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 Jinn’s Daughter in the Mountain
It was meant to be a simple trip—just me and my friend Faisal, exploring the serene beauty of the northern mountains. We had packed light, brought a camera, some snacks, and hearts full of excitement. The fresh air, the towering trees, and the echoing silence of nature made it feel like we had escaped the world. We hiked through trails, laughed over old memories, and enjoyed the calm of the wild. As the sun began to dip behind the peaks, the golden rays painted the trees with warmth. I turned around to say something to Faisal—but he was gone. "Faisal?" I called, thinking he was just a few steps behind. No answer. I walked back a little, then forward, then in every direction. "Faisal! Stop messing around!" Still nothing. Panic started to creep in. The silence around me now felt heavy, almost oppressive. I shouted louder, my voice bouncing off the trees, but the forest remained still. The shadows were stretching, and night was falling quickly. I searched and called for hours. My legs were aching, my voice hoarse. Darkness fell like a curtain. The temperature dropped. Then came the rain. Cold, piercing rain that soaked me in minutes. Shivering, exhausted, and terrified, I stopped on a rock and called out one last time, "Faisal!" That’s when I heard it. A soft, almost musical voice echoed through the trees: "Who are you calling?" My blood froze. It was a woman’s voice, but not like any I’d heard before—too smooth, too calm for the dark forest. I turned quickly but saw no one. My feet instinctively moved backward, and then I began to run. But the voice followed. "Stop right there... or I’ll strike you from behind." I stopped instantly. My heart pounded in my ears. Slowly, I turned around. Standing just a few feet away was a woman—tall, with flowing black hair, a pale face, and eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the dark. Her expression was blank, unreadable. The fear in me exploded, and everything went black. When I regained consciousness, I was lying inside a cave. It was warm, dimly lit, and smelled of something ancient. I sat up quickly, disoriented, only to see a girl sitting a few steps away. She was crying, quietly, her long hair hiding most of her face. "Where am I? Who are you?" I asked. She looked up slowly, her eyes swollen with tears. "I’m not human," she said. "I’m... the daughter of a jinn." I stared at her, unable to respond. She continued, her voice shaking, "Your friend... Faisal... I love him. I met him here days ago. He didn’t fear me. He spoke to me, kindly. He saw me not as a monster, but as someone lonely." "You have him?" I asked, voice trembling. "Yes. I’ve kept him safe. But he wanted to leave, and I couldn’t bear it. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I can’t let him go." "This isn’t right," I said. "He’s human. He has a family. A life." Tears rolled down her cheeks again. "I know. But my world is dark, cold, and cruel. He was the only light I ever saw. Please… understand me." I looked around. The walls of the cave were covered in strange symbols. The air felt heavy, almost magical. A thought occurred to me—maybe she wasn’t evil. Just... broken. "What if I promise you something?" I said gently. "You let us go... and I swear, your secret will remain safe. I’ll never tell a soul." She looked at me for a long time. The silence stretched until I thought she might vanish. Then she whispered, "I’ll let you both go. But you must never come back. And never speak of me." "I promise," I said. She stood up, waved her hand, and a gust of warm wind blew through the cave. I felt my body becoming lighter, the world spinning… When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the same spot where Faisal had disappeared. The rain had stopped. And right in front of me, looking confused but unharmed, stood Faisal. We didn’t talk much. We just hugged and began the slow walk down the mountain. Till this day, we’ve never spoken about that night. But sometimes, in dreams, I still see her face. And every now and then, in deep silence, I feel a presence... watching… waiting.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Train from Bakuldanga Halt
Whispers from an Abandoned StationTucked deep within the forgotten forests of Bengal, Bakuldanga Halt is a name that has vanished from railway maps. Long abandoned and swallowed by nature, it remains a place of superstition and fear. Locals warn travelers not to go near it—especially after dark. But when journalist Riju finds himself stranded nearby, curiosity leads him straight into a nightmare.
