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 Mansion
I did not want this job. But I was willing to do anything for money. Of course, I had limits, but I would rather work hard to earn my money instead of posting nudes of myself online.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
Locker 24
The letter arrived without a return address, sealed with black wax and bearing only three words: “Locker 24. Come.” It was a cold Tuesday morning in London when Elliot Graves found the envelope slipped beneath his apartment door. The handwriting was unmistakable—elegant, curved, and hauntingly familiar. It was his sister’s.
By HUBREXXabout a year ago in Horror
Camp Hounted
From a distance, The sign looks weathered, with a dark, silent atmosphere, and the faintest sounds that add to the spooky atmosphere of the place.
By junjunabout a year ago in Horror
The Graveyard Bride
It was supposed to be a joke A simple dare among friends Spend one hour in the old graveyard at the edge of town Harith laughed as he accepted the challenge It was just a graveyard after all Dead people don't talk Right His friends dropped him at the broken gate It creaked as he pushed it open The air inside was colder Still Too still Graves stood like silent statues Old Cracked Some with names rubbed off by time Harith switched on his flashlight Its beam shaky but strong He walked deeper in Passing trees that whispered with the wind He tried to stay calm Even whistled But the sound died quickly Like the graveyard swallowed it Half an hour passed Silence Just silence Then He heard it A whisper A woman’s voice Calling his name Harith He froze Turned around No one Harith Again Closer this time His flashlight flickered And died Panic rose in his chest He pulled out his phone No signal Then he saw her Standing between two graves A woman Dressed in white Long black hair Head slightly tilted She was beautiful Too beautiful Her eyes lowered Her feet bare But not touching the ground Who are you He asked His voice barely a whisper She smiled Soft Sad I have waited for you Harith I have watched you Since you were a child His heart pounded He stepped back But couldn’t move far This must be a prank A setup No This was something else She took a step forward Still not touching the earth I am the bride of the graveyard She said You are mine You have always been mine Harith tried to run But the paths twisted No gate No way out She was in front of him Then behind him Then beside him He screamed But the wind swallowed it She came closer Her face changed Eyes turned black Skin pale and cracked Her mouth stretched into a grin Too wide Too dark You cannot leave She whispered Your place is ready She pointed to a grave Fresh But already carved with his name Harith bin Bashir He fell to his knees Shaking Begging Crying But the grave opened And darkness pulled him in --- Morning came His friends returned Laughing Calling his name No answer They found the flashlight And his phone Lying near an open grave A grave that wasn’t there yesterday They read the name Their laughter faded Harith bin Bashir He went in to win a bet But never returned And as they stood there The wind whispered Soft And chilling Harith
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Whisper Door
The house was old, much older than anyone in the town remembered. It stood at the edge of Gray Hollow, half-swallowed by overgrown vines and shadows. No one dared approach it—not since the Henderson girl vanished one autumn night, last seen walking toward its porch. But I was curious. Curious and stupid. They dared me, of course. My friends, half-drunk and restless on Halloween night. “Go knock on the Whisper Door,” they laughed. “Bet you won’t make it five minutes.” Whisper Door. That’s what they called it. Because sometimes, at night, you could hear it—soft whispers from behind that peeling black door. They said the house was alive. That it fed on secrets. That once you opened it, it never let you forget. I didn’t believe in stories. Not really. So I took the flashlight, crossed the empty field, and stepped onto the crooked porch. --- The door didn’t creak. It sighed. A low breath, like something exhaling in relief after years of silence. My skin crawled. The doorknob was ice cold. The wood damp under my palm. And as I leaned close—I swear to God—I heard it. “Come in, Emily…” No one had said my name. --- Inside, the air was thick, like breathing through wet cotton. Dust floated like ash, and the floorboards groaned beneath each step. The living room was frozen in time—cobwebbed furniture, a broken clock ticking without rhythm, a portrait of a family whose faces had been scratched out. Then I heard it again. A whisper, not from the door this time, but deeper inside. “Upstairs…” It wasn’t a command. It was a plea. Against every sane instinct, I climbed. The staircase bent like it might collapse, and halfway up, something brushed against my leg. I spun around—nothing. Just the house watching. --- The hallway at the top was pitch black. My flashlight flickered like a dying heartbeat. Doors lined the hall, some closed, some cracked open just enough to suggest something might be watching back. Then I saw it. The last door on the right. It was red. Not painted. Stained. Something darker oozed from its frame, and the handle pulsed like it had a heartbeat of its own. And still, I reached for it. Because the whisper had changed. “Help me…” --- Inside was a girl. At least, what used to be one. She sat in a rocking chair, long dark hair hanging in clumps over her face. Her skin was gray-blue. Her hands clutched a doll missing an eye. The walls were covered in writing—words etched in fingernail scrapes. LET ME OUT HE COMES THROUGH THE WHISPERS DON’T LISTEN TOO LONG I stepped back. The girl’s head snapped up. Her eyes were gone. Just two gaping sockets leaking black tears. “Emily…” she croaked. I turned to run. The door slammed behind me. --- The room twisted. I wasn’t in the house anymore. Not really. The walls stretched, warped. Voices pressed in from every side—whispers of people I knew. Dead relatives. Old friends. Even myself. Screaming. Begging. Laughing. The girl stood, her feet dragging, twitching like a puppet on tangled strings. “You heard too much,” she said. “I—I didn’t mean to—” “You listened. That’s all it needs.” Suddenly her face twisted into a scream, and the whispers exploded into howls. The walls cracked. Shadows bled down from the ceiling like tar. Something massive moved behind the wall, thudding closer. “It’s coming,” she whispered. --- I bolted. The door was gone. The room stretched on and on, endless like a maze. But I ran. I didn’t look back. I didn’t breathe. I found a window. I threw myself through it. --- When I hit the ground, the house was gone. Just gone. Behind me was only field. I stumbled back to the others, covered in cuts and mud, shaking. They laughed at first, until they saw my face. I never told them what happened. Not all of it. Just that the house was empty. That I’d been scared by rats. That I tripped. But some nights, I wake up to the sound of a soft knock. And a whisper just outside my window: “Come back, Emily…” --- Would you open the door a second time?
