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
A dirt road directly connected our village to Farid pur police station. The road was in the middle of the agricultural lands of farmers of 3 villages. At some point during the Liberation War in 1971, a small force of Pakistani soldiers tried to enter the village through that road. But since a part of the road connecting our village to the road was cut, they failed to enter the village. They moved along the road towards the police station and continued their killing spree in a short time. No one could tell the exact number of dead. Because after the killing, the Pakistani soldiers threw the bodies into a deep well nearby. The well was next to a Hijal tree. There was only agricultural land for 2/3 miles around that Hijal tree. There were no houses. Although no trace of that well can be found today, the Hijal tree has definitely witnessed that brutal killing spree. There are many stories going on in the village about this Hijal tree and the well. Many people have heard the cry of "water, water" while passing by this tree at night. Even today, people turn away from the Hijack al tree when they come near it. The distance from the Hijack al tree to the village is about half a mile. Many people who have heard the voice of A shrine while returning home from Farid pur at night can be seen in the village. Even when returning to the village at night, they could not xcross the half-mile path even during the whole night, there are many such people in the village. Ramnagar is a village next to Betuan village. A man named Akkas from Ramnagar village has lost his goat. After searching for the goat all afternoon, he came to know that his goat had entered the border of Betuan and was destroying a farmer's vegetable field, so the Chakpahari (the defense force assigned to guard the land in the village) of Betuan had taken his goat away. Hearing the incident, the poor man, angry and furious, set off towards Betuan without thinking anything. At that time, the Maghrib prayer had been called. Even though he set off in anger, Akkas Mia suddenly remembered the Hijal tree. Oh, the Hijal tree is right in front of him! I can see it. Immediately, thorns prickled all over his body. Akkas Mia did not move forward. Because life is too big for the goat. The goat will be brought tomorrow too. But fearing for his life... just as he was about to set off to return home, he felt someone calling him. "Brother, are you going to Betuan?" Akkas Mia was startled and said loudly, "Who are you?" "Brother, I am Mok tar. My house is on the last day of Betuan. About a mile away from that IJA l tree. Where is your house?" "And where is it?" "My house is Ramona gar. In your city, the cow's chak pouring has taken two goats (goats). I was going to that bar hi Ain bari. I will go there again today."
By Arfan Raihenabout a year ago in Horror
Horror Story
Everyone in Harsh pur called this house a 'palace'. A quiet river in front of the palace. Sannabandhano ferry. No one else in the ghat is in the ghat. The palace of the palace is no more. Bricks, chunksuri and Palestra are falling from the walls. Due to great negligence, the realm of the forest has increased around this house. The house is standing with mystery. Everyone in Harspur knows this house as a ghost house. Bitul also knows this house as a ghost house. Didn't believe before. In this house he now goes regularly. Mamdo is a great feeling with the ghost. But last year, he was wrestled with the ghost. From Batala to the river Ghatla, the two fought. Equal fighting. From then on, Bitul has gone to Mamdo's ghost. Today is a nutshell. Huge arrangement in the ghost house. There is a smoke of making backpacks. Ghosts also came from Epara -Opara. Everyone has come to wear their best clothes. Bitul also came after new Punjabi and pajamas. The left side is cut off. Mamdo is sitting on one side of the ghost and he is talking. The story of the ghosts. The story of the ghost. The ghost of the bamboo grove is chopping rice in a dheki in the battala. The ghosts of the bamboo grove are singing to the beat of the DHE ki. It is nice to hear.
By Arfan Raihenabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers of the Empty House
Ali had always dreamed big, but he felt trapped in this small town, his ambitions buried beneath the weight of routine. He longed for a change, a break from the mundane, but life had wrapped him in the tight grip of ordinary days. One day, he heard whispers about an old, abandoned house on the edge of town. The locals said strange things about it – that whispers echoed through its walls at night, and that it seemed to breathe, alive with forgotten memories. "Just rumors," Ali reassured himself, but his curiosity only grew stronger. One evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, Ali found himself standing before the house. Its front door creaked open with a groan, and a cold draft wrapped around him like a forgotten embrace. Dust coated the wooden floor, capturing his hesitant footsteps as he stepped inside. "Is anyone here?" Ali's voice trembled as it echoed through the dimly lit hall, but only silence replied. The air hung thick with the scent of aged wood and forgotten memories. Cobwebs clung to the corners, and the floorboards creaked beneath his weight. Then, from a dark corner, a faint glimmer of light caught his eye. It flickered like the last breath of an old lantern. Heart pounding, Ali moved toward it, each step drawing him deeper into the house's grasp. The stairs groaned as he climbed to the second floor, every creak a whisper of warning. As he reached the top, the door to a small room slowly swung open on its own. The room was surprisingly clean, its walls lined with old family portraits, a wooden chair and desk resting near the window. On the desk lay a dusty family photo album. Ali picked it up, his hands trembling. As he flipped open the album, his heart froze. The photographs showed him – at different ages, in places he'd never been, in eras that existed long before his birth. "This... this can't be real," Ali whispered, turning the pages with growing dread. Each photo felt like a stolen moment, a glimpse into lives he had never lived. Suddenly, a cold, whispering voice echoed in his ears, "Welcome, Ali. The house has been waiting for you." The album slipped from his hands and hit the floor. The room felt alive, the walls seemed to lean in, the floor groaning as if awakening. Ali spun toward the door, but it had silently shut behind him. Outside, faint light began to glow through the windows, as if the house itself had found a new heartbeat. From that night on, no one ever approached the old house again. They say Ali remains there, just another shadow in its twisted family album, forever a part of its haunted halls. Your Voice Matters! Have you ever felt the chilling presence of an abandoned place? Share your story in the comments below!
