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.

Not Me. Content Warning.
Introduction This is for Jason “Jay” Benskin's Horror Story Prompt Challenge “ Face The Darkness Within” which you can find out about here:
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Horror
Pathogen: Ch. 15
The closer it got to sunset, the more anxious Marnie got. She had no idea whose idea it was to break into the army base after dark. Surely they could do the same thing during the day. In fact, a daytime operation would probably be less conspicuous in hindsight. She chalked it up to Julian watching too many heist movies. Maybe Bianca had seen too many as well, which was why Marnie had been outvoted so quickly.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers in the Han River: 7 Korean Horror Mythologies That Still Haunt the Living
I. INTRODUCTION South Korea often dazzles the world with its vibrant pop culture, from the addictive beats of K-pop to the glossy perfection of its skincare routines. Yet, beneath this polished exterior lies a shadowy realm of horror mythologies that have gripped the Korean psyche for centuries. In our previous newsletter, we explored Japanese horrors like Kuchisake-onna, the slit-mouthed woman whose eerie legend continues to chill. Now, we turn to South Korea, where horror is deeply psychological, often steeped in sorrow, revenge, societal injustice, and isolation.
By Dishmi Mabout a year ago in Horror
Where the Jinn Waited: The House That Recited the Kalima
Season 1 THE CALLING The Tenant Who Didn't Exist : The first night, time itself seemed to fracture at exactly 3:03 AM. Mehvish's eyes snapped open, her body drenched in a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the Turkey's summer heat. The digital clock's crimson numbers pulsed like a warning: 3:03. Not 3:00. Not 3:05. 3:03.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
The Bermuda Triangle
Introduction One of the world's greatest unsolved mysteries is the Bermuda Triangle, also known as the "Devil's Triangle." Stretching between Miami, Bermuda, and Puerto Rico, this infamous region of the western Atlantic Ocean has been linked to the disappearance of ships, planes, and hundreds of lives under bizarre circumstances. Numerous theories, from scientific explanations to supernatural conspiracies, have been sparked by the Bermuda Triangle's vanishing aircraft and ghost ships with no crew. In this deep dive, we’ll explore: ✔ The most famous disappearances in the Bermuda Triangle Paranormal theories versus scientific theories Aviation and government reports on the phenomenon Is there still a mystery to be solved? The Legend of the Bermuda Triangle,
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Whispering Hollow
rotting wooden houses, rusted streetlamps, and an eerie silence that clung to the air like a sickness. Few were brave enough to go, and the people who lived there never left. Lena Carter was skeptical of the rumors. As a journalist, she was drawn to the mystery of Black Hollow, especially the stories of disappearances—hikers, thrill-seekers, even a few locals who had vanished without a trace. The townsfolk called it "The Hollow’s Hunger," a phrase that sent chills down her spine.
By MD SIZAN ALIabout a year ago in Horror
The Silent Feed
Introduction: By 2025, it will be impossible to tell the difference between digital illusion and reality. Social media will be dominated by livestream culture, AI-generated influencers, and deepfake technology. But what happens when the internet itself becomes haunted?
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Requirements. Content Warning.