By Herbert about a year ago in Horror
Voices from the Deep
“What the—! Who’s washing dishes by the pond?” Sujoy screamed out loud. Hearing his shout, his parents looked down from the rooftop toward the pond—but saw no one there. They quickly brought Sujoy back inside the house.
By RSabout a year ago in Horror
Smart Enough to Fight
Smart Enough to Fight: A Story of Courage, Strategy, and Unbreakable Will It started with a whisper. In the heart of a city that never stopped moving, 17-year-old Aria Vega learned early that intelligence wasn’t a luxury—it was a weapon. Growing up in the Lower East Side, surrounded by crime, abandoned buildings, and silent wars, she understood that being loud didn’t make you powerful. Being smart did.
By Sarwar Zebabout a year ago in Horror
Coraline – Neil Gaiman
When Coraline Bennett’s family moved into the old Carver House on the edge of town, she wasn’t scared—just bored. Eleven years old, smart beyond her age, and curious to a fault, Coraline had a habit of exploring places she wasn’t supposed to. Her parents were too busy renovating their “dream home” to keep much of an eye on her. And so, left to her own devices, Coraline explored.
By Jawad Khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Haunting of Hill House – Shirley Jackson
They said Hill House was just a house. Bricks, wood, mortar. A crumbling estate tucked deep in the New England countryside. But to those who had lived there, to those who had tried to leave, Hill House was more than that—it was a thing that breathed.
By Jawad Khanabout a year ago in Horror
𝗔 𝘄𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝗴𝗵𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆. 𝗜𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆, 𝗯𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝘂𝗯𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗲.
'Stop staying up late at night reading these ghost movies and stories. Otherwise, it won't take long for you to see these things happening to you.'
By Ratul Shrikhabout a year ago in Horror
The Robbery
I searched for anything to snack on for the night, as I navigated my way down each aisle. I studied each snack like my life depended on it, since my family was coming over to my place.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
Do Jinns Really Exist? A Mysterious Tale from My Village
Growing up in a quiet village nestled between fields and forests in rural Pakistan, I often heard stories about supernatural beings. My grandmother used to speak of “jinns” with a mix of fear and respect. “They live among us,” she would whisper while lighting an oil lamp, “especially near the old shrine after sunset.” Like most children, I was both curious and skeptical. That changed one summer night. It was the summer of 2007. Electricity was unreliable, and nights were usually lit by lanterns and the soft glow of the moon. My cousin Bilal and I were staying over at our aunt’s home on the far edge of the village. Her house was close to an abandoned well and an old, neglected shrine—both places villagers avoided after dark. That evening, we decided to go for a walk after dinner. It was unusually humid, and the air felt heavy, almost unnatural. As we walked along the dusty path, Bilal dared me to take a shortcut through the field behind the shrine. It was the path the elders always warned us about, claiming strange voices were often heard there. I laughed it off. “We’re grown up now. These are just stories to scare kids,” I said confidently. Bilal grinned, and we took the path. At first, it was quiet—almost too quiet. The sound of crickets had disappeared. The wind had stilled. The trees stood like statues, motionless and observing. As we walked further, I felt a strange chill, even though it was a hot summer night. Then, it happened. We both heard it at the same time—a whisper. Faint, broken, almost like someone calling out from a distance, “Aaao…” We froze. "Did you hear that?" I whispered. "Yes," Bilal replied, his voice trembling. We looked around. No one was there. No footprints, no rustling, nothing. Just the sound again—closer now, more clear—"Aaao… mere paas..." My legs stiffened. I grabbed Bilal’s arm, and we turned around. That’s when we saw it. By the old tree near the shrine, stood a tall, shadowy figure. Its body seemed to flicker like smoke, and it had no face—just two glowing eyes. It wasn’t walking—it was gliding. Slowly. Toward us. I couldn't speak. My body wouldn't move. Bilal finally shouted, "RUN!" and we took off, stumbling, falling, and getting back up. We didn’t look back. We ran until we saw the lights of our aunt’s home and burst inside, panting and terrified. Our aunt looked at us, concerned. “You two went near the shrine, didn’t you?” she asked firmly. We nodded, shaking. She made us sit, gave us water, and whispered a prayer. Then she said something I still remember vividly: “Never doubt what you don’t understand. Some things are not meant to be seen, and some paths are not meant to be walked.” That night, I didn’t sleep. For weeks, Bilal and I avoided that part of the village. The figure we saw—whether real or imagined—haunted us. And we were not the only ones. Later, we discovered that others had seen it too. Some villagers believed it was a guardian jinn of the shrine. Others claimed it was a cursed soul trapped between worlds. Years have passed, and I now live in the city. But every time I visit my village and walk by that old shrine, I feel that same heaviness in the air. The same silence. The same chill. And I wonder… Was it a jinn? Was it fear playing tricks on young minds? Or was it something beyond explanation? I no longer laugh at the old stories. I listen. And I remember. Because in our village, even today, when night falls and the wind stops, the whisper still returns: "Aaao… mere paas..."
By Tahir Mehmoodabout a year ago in Horror