By Shafi khan about a year ago in Horror
I Went Cave Exploring with My Friend. We Found Something That Wasn’t Supposed to Be There.
I don’t want sympathy. I just want someone to tell me I’m not crazy. I’ve run through every explanation—exhaustion, hallucination, gas exposure—but nothing adds up. I know what I saw in that cave. I know what we heard, and more importantly, what we felt.
By sagar dhitalabout a year ago in Horror
Unlock the Shadows: What You Need to Know About Vocal’s Horror Story Prompt Challenge
For writers who have a taste for the macabre, the eerie, and the psychologically unsettling, opportunities to showcase their talent don’t often come knocking. But when they do, they arrive cloaked in mystery, dripping with suspense, and beckoning the brave to test the limits of their imagination.
By Nora Arianaabout a year ago in Horror
Pathogen: Ch. 14
Marnie's hands were shaking as she smoothed them over her hair, checking for any frizzy fly-aways that had gotten loose. Instinctively, she cupped the large ballet bun on the back of her head, wincing a little at the bobbi pins jammed into her scalp. How did her mom do this every day? It was no wonder now why Lt. Nightingale didn't have a single wrinkle on her face. Marnie's hair was pulled so tight, she didn't think she'd ever be able to use her facial muscles again. She only touched the bun for a second before Bianca swatted her hand away lightly.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Horror
The Eater of Men
The Eater of Men: In His Eyes, You're Meat There are some people who walk into a room and make the air colder. Not because of who they are, but because of what they are. When Malcolm Grieve walked into the diner off Route 41, his smile was wide and pleasant—but his eyes didn’t see people. They weighed them. Counted the ribs. Measured the muscle. In his eyes, you weren’t a person. You were meat. The locals barely noticed him at first. He was polite, well-dressed, paid in cash, and tipped well. Stayed in a dusty motel three miles outside town, room 6, curtains always drawn. If you asked the girl at the front desk, she’d say he smelled faintly of metal and cloves, and that she never saw him eat breakfast. Never once. The first to vanish was Jody Whitley, a hitchhiker who played guitar outside the gas station. No one noticed for a day or two—Jody came and went. But then her case was found in the woods, snapped in half like a wishbone. Sheriff Lane filed a report. Nothing came of it. But there were others. A drifter with a limp, a traveling nurse, a teenager skipping town. Each gone like smoke. Each leaving behind little more than a stain in the silence. Malcolm visited the diner every Tuesday at 9:13 p.m. sharp. He always ordered pot roast, but barely touched it. Instead, he watched. He studied the waitress’s arms when she handed him his bill. He watched the way the cook moved, the way his shoulders flexed under the grease-stained shirt. His pupils would dilate—not with admiration, but with hunger. A hunger so old it seemed to hum beneath the floorboards. They didn’t know what he was. Not at first. But he was careful. Precise. And terribly clean. One night, a drunk named Tyler made the mistake of grabbing Malcolm by the coat, demanding a cigarette. Witnesses said Malcolm just stared at him for a moment—his smile didn’t move, but his eyes darkened, like a light had gone out inside him. Tyler was found two days later, or at least most of him was. His chest cavity had been opened like a cabinet, the ribs separated with surgical precision. No blood, though. None at all. Rumors began to circle. “The Devil in a tie,” someone called him. “The Butcher in Room 6.” But no one dared confront him. Fear settled over the town like smoke. Even the sheriff looked the other way. People locked their doors and kept their heads down. But some people don’t scare easy. Marla, the waitress, had a brother who’d disappeared. She remembered the way Malcolm had looked at him. The way he smiled as if savoring something he hadn’t eaten yet. She followed him one night. It was raining. Malcolm took the back road, the one that led toward the abandoned slaughterhouse. Marla kept her lights off and stayed two cars behind. When he parked, she waited ten minutes before stepping out. The slaughterhouse had been shut for years, but inside, it smelled like rust and old breath. She followed the light of his lantern through the corridor of hanging chains. Then she saw it. The table was stone. There were hooks, tools—ancient, stained things. Bones piled like firewood. And Malcolm stood over something writhing. He was humming. Something soft. Something not meant for ears. His coat was off. His hands worked quickly, folding skin away from muscle as though peeling fruit. The thing on the table cried once. Only once. Marla couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even breathe. But she snapped a photo. Flash—too bright. Too loud. Malcolm turned. His eyes met hers. And in that split second, she understood what it meant to be prey. She ran—slipped on wet concrete, lungs tearing with panic. She didn’t stop until she hit the road and screamed for help, waving the phone with the photo still glowing. The police came. Room 6 was empty. The slaughterhouse was burned to the foundation that same night, flames licking the sky like a warning. They never found Malcolm. But every year, on the same night, someone disappears. Always someone alone. Always someone strong. Some say they’ve seen him—at truck stops, in diners, walking the shoulder of some back road. He doesn’t age. He doesn’t change. He smiles with perfect teeth. And when you meet his gaze, you’ll feel it: the chill of being sized up. Because in his eyes, you're not a soul. You're supper.