By Funny Jokesabout a year ago in Horror
The Man Who Found a Crying Mirror
The Man Who Found a Crying Mirror Adam had always been fascinated by old things. Antique shops drew him like a magnet. On one rainy afternoon, while wandering the backstreets of a forgotten town, he stumbled across a narrow shop tucked between a bakery and a boarded-up tailor. It had no name—just dusty windows and the faint scent of candle wax and old wood. Inside, the air was heavy with age. Everything creaked: the floors, the shelves, even the silence. In a dark corner stood a tall, ornate mirror. Its frame was carved with strange vines and winged figures. The glass had a pale tint, almost silver. But what truly caught Adam’s attention was the sensation—it pulled at him. He moved closer. There was his reflection… but somehow softer. Blurred around the edges. He leaned in. For a second, just a flash—he thought he saw someone else. A woman. Crying. Then it was gone. The old shopkeeper emerged from behind a curtain. "You see her, don’t you?" he asked quietly. Adam blinked. "See who?" The man didn’t answer. Instead, he wrapped the mirror in black cloth and handed it over. "Take it," he whispered. "It belongs to you now. But know this—it shows what others hide." Adam wanted to protest, but something about the man’s voice, and the mirror’s strange grip on him, made him obey. He took it home and placed it in his hallway. Days passed, but each time he looked in it, something changed. At first, it was subtle: a shimmer, a shadow. Then, one night, he saw her again—clearly. A young woman with tear-streaked cheeks, clutching her chest, sobbing silently. Her eyes pleaded, but her mouth never moved. "Who are you?" Adam whispered. She raised a hand and touched the inside of the glass. Without thinking, Adam mirrored her gesture. Their palms met across the cold surface. Suddenly, a surge of images flooded his mind—memories that weren’t his: a child hiding under the table, bruises on her arms, cries echoing in a dark room. A locked door. Silence. Shame. Then fire. Screams. And nothing. Adam fell to the floor, gasping. The mirror went dark. He tried to research the mirror’s origin but found nothing. When he returned to the shop, it had vanished. The building stood empty, abandoned for years. At night, the girl would return. Not always crying. Sometimes standing. Watching. Waiting. Adam became obsessed with her. Who was she? Why had she chosen him? He began to see her reflection in other places—glass windows, water, polished floors. Always just behind him. One night, she finally spoke. Her voice was like wind through broken glass. "Help me." "How?" Adam cried. "Tell me what to do!" She showed him—images again, this time sharper. A house. A cellar. Chains. A diary under floorboards. A hidden truth buried beneath time. Adam drove to the address the next day. The house was still there, old and crumbling. He broke in, found the cellar. Just as she had shown. And there, beneath the dusty boards, was a diary. Pages filled with pain, names, dates, pleas for help. It was her voice, inked in trembling hands. He turned it in to the police. The case unraveled quickly—long-forgotten crimes tied to a man who had once owned the house. Her abuser. He had escaped justice for decades. But now the truth was free. The night after the man’s arrest, Adam stood before the mirror again. She appeared, calm this time. No tears. Just a soft, grateful smile. "Thank you," she whispered. And with that, her image faded—forever. From then on, the mirror showed only Adam. But sometimes, when the house is silent, and the lights are low, Adam swears he hears a faint sigh. Not of sorrow—but peace.But sometimes, when the h
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Coffin That Spoke
1. The Shortcut It was just a shortcut. That’s what I told myself as I pushed open the rusted gate of the old cemetery that separated two neighborhoods in our town. I had taken the path a dozen times before, during the day. But that night was different. The wind was colder, the silence deeper. My phone’s battery had died, and I was already running late. So I stepped in. Gravel crunched beneath my shoes as I walked quickly between rows of crooked headstones. The moonlight was thin, slipping between clouds like a guilty secret. Somewhere behind me, a dog howled. I kept my head down. Then I heard it. A soft thump. I froze. --- 2. A Whisper in the Wind At first, I thought it was a trick of the wind, or maybe an animal. But then it came again. Closer. Louder. Thump. Thump. It