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.
Heavenly Seas - Chapter Nine
Just as they thought they were about to be eaten by a wolf, they woke up by the promenade. Sook-Jo's sheep jumper appeared on her. No idea where it came from. Elodie found herself lying between Sook-Jo and Gong-Gi by the poolside. Elodie rolled her eyes. She was certain journalists would be the death of her one day. As much as Elaine drove her to insanity, at least she had proper credentials. Lang Tai thrived off gossip to the point he was kicked out of his own country. If only someone could come along and break his neck. "Sook-Jo,” Lang Tai greeted her like an old friend. One look at his grubby suit and toothless smile made Elodie heave. She observed the way Sook-Jo’s shoulders clenched. “Who did you suck off to get on this ship?" "What!" Sook-Jo gasped. "Shut up!" Gong-Gi roared, taking the words of Elodie’s mouth. "I'm impressed with you," Lang Tai said, patting Gong-Gi on the back. "Two women at the same time. Not bad for a washed-out pop star." "Stop it!" Sook-Jo begged. Elodie had theories about the connection between Lang Tai and Sook-Jo. She would not be surprised if her thoughts were wrong. Lang Tai had the infidelity vibe. Whatever Lang Tai wanted from Sook-Jo, Gong-Gi had. She thought of Lang Tai’s poor wife, unaware of his disgusting actions. And he had the nerve to say young people had no decorum. He got away with too much. Elodie had no regrets punching Lang Tai in the face, the stomach and in-between his legs. Lang Tai plummeted onto the floor. "You're a spineless coward!" Gong-Gi hissed, kicking his head. It took Lang Tai a while before he could bring himself up. He leaned over with his fingers hovered over his right ear. "I'm sorry?" He laughed. "I didn't catch that!" Gong-Gi crossed his arms. "You heard me!" "Honestly, you young folks have no sense of humour." Lang Tai put his hands on his hips and laughed. "I compliment you all and you choose to beat me up." The music couldn't have been more out of place. A string quartet in white jumpers played theme tunes of children’s TV shows. The only one Elodie could recognise was Thomas the Tank Engine. She had seen and heard it all, she really had. Elodie took a sigh of relief when she saw Captain Mortville limping around. “Captain! I’m so glad you're here.” She pointed at Lang Tai’s bruised eye. “Sort this idiot out for me. He's harassing us!” Captain Mortville said nothing. Elodie noticed a difference in his skin and his eyes were yellow. Captain Mortville ripped Lang Tai's head off his body and devoured it. Sook-Jo screamed, pulling a gun from her jumper sleeve and with one bullet, Captain Mortville fell to the ground and disintegrated. The once white coats of the string quartet were stained red. The music continued. “Where the bloody hell did that gun come from?” Elodie shrieked. “We could have all been killed.” “You'd rather have that than a zombie apocalypse?” Sook-Jo asked. “That gun is not real!” Gong-Gi said, panting with his eyes closed. Pacing around, his voice got louder. “There's no werewolves, vampires.or zombies. It's all rubbish. It's drugs! They've put something in our drinks! We are hallucinating.” “Yes!” Elodie rolled her eyes. “We all just happen to be hallucinating the same thing.” Josephine came screaming with wool spilling from her hair and pockets. Running in panic, she left rainbow strings wherever she went. It was a miracle she didn't trip. “Oh no!,” she said. “What are we gonna do?” Elodie asked. “We’ve got no captain.” “Don't worry,” Josephine screeched, pulling up the will behind her. “I can knit a new captain. I should have done that in the first place.” Josephine shook her head. “For goodness sake, no matter how many times I knitted the captain a foot, it never worked.” “Wait!” Elodie observed the remains of Lang Tai and Captain Mortville. “Was that the captain’s toe in my drink? He was still walking about, dead?” Josephine tidied up her mess with the click of her fingers. “The real captain died ages ago! But bless him, he always loved Chinese food!”
By Chloe Gilholyabout a year ago in Horror
My Grandma’s Mirror Showed Me My Death – And It Was Right
I. The Mirror in Her Room My grandmother’s house always had a certain chill to it, even in summer. It wasn’t just the drafty windows or the creaky floorboards. It was something heavier. Something that sat in your chest. Visitors often said it felt like the house was watching them. I never disagreed.
By Muhammad Arif about a year ago in Horror
The Whispering Pines
It was the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, thick and suffocating. The forest stood still, as if it were holding its breath, watching, waiting. That was how Emily felt the moment she stepped into the clearing, her boots sinking into the wet soil, the mist swirling around her legs like ghosts of the past. She had always been drawn to this place—the dense pines that seemed to stretch endlessly into the fog. But tonight, something was different. Tonight, the forest was alive in a way she had never felt before.
By jane smithabout a year ago in Horror
The reflection
Late one night, Ayaan was studying alone in his room. His old apartment in the city was quiet, save for the ticking of a wall clock. He stood up to fetch a glass of water and walked past the tall mirror in the hallway — a mirror that had always instilled an unsettling feeling in him. As he strolled by, something unusual caught his attention. He halted. His reflection... remained still. He blinked. His heart raced. He lifted his hand. The reflection raised the opposite hand — with a delay — as if attempting to mimic him but unable to keep pace. Ayaan stumbled backward, his eyes wide. Suddenly, his reflection smiled. But Ayaan did not. In a state of panic, he turned and dashed to his room, securing the door. He could hear footsteps behind the wall, pacing back and forth… then halting… right outside his door. Silence. Then a soft whisper. > "Let me in… I want to be real." Ayaan never opened the door that night. However, in the morning, when the landlord arrived to investigate why the lights were still on... The room was vacant. Only the mirror remained — and within it, a faint outline of a man… still smiling.
