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.
"Morning Minds: The Irony of Early Brilliance"
Mornings were a paradox for Ellie. She had spent most of her life either rushing through them, too tired to think clearly, or lounging around in her pajamas, wondering why anyone ever bothered to be productive before 9 a.m. The concept of “morning brilliance” always struck her as comical. Who could possibly have any meaningful thoughts before their first cup of coffee—or, in her case, after the third?
By Muhammad Azeemullahabout a year ago in Horror
The Girl in the Painting
After her grandfather passed away, Alina inherited his old, crumbling house at the edge of town. The place was cold, filled with antique furniture, creaking wood, and long-forgotten silence. Despite the eeriness, she decided to stay—thinking the house just needed some life again.
By 🌿 𝓢𝓱𝓪𝔃𝓶𝓮𝓮𝓷𝓪 𝓚𝓱𝓪𝓷 • 𝒲𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝓎 𝒫𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃 •about a year ago in Horror
The Last Voicemail
The Last Voicemail It started with a single ding on a rainy Tuesday night. I had just come home, soaked in exhaustion more than rain, when my phone buzzed. One new voicemail. From Maya. That name alone was enough to freeze my blood. Because Maya — my fiancée — had died three years ago. I stood there, keys still in my hand, heart thudding in my chest as I stared at the screen. A glitch, I thought. A cruel coincidence. Maybe someone spoofing her old number. I nearly deleted it, but something in me—some stubborn ghost of curiosity—pressed Play. The static crackled. Then her voice came through. "Hey, Liam… it's me. I don't have much time. You have to listen. I’m not—” —not where you think I am. I need you to come to the cabin. Please. Before Friday. Don’t trust—” click The message ended abruptly. I sat down on the floor. My therapist had warned me about this—grief hallucinations, unresolved trauma, the brain’s cruel habit of playing tapes of the dead. But this wasn’t my imagination. This was a real voicemail. Time-stamped two minutes ago. And she said cabin. We had a cabin. Her family’s old place up in Cold Pine Ridge. We hadn’t been there since the fall before the accident. I called the number back. Disconnected. No longer in service. That night, I didn’t sleep. My thoughts crawled over every word she’d said. “Don’t trust…” Who? Why the urgency? Why now? I didn’t tell anyone. They’d think I was losing it. Maybe I was. Still, on Thursday morning, I packed a bag and drove. --- Cold Pine Ridge was colder than I remembered. The trees looked like crooked arms reaching toward a gray sky. The cabin stood still and silent, buried in fog. A time capsule from another life. I unlocked the door. Dust, cobwebs, and memories greeted me. Her books still lined the shelves. Her favorite sweater was still hanging by the fireplace. And then I saw the photo. It had fallen from the mantle. Me and Maya, smiling. But someone had scratched out her face. Deep gouges where her eyes had been. I stepped back. Then I heard it. A faint voice. From the back room. “Maya?” No answer. Just a soft humming. Familiar. Like the song she used to sing while painting. My feet moved before I could stop them. The door creaked open. The room was dark. But the humming stopped. Then, a whisper: "You came." A shadow moved in the corner. I flicked on my flashlight. Nothing. Only her old easel, a cracked mirror, and an open journal. I picked it up. Maya’s handwriting. But the last entry was recent. Dated two days ago. > "If Liam comes… maybe he can break the loop. I see him in the mirror. I see him in my sleep. But it’s not really him. He wears his face, but the eyes are wrong. The eyes are always wrong." A crash behind me. The mirror had fallen, face down. I bent to pick it up. And in the reflection—she was standing behind me. Maya. But her skin was pale and cracked like porcelain. Her eyes… black. Bottomless. I turned. Nothing. The room was empty again. I ran outside, heart jackhammering in my chest, breath fogging the air. That night, I camped in the car. Sleep came in broken gasps. At 3:17 a.m., the car radio turned on by itself. Static again. Then her voice. "I’m trapped, Liam. You saw it. You have to burn the cabin. Bury the mirror. It’s a door. He comes through the mirror." Then a man’s voice. Mocking. Deep. "She lied to you once, didn’t she? Want to know the truth? She never died in that crash. You buried the wrong body." --- The next morning, I did what she asked. I smashed the mirror. Poured gasoline around the cabin. Lit a match. As the flames roared, I swear I heard screaming from inside. Not one voice. Many. I drove away without looking back. --- Three Weeks Later I got a package. No return address. Inside: a USB drive and a note in Maya’s handwriting. > "Some truths are worse than lies. Don’t open it unless you're ready." I hesitated for hours. But I plugged it in. It was security footage. From the crash site. A different angle. I watched in silence as the car swerved. As it flipped. As I crawled out. And pulled someone else into the driver's seat. A girl. Unconscious. Maya. I stepped back from the screen, stomach churning. I lied. To the police. To everyone. To myself. I wasn’t a grieving fiancé. I was a murderer. And she was trying to save me… even now. Even after everything. Even from the thing in the mirror. --- End.