By Top stories about a year ago in Horror
The Hidden Hand
“Let me make sure I understand you clearly Professor Jones, you believe your microflora told you to kill Dr. Doyle?” The prosecutor leaned in close as he spoke, then turned toward the jury and raised a skeptical eyebrow. The gesture was intended to convey a message of incredulity to the nine jurors who listened in disbelief. “Yes. Not told me but made me”, replied the distinguished looking gentleman seated on the witness stand. He wore a simple black suit and had a shock of grey hair that sprouted wildly from his round wrinkled forehead. Many had commented that he looked a bit like Albert Einstein in his later years. In truth the comparison flattered him though his interest in physics had only been at the level of laymen. Microbiology was his passion and had been for the past 30 years. The prosecutor continued. “So, the bacteria in your body forced you to commit cold-blooded murder?” Dr. Jones replied quickly, speaking in a soft southern drawl, and with the authority of a man used to having his opinions respected. “It may not have been just the bacteria. The fungi, viruses and bacteriophage may have also been involved but I do think yes, it was primarily the bacteria in control.” “Sorry professor, can you please clarify for the jury, what exactly are bacteriophage?” The professor responded with some measure of arrogance in his voice, “to put it simply for you and the jury they are viruses that infect bacteria instead of higher life forms like plants or animals or humans.” “Thank you, professor. Can you please explain to the jury how exactly these evil germs were able to do this.” “I am not entirely certain” Dr. Jones replied quickly, the irritation plainly evident in his voice. “I would ask that you please kindly refrain from using the terminology, germs, I and my microbes find it highly insulting. I greatly prefer microbes or microorganisms. Animalcules were also once a favored term though it is much out of style today. That would be acceptable as well.” The professor continued, his volume slowly rising as he gained confidence. This was clearly an issue to which he had given much thought. “You need to understand that the microbes in and on all our bodies are numerically superior to the total number of cells of which they are composed. It is estimated they may outnumber us by as much as an order of magnitude. One order of magnitude means they are present at ten times the number of human cells. We are in fact more microbe than man. To me it is not surprising that given this advantage in numbers they might not attempt to take control at some point.” The prosecutor cut him off before he could continue. “And what was the motive for these animalcules to make you kill Dr. Doyle?” “I believe it was self-preservation. You see my colleague was on the verge of a great discovery, an entirely new class of antibiotics. If he had succeeded it could have revolutionized the control of many diseases and theoretically eliminated the issue of antibiotic resistance forever. Obviously, they were concerned for their continued existence.” Professor Jones smiled smugly and became silent. The prosecutor stared for a moment at the witness, unable to speak. He was obviously stunned by the straightforward and almost scholarly tone of the answer. The insane words coming out of the professor’s mouth just did not match with the way those words were delivered. The jury seemed shaken as well. Mouths hung slightly agape, and fear was evident in many of the juror’s eyes. The courtroom was deathly silent. The prosecutor slowly gathered himself and pressed on. “I am a bit confused Dr. Jones, why would not Dr. Doyle’s own microbes, or his graduate students’ microbes, have acted before yours? They surely were every bit as aware of his research program.” “A question I have considered myself. I don’t have the answer. Perhaps much like people there are different personalities among our microbes. Some are simply not capable of committing an evil act such as murder where others are. Certainly, all the data suggests large variations in the makeup of any one individual’s microflora. Given the variety between people, and the diversity of the microbial population within each it might not be unexpected that they act and react with their host in many different ways. It is also no doubt difficult to achieve any sort of consensus on action among the various genera and species on any given person at any one time. That might also explain the rarity of this type of event. It just is almost never possible to reach agreement on anything and therefore nothing of any consequence is done.” The professor looked genuinely pleased with himself as he considered this possibility, then continued. “I would very much like to study this in some detail when this is over and I get back to university.” The prosecutor looked shocked. “I am afraid you won’t be returning to university anytime soon Dr. Jones. You have essentially admitted to murder and given the jury no choice but to convict you. Your so-called explanation is clearly insane. No further questions.”
