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.
Horror Story
The girl, like a doll, runs ahead of the wind. She looks at the waves of the GHA Ghat River and the distant village on the other side of the river with her big eyes. She asks so many questions! And she loves to listen to ghost stories. She has only one request from her father, mother, and grandmother: to listen to ghost stories. Both of Pia's parents are teachers by profession. Pia's father loves to tell ghost stories; but Pia's grandmother has a basket of ghost stories. When the stories start coming out of that basket, Pia listens to them with fascination. Pia's annual exams are over. So she has gone to her grandfather's house for the winter vacation. Her cousins Lipi, Sumi, and Sumana have also gone. They are having a great time playing Dariyabandha, Gollachhut, Chiburi, and Panchguti. And in the evening, they go with their grandmother to see one thing. And that is whether or not a fish has landed in the pond by the pond. The pond is a haunt of ghosts. There is a big mother tree on the western side of the pond. That is the haunt of ghosts. Still, I want to close my eyes and go see their fish with a hurricane. There are so many ghosts in that mother tree. I don't know. Fish ghosts, pitha ghosts, and so many more ghosts. There are several old trees in the high house where Ranu's aunt lives on the pond. Ghosts can be seen there even during the day. There are so many ghosts' haunts around Priya R's grandfather's house that the village becomes metaphysical in the evening. Today, Priya R's grandmother will fry pit ha. Preparations are underway for that. Atta is being kneaded in a dough. Coconuts have been laid from the tree. Grandfather Mia has brought fresh sugarcane and jaggery from the market in Dariapur. Making pitha is like a big festival. In this village, no one fries fish after evening. There is a lot of trouble here with fish ghosts. Whenever someone goes to fry fish, the fish ghost's wife will take the opportunity to steal the fried fish and bring it back. That's why no one fries fish at night. Priya Rai Dadi is also very brave. Everyone says that she has contact with ghosts and their wives. They do not harm Priya Rai Dadi. However, Priya Rai Dadi does not mention their names at night. She calls them by pseudonyms. When I ask Dadi about this, she just smiles.
By Arfan Raihenabout a year ago in Horror
Under the Bed
Under the Bed It started with a whisper. I was 10 when I first heard it. A soft, raspy voice drifting from beneath my bed as I was drifting off to sleep. My room was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears buzz. Then it came—low, deliberate, unmistakably human.
By Muhammad Hakimiabout a year ago in Horror
The House Told Me to Leave. I Didn't Listen.
I first saw the house on a Thursday afternoon. The clouds had opened just enough to pour a heavy rain that slicked the streets of the small New Hampshire town I had just moved to. I wasn’t looking for anything grand—just quiet. After the accident, after the silence that followed my parents' passing, I thought solitude would be healing.
By Nauman Khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Alley of Forgotten Whispers
The rain had just stopped. The stones beneath Mira’s boots were slick, reflecting the dim orange glow of lanterns strung overhead. Narrow walls flanked her on either side, weathered bricks whispering stories she couldn’t yet hear. The alley was deserted, save for a rusting bicycle leaning casually against the wall—abandoned, yet oddly full of life.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Horror
Whispering Pines
Part 1: The Arrival There were seven of us—friends since college—craving adventure and escape from the noise of our busy lives. The mountains were calling, and we answered, planning a full week in the wilderness. We packed tents, food, torches, and spirits high with excitement. The first two days were pure bliss: laughter by the bonfire, warm cups of tea, and storytelling under a sky full of stars. On the third evening, things shifted. Dark clouds rolled in suddenly, as if summoned. Lightning cracked so close it made our bones rattle. Wind roared like a beast. Our tents tore away, spinning into the black sky like leaves. Rain hit us sideways. Chaos swallowed us whole. We grabbed each other, shouting through the storm. But the wind was stronger. It pulled us apart. I was thrown hard. When I woke, I was lying near a dense forest, soaked, shivering. Only Saddam lay beside me, groaning. The others—Zaid, Talha, Bilal, Hamza, Danish—were gone. --- Part 2: The Forest We yelled their names. Only silence replied. Saddam and I decided to find shelter. The forest ahead was thick, its trees twisted like they had grown in pain. Stepping inside was like entering another world—no birds, no wind. Just the sound of our wet shoes sinking into the mud. Soon, we heard it. Whispers. Like voices behind a thin wall. We turned. No one. The whispers grew louder but made no sense. Words without form. Sounds that crawled into our ears. Then, we saw it: a wooden cabin wrapped in vines. Its roof sagged, its windows fogged. But somehow, it stood strong against the storm. The door opened slowly as we approached, creaking like a scream held too long. --- Part 3: The Cabin Inside, the air was freezing, heavier than outside. Our flashlight flickered. Cobwebs clung to old furniture. A portrait hung crooked on the wall—a family of five, all smiling with eyes scratched out. We lit a small fire and tried to dry off. Saddam dozed off. I sat, listening. The whispers returned. But now, they were inside the cabin. Footsteps above us. Then, on the porch. Then… the door creaked again. I blinked. Saddam was gone. His sleeping bag was still warm. I screamed his name. Ran outside. Fog had swallowed the forest. From the trees, a shape emerged. A man… Saddam? No. His eyes were pitch black, his smile stretched unnaturally wide. “You shouldn’t have come,” he whispered, voice like dead leaves. I backed away. He vanished. --- Part 4: The Lost Ones I wandered through the forest, calling for the others. Echoes returned, but twisted—mocking versions of their voices. I found Zaid, standing completely still, eyes closed. I ran to him. “Zaid!” I shook his shoulder. He opened his eyes. “Too late,” he whispered. “The forest owns us now.” His skin cracked like dry bark. He crumbled into a pile of leaves. I screamed. The forest pulsed. It was alive. Not metaphorically—truly. Every tree was watching. Every root whispered. We hadn’t wandered in. We had been invited. Chosen. And it wasn’t done with me yet. --- Part 5: The Loop Every path I took led me back to the same fallen log. My flashlight dimmed. My watch stopped. There was no night or day. Just grey. I found a tree carved with names—ours. Beneath mine: “Not yet.” Suddenly, I saw Danish. He was climbing a tree silently. “Danish!” I yelled. He looked down. “Don’t speak. It hears you.” “What is it?” He pointed at the sky. “It used to be a god. Now it’s hungry.” Then he vanished into the leaves, like he was never there. I was breaking. My memories faded. My name felt strange on my tongue. --- Part 6: The Exit On what I believed to be the seventh day, I saw a narrow trail lined with white stones. They glowed faintly, like moonlight trapped in rock. I followed, numb and trembling. Suddenly, I was back on a road. A truck stopped. A man helped me inside. I tried to speak. Nothing came out. --- Part 7: Home? Now, weeks later, I sit in my room, writing this. No one believes me. The others were never found. Sometimes I see them in reflections. Sometimes I hear them calling me from the trees behind my house, though there are no forests nearby. Last night, my mirror fogged up on its own. In it, I saw Saddam. He smiled. “You never left.” And behind me, I heard the cabin door creak open again.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
My Airbnb Had a Strict 'No Opening the Closet' Rule… I Opened It
Chapter 1: The Listing The cabin’s Airbnb photo showed a charming A-frame nestled in Colorado pines, with a caption that called it "The perfect escape for those needing solitude." After my breakup with Mark—two weeks of crying into wine glasses and deleting seven years’ worth of photos—solitude was exactly what I needed.
By MALIK Saadabout a year ago in Horror
