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 Walk Home
The Walk Home By [Zia Urrehman] Every day after school, I take the long way home. Not because the view is nice—it's mostly cracked sidewalks, flickering street lamps, and the occasional barking dog—but because of the house on the corner. Mrs. DeLaney’s house.
By Zia Urrehmanabout a year ago in Horror
I Am Only a Reflection. Content Warning.
I don’t remember when I stopped being me. I think it happened quietly. Like everything else in my life. Like the day I started signing his name on the electric bill instead of mine. Or when I stopped wearing perfume because he said it gave him a headache. Or when I looked in the mirror and realized I didn’t recognize the shape of my own mouth anymore.
By Anita Zielkeabout a year ago in Horror
No One Leaves the Lighthouse
The wind howled like a living thing, tearing at the cliffs and battering the lone lighthouse that stood against the endless gray of the sea. Inside, Keeper Elias Rowan lit the final lantern, his hands steady despite the storm that raged beyond the thick glass panes. His face, carved from years of solitude, betrayed no fear, no surprise. He knew this storm well. It came every year, on this very night.
By Waseem Khan about a year ago in Horror
The Mirror Never Lies
When Anna inherited the old Victorian house from her late aunt, she didn’t know what to expect. The house had been empty for years, its paint peeling, windows dusty, and floorboards creaking with each step. Yet, the moment she entered, one item caught her attention: a large, ornate mirror standing tall in the dim corner of the parlor.
By Story Masterabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Message
I never believed in ghosts. Not until my phone buzzed at exactly 3:17 AM—the same time my sister Emily died one year ago today. The message was simple: “Help me. It wasn’t an accident.” My blood ran cold. I sat up in bed, heart pounding so hard I could hear it echo in the room. Emily had died in a car crash on her way home from our family house in Brookwood. The official report said it was reckless driving. Everyone moved on. Everyone but me. Emily never drove fast. She was a rule-follower to the core. She never even jaywalked. I stared at the glowing screen. The message had come from her number. The same number that had been disconnected last winter. I’d tried calling it for weeks after she passed, desperate to hear her voice on the voicemail. Eventually, it went dead. So how could I receive this? I replied with shaking fingers: “Who is this? Is this some kind of joke?” Three dots appeared… then vanished. Nothing. At exactly 3:30 AM, another message appeared. A photo. It was dark and grainy, but I recognized it instantly: our childhood attic. The cracked window, the crooked lamp, and in the corner—the green wooden trunk we used to play hide-and-seek in. I hadn’t been to the house since the funeral. It had been left abandoned, like everything else from that life. I should have ignored it. Called the phone company. Blocked the number. But something in me—maybe grief, maybe guilt—drove me there that morning. --- The house was silent when I arrived. Peeling paint clung to the sides, vines creeping through the cracks. I found the key where we always kept it, under the third flowerpot. I climbed the attic stairs, the boards groaning under my weight. The air smelled like dust and time. The green trunk sat just where it always had. Inside, under old blankets and a moth-eaten scarf, was Emily’s journal. The leather cover was scratched, the pages yellowed. Most of the pages were innocent—lists, doodles, entries about school, about me. Then I found the torn page tucked deep in the binding. It was frantic, written in smudged pen. “He said if I told anyone, I’d disappear. But I have to leave clues. He can’t watch everything. The ring. Watch the ring.” At the bottom was a crude sketch. A circle with rays—like a sun—with a single eye in the middle. I froze. Jason. Her ex. He had a ring with that same symbol. I remembered how she hated it, said it creeped her out. He said it was from a “private group” he was part of. After her death, he didn’t even come to the funeral. --- I did something reckless. I took a photo of the journal page and sent it to Jason. No words. Just the image. He responded within minutes. “We need to talk. Alone.” --- We met at a coffee shop on the edge of town. I spotted him instantly—he looked thinner, older. Haunted. “You’ve been to the attic,” he said, voice low. “I know you lied about that night,” I said. He didn’t deny it. “She found out about the group,” he said. “We meet in secret. No names. No pasts. Just symbols.” “What did she find out?” I asked. He looked around, paranoid. “She found a file. On her dad’s laptop. Something he was hiding. About the group. About what they were doing with the town’s water supply—contracts, payoffs, cancer cases. She wasn’t supposed to see it.” My heart sank. Our father was the town’s chief engineer for twenty years. “She told me she was going to report it,” Jason continued. “I tried to stop her. I didn’t mean to hurt her.” I saw something flicker in his eyes. Regret—or fear? “She wasn’t dead,” he whispered. “When she fell. She was breathing. But they came. They finished it.” I didn’t want to believe him. But something in me already did. He pushed a flash drive across the table. “Everything she found is on this.” Then he got up and left. I never saw him again. --- The flash drive contained documents, audio files, and one grainy video from the night she died. It showed Emily arguing with Jason. Then two men—faces blurred—dragging her into her car. She didn’t crash. They drove her off the road. The video and documents were enough. Within weeks, arrests were made. The group was real. A cult-like circle embedded deep in our town’s leadership. My father… had been forced into it years ago. Emily’s discovery cost her life. --- The case went national. Her story sparked protests, new laws. Emily became a symbol of truth—of justice. But every year, on July 3rd at exactly 3:17 AM, I still receive a message. Always from her number. Always brief. Last night, it simply said: “I knew you’d come.” --- Author's Note: Sometimes the dead don’t want to haunt you. They just want to be heard.