There I was lying in bed with one leg hanging off the bed and the other under the sheets - creating the perfect temperature so I can be as comfortable as possible while I watch my show. After an extremely long day of work, I could finally take some well-needed time to unwind and relax before I go to bed. My body, due to the strenuous physical requirements for my job, was resisting my desire to continue watching my show as my eyes start to shutter close and my grip on my phone starts to loosen. All of a sudden - BAM!!! My phone makes contact with my wooden floors, scaring me awake. Now annoyed, and too tired to fully get up, I peer my head over the edge of the bed and there it was looking straight at me with wide open eyes and a gape in its face where the mouth would be. It was laying there watching me - no - it was WAITING for me, eager for me to reach for my phone. I jumped up faster than I ever have before, while simultaneously screaming at the top of my lungs in desperate hope that someone would hear me, so I didn’t feel so abjectly alone in the presence of this monster. I ran and turned on the lights as fast as I could, with the false belief that turning on the lights would allow me to replicate the feeling of being watched upon the thing. I hoped that the lights would act as my shield, so that the thing would know I have seen it, so that the feeling of being stalked upon would go away. However, it was to no avail. Every goosebump in my body shivered once again as I realized that it was there watching me while I had no recognition of it. How long had it been there staring at me? How long had I been completely unaware of this thing? Utterly under its stalking supervision? Then, my alarm blared throughout the room, marking the daily 6:00 am time for me to wake up and get back to work. My job of being a grave digger and burying is no simple task, it requires a lot of physical strength to dig and even more mental fortitude to keep one from going insane from what they may see. Nevertheless, it is my job. I stretch freely, yawn wildly, and bring my foot to the ground, which is when I feel scaly, sharp fingers dig into my ankle. There I was lying in bed with one leg hanging off the bed and one under the sheets - creating the perfect temperature so I can be as comfortable as possible while I watch my show. After an extremely long day of work, I could finally take some well-needed time to unwind and relax before I go to bed. My body, due to the strenuous physical requirements for my job, was resisting my desire to continue watching my show as my eyes start to shutter close and my grip on my phone starts to loosen. All of a sudden - BAM!!! My phone makes contact with my wooden floors, scaring me awake. Now annoyed, and too tired to fully get up, I peer my head over the edge of the bed and there it was looking straight at me with wide-open eyes and a gape in his face where the mouth would be. It was lying there watching me - no - it was WAITING for me, eager for me to reach for my phone. I jumped up faster than I ever have before, while simultaneously screaming at the top of my lungs in desperate hope that someone would hear me, so I didn’t feel so abjectly alone in the presence of this monster. I ran and turned on the lights as fast as I could, with the false belief that turning on the lights would allow me to replicate the feeling of being watched by the thing. I hoped that the lights would act as my shield, so that the thing would know I have seen it, so that the feeling of being stalked by it would go away. However, it was to no avail. Every goosebump in my body shivered once again as I realized that it was there watching me while I had no recognition of it. How long had it been there staring at me? How long had I been completely unaware of this thing? Utterly under its stalking supervision? Then, my alarm blared throughout the room, marking the daily 6:00 a.m. time for me to wake up and get back to work. My job of being a grave digger and burying is no simple task; it requires a lot of physical strength to dig and even more mental fortitude to keep one from going insane from what they may see. Nevertheless, it is my job. I stretch freely, yawn wildly, and bring my foot to the ground, which is when I feel scaly, sharp fingers dig into my ankle.
By Andrewabout a year ago in Horror
The Lighthouse. Top Story - June 2025.
Shawn wanted to follow in his brother’s footsteps. Ever since their parents had died from an illness, they promised to always be by each other’s side, no matter what.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
what remains of celeste . Content Warning.
The office was silent now. The maggots were gone. The stench scrubbed away. The woman who bought the bag—the first bag—had been escorted out hours ago, still weeping into silk sleeves. But Adeline remained, her knees drawn to her chest in the middle of the room, the bag laid before her like a relic. Her eyes refused to blink. Her breath was shallow, ghost-thin. It was her. The bag was Celeste. The tint, the scent, the softness that could never be replicated—it was her. Adeline had never sold it. She knew she hadn’t. Hadn’t she? She tried to retrace the years, but everything between then and now had grown soft, muddled, dreamlike. When had the showroom expanded? When had the vault been rearranged? When did she stop keeping inventory herself? She blinked. A flicker—faint and slow—rose behind her eyes like a breath held too long. A memory. Her hands. Holding the bag. Opening