs. I buried the box in the yard. I recited prayers until my tongue cracked and bled. Nothing helped. He didn’t live in the box. He lived in the knowing. By the seventh day, mirrors no longer reflected me correctly. They showed my face, yes — but smiling when I wasn’t. Bleeding from the eyes when I blinked. Tilting its head slowly when mine was still. The mirror-me began mouthing things. Not words. Just sounds. Wet ones. I tried to sort help or supposedly just raise awareness. I texted my sister: “Don’t come to the house. Don’t open the attic.” She replied: “You never had a sister.” And she was right. But the number was saved under her name. The profile photo was our childhood picture. And she knew about the attic. Day eight. My eyes started rejecting light. Pupils wide and leaking. I walked with the curtains closed. But in every shadow, I could see him now. In the creases of coats, in the folds of bedsheets, in the static between radio stations. He had taken shape. He had my voice. I recorded myself sleeping. When I played it back, I heard something I’ll never forget. The creak of the floorboards. The slow turning of my doorknob. And then — in a whisper thick with blood — a voice saying: “You opened me before I was ready.” I think I understand now. The box wasn’t a warning. It was a trap. A prison held together not by nails, but by belief. By restraint. And I — in my arrogance — tore it open. I opened him. Tonight, I hear the walls splitting. He’s almost fully free. And I can’t tell where he ends and I begin. So I’m writing this now, not as a warning... But as a replacement. I’ll seal it in something stronger than wood. I’ll wrap it in silence and bury it beneath this rotting house. And maybe, just maybe — if you're reading this... You’ll know better. Open me only when I’m dead. And not a moment before. end
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
The Watchers of Blackwood Lane
STORY START The day we moved into 657 Blackwood Lane, Emma found the first letter wedged in the porch railing. "Dearest new neighbors," it began in elegant cursive.
By Ahmed Abdeenabout a year ago in Horror
Eccentric or Quirky Interventions
It started with a flyer. Bright pink, taped to the mailbox, printed in Comic Sans (a crime in itself), with the headline: “LIVING FUNERAL! Come Cry for Charlie – One Day Only!”
By Abuzar khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Life in Silence Home.
by wiki king! There’s a different kind of language spoken in the silence home. Not one built from syllables or sound—but from glances, hand squeezes, shoulder taps, and the smallest nods that carry the weight of entire conversations.
By ℍ𝕦𝕕 ℍ𝕦𝕕 𝔸𝕞𝕫about a year ago in Horror
The Boat Trip
I watched my boyfriend, Marcus, swimming in the ocean. He thought it would be the perfect time to jump into the water, and go for a swim.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
10 horror movies based on family curses that will make you think. AI-Generated.
Horror films often explore the theme of family curses, where the sins or misfortunes of one generation haunt the next. These stories frequently portray families that are dysfunctional or toxic, using curses as a narrative device to highlight these issues. Movies like The Grudge and The Exorcist showcase how familial bonds can become sources of horror when marred by betrayal, anger, or unresolved conflict. The supernatural elements often serve to externalize the internal struggles of the family, making the horror more palpable and relatable
By Ninfa Galeanoabout a year ago in Horror
The Man Who Counts the Dark
The first time I saw him, I thought my insomnia had finally broken me. 3:17 AM. My cramped studio apartment hummed with the static of sleeplessness. The glow of my laptop screen painted everything in sickly blue—except for the hallway. There, where the light didn’t quite reach, stood a man in a moth-eaten waistcoat. Tall. Too tall. His spine curved like a question mark under the low ceiling. I blinked sweat from my eyes. "Hello?" His head snapped toward me with a sound like cracking knuckles. No face—just a black pit where features should be. One skeletal hand rose, fingers twitching: One. Two. Three. The hallway light flickered. He vanished. I didn’t sleep that night. --- Three nights later, I smelled him before I saw him—wet wool and something metallic, like old pennies. He stood at the foot of my bed, counting on his fingers. Four. Five. Six. Moonlight bled through the blinds, striping his elongated shadow across my blanket. Where it touched my legs, the fabric grew damp. "What do you want?" My voice cracked. His fingers stilled at seven. The temperature dropped. Frost crept up my water glass as his neck creaked downward, that void-face inches from mine. A whisper: "You’ve been keeping time wrong." I threw my lamp. It shattered against the wall. He was gone. But my alarm clock now read 3:33 in blood-red digits. --- I started documenting the rules: 1. He only appears between 3:00-4:00 AM 2. Every encounter adds three numbers to his count 3. Objects he touches stay damp for exactly 13 hours The antiques dealer recognized the button I’d found. "Victorian mourning ritual," he said, polishing his glasses. "They’d bury accountants with bone buttons carved with their final tallies. But this…" He squinted at the tiny 16. "This is a count up." That night, my shower turned on by itself. Through the steam, I saw his silhouette behind the curtain. One dripping finger drew numbers on the glass: 17. 18. 19. The bathroom mirror reflected nothing but those digits, glowing like embers. --- Last night, the rules changed. I woke to my phone blaring static at 3:29 AM. The counting came through the speakers: "Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two." My breath fogged in the suddenly freezing air. The smell of turned earth filled the room. When I reached for my phone, the screen showed my own reflection—except my eyes were gone, replaced by swirling numbers. Then I felt it: icy fingers closing around my wrist. His voice slithered into my ear: "Shall we recount?" My own hand moved against my will, index finger twitching. One. --- Now I write this in permanent light. The counting hasn’t stopped. It’s in the drip of my faucet (26…27…28). In the ticking of the wall clock that now only counts backward. Worst are the other things I’ve started seeing—pale figures with number-carved teeth lurking at every threshold. They whisper the same phrase: "The final tally always comes due." My left eye won’t stop watering. When I wipe it, my fingers come away smeared with ink. The drops form shapes on the paper. 31. 32. 33. I think he’s teaching me a new way to count. And when the lesson ends— —we’ll both be counting in the dark.
By Firdos Jamalabout a year ago in Horror