By Ikram Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers in the Dark. Content Warning.
Chapter 1: The Silent Town The group of survivors cautiously approached the small town. It was eerily quiet, no signs of the usual chaos. The streets were lined with dilapidated homes, yet no zombies wandered. It seemed almost too perfect.
By Murtaza Khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Scorpion in the Jar – A Sting from the Past
I never believed in bad omens—until the day I opened that old jar. It was a dusty afternoon in my grandfather’s abandoned farmhouse, a place where silence echoed louder than sound. After his passing, no one had visited it for years. My curiosity led me back to that crumbling house, hoping to find pieces of his forgotten past. I never expected to find something that would change my life. As I entered the creaky wooden door, a thick smell of age and secrets greeted me. The sunlight filtered through the cracked windows, illuminating particles of dust dancing in the air. I walked toward his study room, untouched for decades, filled with old books, faded photographs, and antique items that whispered forgotten stories. But something strange sat on the shelf—a large glass jar, sealed tightly, covered with a thick cloth and tied with a red thread. Unlike the rest of the room, the jar was spotless, as if someone had cleaned it regularly. A strange chill ran down my spine as I reached out and removed the cloth. Inside the jar, suspended in a pale liquid, was a scorpion—its tail curled upward, stinger sharp, black body preserved like a sleeping nightmare. Why would my grandfather keep such a thing? Curiosity overtook fear. I placed the jar on the table and noticed a note beneath it. In his handwriting, it read: "Do not open. This jar holds more than death—it holds memory." A part of me laughed. A scorpion in a jar couldn’t hurt me. The lid was old, rusty. I twisted it slightly… and it snapped open. The smell was sharp, bitter, like rotting herbs. But what happened next defied every law of nature. The liquid inside began to bubble, the scorpion trembled—and before I could react, it leapt out. I screamed and stumbled back. The scorpion landed on the floor, alive—impossibly alive. It hissed. Not the sound of an insect, but something deeper, darker. Its eyes glowed faintly red. I backed away, heart racing. The door behind me slammed shut on its own. My phone had no signal. The air grew colder. Suddenly, the scorpion scurried toward the bookshelf and vanished behind it. I ran to the door, tried to open it—but it wouldn’t budge. Then, whispers filled the room. I turned—no one. The mirror on the wall began to fog from within, and then letters appeared: “You opened the past. Now it will sting.” I was trapped. Hours passed, or maybe minutes—I couldn’t tell. The whispers continued. They weren’t just sounds; they were voices. Familiar. My grandfather’s voice among them: “I warned you, child. Some things are buried for a reason.” The scorpion returned—only now, it wasn’t small. It had grown, swelling like a shadow. Its tail flicked dangerously, tapping the floor with eerie rhythm. I grabbed a chair, swung it, missed. The scorpion climbed the wall like liquid darkness and perched on the ceiling, staring. And then… it spoke. Not in words, but in feelings. A rush of memories not mine filled my head: my grandfather, younger, terrified, holding the same jar. A deal gone wrong. A curse. The scorpion was a guardian of something ancient, something trapped—but when I opened the jar, I freed it. I sank to my knees. Tears fell. “Please… let me go…” Suddenly, silence. The door creaked open on its own. I looked around—the scorpion was gone. I rushed out, drove home, and never returned. But the nightmares didn’t stop. To this day, I don’t know whether I faced a spirit, a demon, or my own guilt. But every now and then, I find scorpion-shaped marks on my windows. And I remember that note: “This jar holds more than death—it holds memory.” Now, I believe it held a warning. Now, I believe it held a warning
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Shadow
It was evening, and Sunil, holding a bag on his shoulder, was heading to the village's old library. When he escaped the hustle and bustle of Dhaka, he began to spend a week's holiday at his grandfather's house in the village. This was the same house where he spent his summer vacation as a child, but now it was almost empty. His uncle only lived in a nearby house. For Sunil, the village always felt like a retreat, a place of peace and tranquility.
By Mahabuba Aktarabout a year ago in Horror