By Mr Atif khan about a year ago in Horror
The Diary of a Dead Girl
I found the diary in the attic of our new home—an old Victorian house nestled at the edge of a sleepy town. It was hidden inside a rusted tin box beneath loose floorboards, the leather cover cracked with age, its pages yellowed and brittle. At first, I didn’t think much of it. I was bored, alone, and curious. My parents were busy downstairs, arguing again about furniture placement and fixing leaks. So I sat cross-legged under the slanted ceiling and began to read. The first entry was dated March 13, 1983: > “I don’t think I’ll ever leave this house. Every window shows the same tree, even though I know they should show different views. I feel like I’m being watched. I told Mother, but she just patted my head and locked my door again.” — Emily My heart skipped a beat. This girl—Emily—had lived here, in this very house. And something was wrong. I kept reading. > “March 16: The man with the hat came again. He only visits at night, always standing in the corner, never blinking. He whispers my name but I never tell him mine. He already knows it.” Chills crawled up my spine. I looked around the attic. Empty. Still. But a creeping unease coiled in my stomach. As the entries continued, Emily’s writing grew frantic. > “March 20: I tried to run. The hallway stretched like rubber. I ran for hours, but my room always finds me again.” > “March 23: I screamed all night. No one came. I think Mother hears, but she won’t open the door anymore. I think she’s afraid too.” Something about the diary felt alive, like her fear had soaked into the ink. I should have stopped. But I couldn’t. I felt connected to her. Trapped. Obsessed. Then came the final entry. The handwriting was barely legible, smudged and trembling. > “March 27: He said tonight is the night. I heard him in my closet. He said if I write everything down, someone will come. Someone like me. He wants to meet you, you know. He says your name, too. Over and over. He says you’re reading this now.” My breath caught. I stared at the name at the bottom of the page. It was mine. Written in perfect, unmistakable cursive: “For you, Claire.” My hands trembled. I dropped the diary as if it burned. Had someone played a cruel joke? But how? I had only moved in last week. No one knew me here. The diary was at least forty years old. The ink wasn’t fresh. The dust was thick. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every shadow in my room felt wrong. Every creak of the house echoed louder than it should. At 3:11 a.m., my closet door creaked open slowly, without wind, without reason. I told myself it was nothing. Until the whisper came. Soft. Gentle. Familiar. > “Claire...” I froze. My blood turned to ice. It came from inside the closet. Just like in Emily’s diary. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. My eyes locked on the darkness of the open door. Something shifted inside. I slammed the closet shut and pushed a chair against it. The next morning, the chair was across the room. The diary was back in my hands. A new page had appeared. Blank… except for one line: > “You can’t leave either.” --- Since that night, I’ve tried everything. We moved houses. I burned the diary. I threw it in the river. But it always returns. Sometimes on my bed. Sometimes in the fridge. Once it was waiting for me in the backseat of the car. New entries write themselves. In Emily’s voice. Or mine—I can’t tell anymore. Now it says: > “You’re almost ready. Just a few more pages left. Then it will be your turn.” I don’t sleep anymore. I don’t dream. And the worst part? I’ve started writing in the diary too. Not with my hands… but in my sleep. I wake up and new pages are filled. They tell stories I don’t remember living. But they’re mine. Last night, I read my latest entry. > “Tonight is the night.” --- 💀 Final Note: If you're reading this… Check your closet. And if you ever find an old diary under your floorboards… Don’t open it. Because she’s looking for someone new to write the next chapter. Maybe that someone… is you.
By James World about a year ago in Horror
I Fell in Love With a Ghost in My Dreams
🕯️ I Fell in Love With a Ghost in My Dreams Writer’s By [FarooqHashmi] They say dreams are stitched from fragments of memory — a whisper here, a touch there, things forgotten by morning light. But what happens when the dream lingers, when the memory isn't yours, and the love feels older than your own bones?
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Horror
The Face in the Window. Content Warning.
I’d always liked my apartment because it was on the top floor. A tiny one-bedroom tucked into the corner of a creaky old building, far enough up that nobody could just stare in from the street. It felt safe — my sanctuary after long shifts at work.
By Gift Wesley Sageabout a year ago in Horror
The Pregnant Virgin
In a small village, there lived a poor cleric (Maulvi). He was the sole Imam of the only mosque in the village. Besides leading the prayers, he also taught the village children the Qur'an. His wife taught the village girls at home, which helped them sustain their livelihood. They had only one daughter, who was exceptionally beautiful. Her beauty was talked about far and wide and these tales eventually reached the son of the village chief (Chaudhry).
By Ahmad shahabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers Beneath the Skin. Content Warning.
Prologue: The Stench of Memory Akira Yamada, 31, lives in a city that swallows souls…. Tokyo is a concrete beast, its lights never dimming, its streets never sleeping. Yet, for all its constant noise, Akira hears something that others cannot—a persistent, nauseating hum that has haunted him since childhood…. It started the night his parents died in a car accident when he was seven. The hum was there, echoing in his skull, growing louder as the police officer whispered that they were gone. It became his only companion, a low frequency that crept into his thoughts, tainting every joyful moment.
By Orin Ashfieldabout a year ago in Horror