was coming from one of the newer graves. A large, dark coffin lay half-buried in loose soil, its lid slightly ajar. That was odd. All coffins are buried deep, sealed shut. But this one looked like it had been tossed in carelessly. I took a cautious step forward, my breath sharp in my throat. And then — a voice. “Help me…” I stumbled back, nearly falling over a headstone. My mind raced. Was someone trapped in there? Was this some sick prank? “Please… it’s cold…” It was a woman’s voice. Weak, but desperate. I crept closer, my heart pounding. “Who’s in there?” I whispered. No answer. I moved to the side of the coffin and hesitated before reaching for the lid. It was heavier than I expected, cold to the touch. I pushed it up slowly, unsure of what I’d find. It was empty. --- 3. Echoes of the Dead I stood frozen, staring into the black void of the coffin. Nothing. No one. Just silence. Then the voice came again. “I’m not in the coffin anymore…” It came from behind me. I spun around — nothing. “Look behind the tree,” it whispered. I stared at the large, twisted tree just a few feet away. I couldn’t move. Every instinct told me to run. But something stronger held me there. A figure stepped out. She was barefoot. Pale. Wearing a faded white dress. Her eyes were hollow, as if drained of life — and yet, she looked right at me. “I was buried alive,” she said. Her voice was calm now, almost serene. “They thought I was dead. I screamed, but no one heard me. Until you…” My mouth opened, but no words came. “I don't want revenge,” she added. “I just needed someone to know.” She raised her hand and placed it over her heart. Her fingers disappeared into her chest like smoke. “I’m leaving now.” And then she vanished. --- 4. The Morning After I don’t remember running home. I don’t remember unlocking the door or collapsing on the floor. All I remember is waking up the next morning with my clothes still dusty, my shoes still wet with cemetery soil. No one believed me, of course. Not my parents. Not my friends. But something told me to go back. That afternoon, I returned to the cemetery. The coffin was gone. In its place was a fresh mound of earth. A new headstone had been added: Amara Bint Hussain 1995–2024 Beloved daughter, lost too soon. I knelt beside the grave. There were no flowers, no candles. Just silence. I whispered, “I know now.” --- 5. One Last Sign As I stood to leave, I noticed something carved into the base of the headstone — not engraved by a machine, but scratched in by hand. It read: “Thank you for listening.” That was the moment I understood: some souls can’t rest until their story is heard. Until someone knows. Until the silence is broken. Since that night, I’ve taken the long road home. I never cut through the cemetery again. But I listen more. To silence. To shadows. Because sometimes, the dead aren’t gone. They’re just waiting.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Night She Returned: A Haunting Message from the Beyond
It was the first letter that got to me. The envelope, pale and unmarked, appeared in our mailbox one ordinary Tuesday. No stamp, no return address—just my name, handwritten in an unfamiliar script. My hands trembled as I tore it open, my mind already running wild. Was it a wrong address? A prank? Or, as I feared deep in my gut, something more unsettling?
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Horror
A Captive Audience. Content Warning.
1. Sean was almost thirty-six, which was closer to forty than he ever thought he'd see. Not that he thought he'd die before then, necessarily—and, until recently, he'd never given any serious thought to the notion of suicide. No, he just never thought it'd happen to him: older than he ever wanted to be and, on the road ahead, only the promise of ever-diminishing returns.
By Richard Dorricottabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Notification
Emma had always been a light sleeper. Even the hum of the fridge could wake her. So, when her phone buzzed at 3:11 AM on a Wednesday morning, she immediately sat up, heart thudding. The soft blue light of her phone screen glowed on the nightstand, piercing the shadows of her tiny studio apartment.
By Sarwar Zebabout a year ago in Horror
The Midnight Guest
It was soft—barely audible—like a fingernail tapping on glass. James sat up in bed, blinking against the dim glow of his nightlight. The wind howled outside his old country house, rattling the windows and moaning through the cracks. He rubbed his eyes and strained his ears.