the vault. Closing it again. Opening it again, weeks later. Running her fingers along the leather, whispering its name like a prayer. Celeste. Celeste. Celeste. The memory shifted. She had held the bag on a sleepless night. Not out of grief. Out of compulsion. Her knuckles ached from clutching it. Her lips murmured secrets to it in the dark. She couldn’t remember why, but something told her—she had wanted to share it. Let someone else see. Just once. Just for a moment. Maybe she’d meant to take it back. Maybe she never did. She clutched her skull now, nails sinking into her scalp. Had she? Had she? Had she? A sudden vision: one of her assistants. Smiling. Holding a wrapped parcel. "One of the old vault bags, miss. You asked me to wrap it , I think it would make a nice auction piece." No. No, no, no, no— She had nodded. She had nodded.... Adeline dropped her forehead to the floor. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She had let the world touch Celeste. Not in malice. Not in intention. But through the slow erosion of time, of detachment, of fame— She had betrayed her. The bag sat before her, still perfect in its ruin. Maggots now only in memory. And in its soft decay, it whispered: “You let them take me.” --- But the bag... the bag should never have rotted. Leather, once tanned, once cured and sealed from decay, should endure for lifetimes. It should resist time like a fossil resists forgetting. But this bag—Celeste—was different. She had not been harvested like an animal. Her skin was never meant to be processed. Adeline had preserved it not just with lime and oils, but also with memory, with guilt, with obsession. And memory does not tan flesh. Perhaps it was her sorrow that lingered beneath the surface, a final resistance that refused to let her rest as a remembrance. Perhaps the skin remembered love, betrayal, and the soil it was never buried in. Whatever the reason, the bag began to change. It rotted not like leather—but like grief. Not all decay is visible. Some rot starts in silence, in the hidden pockets of a soul, until one day, it bursts open—fresh with maggots and guilt and truth. Adeline had discovered, in the deepest marrow of her craft, a truth both hideous and holy: Nothing matched the beauty of human skin. She had tried— it came out meaningless but she had tried. She tanned the finest calf hide, massaged oils into supple veal, polished every inch of cowhide until it glowed like pearl beneath candlelight. But it was never enough. No hide captured that elusive tone—that impossible warmth, that living softness. Only once had she touched perfection. Only once had she held it in her hands and stitched it into something divine. Celeste. But time is a fog, and obsession a quiet rot. She forgot Celeste—not entirely, never entirely—but forgot the why, the who, the terrible cost. All that remained was the feeling: The thrill of stitching beauty into being. The ache of chasing that tint, that scent, that warmth again. And so she searched. Then stalked. Then selected. Her hands, once calloused from humble tanning, grew precise. Surgical. She began to hunt—not with blades at first, but with eyes. Eyes trained to detect the smoothest skin across a crowded street. The fairest tone beneath the glow of a café lamp. Adeline was no longer a tanner. No longer a leathersmith. She had become a curator of flesh. A murderer. Perfection demanded sacrifice. And so she gave. And took. And in her pursuit, she forgot the face that first taught her love. Forgot that her art had once been a gift. Forgot Celeste, until the past returned rotting in silk, maggots kissing the seams of a long-buried sin.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
Do not open. Not if you wish to live.
"If you’re reading this alone at night, I suggest you look behind you—just once. Because what happened to me… could happen to anyone. And it all started with that 'third door'." I never believed in haunted houses. I always thought such things were figments of overactive imaginations until I stepped inside one. They say curiosity kills the cat, but sometimes, it takes much more than that. It was a cold winter evening when I visited an abandoned village with my friend Haroon. We were there to film a decaying old mansion that no one had lived in for decades. The property was silent, forgotten by time, its wooden walls creaking under the weight of history. The mansion was enormous three stories high, with cracked windows, cobwebbed chandeliers, and faded portraits hanging on peeling walls. We entered through the front door, the floorboards groaning under our feet. The moment we stepped in, an unnatural chill ran down my spine. Inside, there were three main doors in the hallway. The left and right doors were wide open, revealing empty rooms filled with dust and decay. But the middle door that was different. It was chained shut, sealed with a heavy rusted padlock. And on the door, written in what looked disturbingly like blood, was a message: "Do not open. Not if you wish to live."
By Mayaabout a year ago in Horror
When Fear Becomes Familiar: The Human Side of Horror
Horror is more than just scares, blood, and shadows lurking in the dark. At its core, horror is a uniquely human experience that taps into our most primal emotions—fear, vulnerability, and survival. It is a mirror held up to our collective anxieties, a way to confront the unknown safely, and a shared ritual that binds us together across cultures and generations.
By Filiponsoabout a year ago in Horror