By Kausar Hayat about a year ago in Horror
He Followed Me Home — A Chilling Tale of Stalking and Fear
I live on the edge of a quiet highway town in northern Utah. There’s not much here—just a few stores, truck stops, and rundown motels clinging to the side of the highway like forgotten relics. Dirt roads branch off to lead into the outskirts, where scattered homes sit on acres of forest and overgrown fields. My home is one of them. Remote, peaceful, isolated. Most days, that’s exactly how I like it. I work remotely, and that day was like any other. I shut my laptop around six, stretched out my back, and decided to head into town for groceries. The sun was beginning to set behind the hills, casting long shadows across the empty roads. The town itself never felt busy. Even though it sat on the edge of a highway, the traffic was light, and the few stores were rarely crowded. I parked at the far end of the grocery store lot, like I always did, and went inside. As I pushed my cart down the first aisle, I noticed a man standing near the end cap looked over at me. I thought nothing of it. People glance at each other all the time. A few minutes later, I saw him again, this time in another aisle. He wasn’t looking at the shelves. He was just standing there, only a few feet away from me, doing nothing. I shifted my eyes in his direction, trying not to be obvious. He was still looking at me. I gave a quick “Hi” and continued shopping. He didn’t reply. By the time I reached the checkout, I had mostly forgotten about him. I bagged my groceries, loaded them into my car, and started back toward home. The lot was still mostly empty, and as I looked out across it, something felt off. He was there again. Standing between two cars, half-hidden, just watching. He didn’t have any bags. He hadn’t bought anything. He didn’t move. I drove away. The road home was darker now. No streetlights. Only the headlights cutting through the thickening night. I reached my house, parked out front, and started carrying the groceries inside. While unpacking the first load, my dad called, and I got sidetracked. By the time I stepped back outside for the second trip, the air felt colder. That’s when I saw it. A truck. Parked far out on my property, just off the dirt road. Its lights were off. No sound. It hadn't been there earlier. I squinted into the darkness. It looked like an old pickup, silhouetted against the night sky. It sat still, engine silent. My property covers nearly 40 acres, but that area was close enough to be unnerving. Too close. If someone had pulled over to sleep, why park with the lights off? Why on private land? I kept an eye on the truck while grabbing the last of the bags. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe someone just pulled off the road to rest. Back inside, I left the curtains open just a bit, just enough to keep watch. An hour passed. Then another. The truck didn’t move. My nerves settled slightly. Still strange, but maybe harmless. Eventually, I closed the curtains and went upstairs to bed. Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up needing to use the restroom. I dragged myself out of bed, still half-asleep, and walked down the hallway toward the bathroom. The moment I opened the door, I heard it. A soft creak from downstairs. Not the kind an old house makes. It was deliberate. It was weight shifting on wood. I stood still and listened. I opened and closed the bathroom door again, trying to recreate the sound. Nothing. I crept to the top of the stairs and peered down. The house was dark, save for faint moonlight spilling through the kitchen window. Then I saw it. A shadow. It moved slightly, casting a shape against the wall. My heart pounded. I couldn’t tell if the figure was inside the hallway or just outside the back door, but I wasn’t going to wait to find out. I backed away quietly and slipped into my room, shutting the door gently. I grabbed my phone and dialed the police. I spoke in a low voice, describing what I saw. Minutes passed. The house stayed quiet. I began to wonder if I’d imagined it. Then the creaking started again. Footsteps. Slow. Careful. Crossing the living room floor. I held my breath. A moment later, I heard running. Fast, heavy footsteps scrambling across the floor below. Then silence. The flashing red and blue lights cut through the window. I heard shouting outside. Then the sound of someone being tackled. The officers had arrived just in time. I went downstairs as one of them escorted a man in cuffs back toward the truck in the field. My stomach turned when I saw his face. It was the man from the store. He had followed me. Worse, he was armed. He didn’t have any tools for robbery, no bag, nothing to carry stolen goods. He hadn’t taken anything. He had just waited. Watching. Waiting for me to sleep. The police found no signs of forced entry. Which means he had likely entered while I was unloading groceries. Possibly while I was on the phone with my dad. They said he claimed he only wanted to rob me. But nothing about it felt like robbery. He knew I was home. He hid in the dark. He didn’t go through drawers or open doors. He just stood there. Watching. They found something else in the truck. A photograph. Not of me. But of a woman. Taped to the dashboard. She looked a lot like me. Same hair, same build. But it wasn’t me. Her eyes were scratched out. The officers didn’t know who she was. The man wouldn’t say. He just smiled as they put him into the back of the cruiser. I moved a few months later. Sold the land and left the state. But I still have nightmares. And in every single one, I hear footsteps on the floorboards, and the sound of a door slowly creaking open. THE END PLEASE follow CreepVille for more stories
By CreepVille Horror Storiesabout a year ago in Horror
The Whispering Lake
They say some lakes are born from tears — of sorrow, of longing, of despair. But the lake that rested quietly between the cursed mountains of Qalith was not born of anything human. It was a prison. A prison for something ancient. And something wicked.
By NIAZ Muhammadabout a year ago in Horror
