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 Story of an Old Fisherman (Part 2)
We returned to the shore the next morning. Everyone’s eyes betrayed sleeplessness, their minds weighed down by dread, their bodies exhausted. But what gnawed at us most was fear—an invisible, nameless, yet palpable terror.
By Kevin Hudsonabout a year ago in Horror
The Cry of the Deep Sea
(Part 1) As usual, we were preparing to go fishing. Me and my 15 fellow laborers, who work with me on the boat, were getting ready. Before dusk, we packed the nets, flashlights, food, and everything else, then set sail. Crossing the river, we slowly moved into the deep sea. The wind was cold, the stars twinkled faintly in the sky. The sea was calm, yet an unfamiliar emptiness seemed to linger in the air.
By Kevin Hudsonabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers in the Attic
When Daniel inherited his grandfather's old countryside house, he was more annoyed than grateful. The property, isolated on the edge of a forgotten village, was a creaking relic of the past. Still, he decided to visit for a weekend, thinking he might sell it after a few repairs.
By M Kamrul Islam about a year ago in Horror
The Jinn's Widow on the Mountain Road
I was driving home alone after a long business trip. The road wound through tall mountains cloaked in darkness, and storm clouds had gathered above like a warning. I thought if I sped up, I might reach home before midnight. But fate had other plans. Thunder rumbled like a beast above the peaks. Lightning danced through the sky. A light drizzle began tapping against my windshield, soon turning into steady rain. I was in the middle of nowhere when suddenly, my car sputtered and stopped. I turned the ignition — nothing. Checked the fuel gauge — empty. My heart dropped. The silence of the mountains, broken only by rain and wind, suddenly carried a new sound — the faint cry of a baby. At first, I thought it was my imagination. But then I heard it again, louder. A child’s desperate cry. I stepped out of the car cautiously, rain soaking my shirt, shoes slipping on the wet ground. I walked down toward the source of the sound — but saw nothing. No baby. No movement. Just empty woods and shadows. I returned to my car, confused and shaken. As I closed the door, the cry echoed again, closer this time. My hands trembled as I locked the doors and rolled up the windows. My breath fogged the glass. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. And then… I saw her. A woman stood by the road, just a few feet away. She wore a faded shawl, held a small child in her arms, and in her other hand, strangely, a bottle of Pepsi. Her face was hidden, turned away. She stepped toward my car and gently knocked on the window. I didn’t move. She knocked again. Gathering my courage, I rolled the window down a little. Rain blew in as I asked, “What do you want?” Her voice was soft but chilling. “What’s the problem?” “I... I ran out of fuel,” I stammered. She was silent for a moment. Then she said something that froze my soul: “Tonight, I won’t let you live. I’m a jinn’s widow. My husband died, and now I’ve gone mad.” My body went numb. My mind blank. I could feel myself slipping — on the verge of fainting. She whispered, “Look at me.” Tears filled my eyes. I pressed my hands together in desperation and begged, “Please, don’t hurt me. I have a wife and kids at home. They’re alone. I beg you, for God’s sake — please.” She tilted her head. “There’s fear in your eyes,” she said softly. “And tonight, something inside me wants to help you.” Without another word, she moved to the back of the car and began pushing it. I felt the car jolt. The wheels turned. The engine still dead — yet the vehicle moved as though someone had filled it with fuel. The woman, thin and calm, pushed my car up the mountain road for almost half an hour, her child still in her arms. We reached the summit. From there, the road sloped down. The car started rolling on its own. I looked back — she was gone. I drove without stopping, the car coasting smoothly downhill until the lights of the city finally appeared. I reached a petrol station, filled the tank, and sat there for a long time, staring into the rain. Her face haunted me. Her words echoed in my ears. When I finally reached home, my wife hugged me, but I didn’t speak. For a week, I had a high fever. Nightmares came every time I closed my eyes — her voice, her shadow, her sad, twisted smile. Doctors came. Medicines were given. Slowly, after two weeks, I returned to my normal life. But that night… that woman… Was she a ghost? A spirit? A mad jinn’s wife? Or was she something else entirely? I never found out. All I know is: something not human helped me that night. And I pray I never meet her again.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Forgotten Bell of Eldergrove Abbey
In the quiet hills of Northumberland, far from the bustling cities and modern distractions, lies the ruined shell of Eldergrove Abbey. Overgrown with ivy and forgotten by maps, the abbey is a relic from the 13th century, left to crumble under centuries of wind, rain, and whispered stories. Locals avoid it—not out of superstition alone, but because of the sound.
By Logan Bennettabout a year ago in Horror
The Reluctant Guest
Heavy velvet curtains blocked out any external light, be it artificial or natural, from the large bedroom. Internally there was very little illumination to speak of, only a thin crack of yellow electric light from some unknown source, fought its way beneath the rooms studded oak door. Surprisingly however, it illuminated half of the room, albeit very dully. Some pieces of furniture appeared only as dark amorphous blobs in the gloom. Hugo lay in bed, unable to sleep in these strange surroundings. His eyes darted around the room, checking, and rechecking the various large shadows that merged with the darkness. He was trying to remember if the shadows matched the positions the furniture had been in when he had first entered the room or not. One particular shape looked suspiciously like a stone gargoyle, hunched in the darkness, waiting to pounce. However, in hindsight it was probably the ornate mahogany dressing table that he had noticed on arrival. It just seemed to be in a slightly different place to where he remembered it being, a bit closer to the fire perhaps. Come to think of it, had the fireplace been that big? Hugo shifted his position for a better look, cursing the lack of a bedside lamp, or even torch, in the room. The light switch was right the way across the room, about thirty feet, so he could not turn it on and off as he pleased and leaving it on all night was out of the question. He hadn't done that since he was a child, and these days struggled to sleep if it wasn’t dark. Still, he was sorely tempted.
By Phil Tennantabout a year ago in Horror