By Funny Jokesabout a year ago in Horror
Unborn. AI-Generated.
I woke up in darkness—total, smothering, warm darkness. No air, no sound. Just the steady thump of my own heart and something... thick pressing against every inch of me. At first, I thought it was a dream. Some abstract metaphor for anxiety or a claustrophobia nightmare. But when I tried to move—my elbows bumping slick, curved walls—I felt the resistance. Solid. Tight. And warm, like breath. It didn’t take long to realize I was trapped in an egg. Not metaphorically. Not “reborn” or “cocooned.” An actual, smooth, damp, grotesquely oversized eggshell. I couldn’t see it, but I felt it—the slight give of calcium, the grainy inside, and that dense, pulsing liquid sloshing around me like a too-warm bath. Yolk. I pushed. Of course I did. My palms met the wall, and I shoved with all the strength I had. It groaned. So did I. Pain lashed through my arms, like needles scraping bone. Not from effort. No. From the shell itself. It didn’t want to be broken. Each time I tried, the shell hurt me. Not bruises or burns. It hurt inside. Like memories being clawed apart. Like someone whispering every terrible thing I’d ever done in a voice that sounded eerily like my mother’s. So I stopped. For a while, anyway. I floated in that wet, warm stasis, drifting in and out of sleep. Or maybe I was dying and being reborn in slow motion. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t cold. But I could feel time—the slow stretch of it like a rubber band that never snapped. Then came the tapping. Not from outside. From within. At first, I thought it was my heart again. But this was... smarter. Intentional. A series of knocks against the shell, echoing in my skull like Morse code from something that knew me. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. “Stop,” I muttered. Or tried to. The yolk slithered into my mouth, thick as guilt, salty as tears. It tapped again. Eventually, it spoke. Not in words—don’t be so literal—but in meanings. Emotions carved out with scalpel precision. It asked why I thought I deserved to leave. Why I deserved to be born again. I didn’t have an answer. The shell didn’t let me lie. Every time I tried, it pulsed, triggering fresh waves of that internal agony—shame, regret, the kind you can't quite name but never forget. I thought about every cruelty I brushed off. Every moment I chose silence over speaking up. Every friend I ghosted, every parent I ignored, every “It’s not my problem” I muttered like a shield. Turns out, my shell was me. All my failures calcified around me like a second skin. A prison built from apathy. And breaking free meant confronting every shard. I stayed for what could’ve been weeks. Maybe years. The tapping never stopped. It asked and asked until I started answering—honestly. That’s when the cracks formed. Thin, at first. Like veins. But they burned. Oh, did they burn. Every fracture was a memory flayed open. But I didn’t stop. I pushed. I screamed. Not out loud, because I had no mouth, no lungs. But somewhere deeper—soul-screaming. Raw, ugly truth. The shell shattered. Light flooded in—cold, sterile, beautiful. I flopped onto the ground, slick with afterbirth and silence. Naked. New. But behind me, in the mess of broken shell, I saw it. The yolk was still moving. It hadn’t been mine alone. It was waiting for someone else. Maybe you.
By Jagmohan Mishraabout a year ago in Horror
THE LAST ROOM!
Zara became a curious university student, constantly chasing after the unknown. When her professor stated a long-deserted lodge at the outskirts of town, she felt an ordinary pull. The area became referred to as The Hollow Inn, which closed down after a sequence of mysterious disappearances a long time ago. Local legends said Room 313—the room no person entered and lived to tell.
By MD NAYEM HOSSANabout a year ago in Horror
Chinese parasol tree
On the outskirts of City A, there is a park called Wutong Park. Why is it called that? The answer is simple: the park is filled with tall and stately phoenix trees (commonly known as sycamores or plane trees), creating a beautiful landscape. If it weren’t for the stone steps, ponds, and pavilions, one might mistake it for a primeval forest at first glance.
By Aiden Wangabout a year ago in Horror