By Everyday Junglistabout a year ago in Horror
The Room That Watches
Rahim stood before the rusted gates of his grandfather’s ancestral mansion—its structure half-swallowed by creeping vines and a century’s worth of dust. The villagers had always spoken in hushed tones about this place. They warned of whispers in the night, shifting shadows, and the cursed room on the western wing. They called it The Room That Watched. When his grandfather died, Rahim inherited the mansion, along with one final warning in the will: “Do not enter the western corridor. Whatever you do, never open the last door. That room sees.” He laughed it off. Old men and their superstitions, he thought. By the third day of exploring the mansion, curiosity gnawed at him. That corridor, sealed with ancient locks and chains, felt like it breathed with anticipation. Dust covered every surface, yet the floor leading to that door was strangely clean—as though someone had walked it recently. Rahim found the keys in his grandfather’s study. That night, under the pale glow of a dying flashlight, he walked the forbidden corridor. The walls trembled faintly, like they were sighing. The final door was tall, wood rotting at the edges, with strange symbols scorched into it. He inserted the key, heart pounding, and turned it. Click. The door creaked open. The air inside was unnaturally cold. The room was empty—at first glance. A simple stone floor. No windows. But then he looked at the walls. They were covered—completely covered—with painted eyes. Hundreds of them. Some open wide. Some half-closed. Some crying black tears. They weren’t just painted. They felt alive. They followed him. Watched his every step. A shiver ran down his spine, but he forced himself to step inside. “Just paint,” he whispered. “Just old art.” He unrolled his sleeping bag in the center of the room. “I’ll prove there’s nothing here,” he said aloud, though his voice trembled. He lay down. Turned off the flashlight. Silence. Until… a creak. He sat up. The room had no doors except the one he entered. Yet, somewhere behind him, he heard soft breathing. Then a whisper. “Don’t look back…” He froze. The eyes on the wall began to change. Slowly. Subtly. They blinked. A few began to weep. The black tears moved, dripped, and dissolved into smoke upon hitting the floor. His chest tightened. From the corner of the room, something began to emerge. A shape. A shadow—taller than any man, thin and distorted like smoke and nightmare stitched together. No face. Just a hollow where eyes should’ve been. Rahim scrambled backward, heart racing. “What... what are you?” he gasped. The creature didn’t speak. But the room did. The eyes began to whisper. All of them, together, chanting in a soft, sickening chorus. “He opened the door... he opened the door... he looked inside…” The shadow extended a long, bony arm. Rahim screamed and bolted for the exit. The door… wouldn’t open. No matter how hard he pulled, the handle wouldn’t budge. He turned around, breath ragged. The room had changed. The floor now pulsed like living flesh. The eyes grew larger, some bleeding, some laughing—yes, laughing, their pupils twisting into tiny, grinning mouths. The shadow stepped closer. Rahim cried, begged, slammed the door with his fists. “Let me out! Please!” The eyes whispered again. “No one leaves. You saw too much. Now you must watch…” The last thing Rahim saw was the creature reaching into his chest—not tearing flesh, but pulling out light. Memory. Soul. The room went silent. --- The next morning, the door to the room stood wide open. A group of local workers entered the house, tasked with renovating the old mansion. One of them, curious, peeked into the western corridor. “I thought this was sealed?” he murmured, seeing the open door. He stepped inside, flashlight flickering. The walls stared back. Hundreds of eyes. And now—right in the center—was a freshly painted eye. It looked eerily like Rahim’s. The same color. The same fear. It blinked.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
Inmate 315. Content Warning.
Note: this story was written for the Horror Story Prompt Challenge. I wish you all the best. Content warnings for talks of s****** and self-inflicted injury. Also content warnings for crude depictions of mental illness that are only there to further the story. These depictions do not reflect the opinions of Vocal or the writer and are no more than a work of fiction.
By Annie Kapurabout a year ago in Horror
The Mystery of the Depths (Part 6)
After returning the chain, we believed it was over. We wanted to believe Saira’s spirit had found peace. But one night’s horror shattered that illusion. When young Saiful claimed, “I saw a girl underwater,” fear, doubt, and mystery clawed back into our lives.
By Kevin Hudsonabout a year ago in Horror
