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.
Whispers Beyond the Glass
The visitation room was freezing. It was a plain, empty place where thick glass separated visitors from inmates. If you wanted to talk to someone inside, you had to use an old gray telephone. There was no other way to connect. No hugs, no handshakes. Only cold plastic and glass between you.
By Waqar Ahmadabout a year ago in Horror
Ghost Building
On the outskirts of a bustling metropolis stands a decrepit building that sends shivers down the spines of those who dare to approach it. The locals call it the “Ghost Building” This towering structure, reaching high into the sky, forms a stark contrast with the surrounding modern architecture. Its appearance is in ruins, with shattered windows, glass shards scattered on the ground, and walls covered in moss and vines, exuding an eerie and desolate atmosphere.
By Aiden Wangabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers Beneath the Canopy
They told me not to come alone. The locals in the last village—just a scattering of tin roofs clinging to the river's edge near northern Peru—looked at me like I had already died. An old man with cloudy eyes grabbed my wrist when I showed him the map, his fingers like roots tightening around my skin. “The jungle eats the arrogant,” he whispered. I smiled politely. I didn’t tell him it had already taken my grandfather. I was chasing a story, or maybe a ghost. The map I’d inherited from my grandfather was yellowed, water-stained, and hand-drawn—marked with strange symbols that didn’t match any modern charts. At the edge of the page, beyond the last mapped riverbend, he had drawn a sun split in half by an eye. Beside it, just one word, faded but still legible: Vivo. Alive. Three days deep into the jungle, the word had taken on new meaning. I didn’t feel alive out here—I felt watched. Every movement I made felt like a question, and the forest responded not with answers, but with silence. I was careful. I followed the river upstream, moved only during the light hours, and kept my gear dry. But the jungle has rules of its own. My satellite phone stopped working the second night. Just flatlined. No explanation. My compass needle began to twitch. A storm caught me off guard and left my map in pieces. And then, the singing started. It was faint, like wind through hollow reeds. Not words I could recognize—more like tones that wrapped around each other, low and mournful. It echoed in the air, weaving between the trees. Sometimes, it stopped mid-note. That silence was worse than the song. I told myself it was a bird call, or wind through a narrow canyon. Anything but what it sounded like: voices. Human voices. The second night, I didn't sleep. The jungle's usual chaos—buzzing insects, chirping frogs, and the occasional yowl—faded into an eerie hush. Then came the whispering. Not in my ear, not directly. It sounded like it was being carried on the leaves. Like someone calling softly from behind a curtain. At some point, I must have dozed off. When I woke, there were footprints outside my tent. Small. Bare. Dozens of them. They weren’t there the night before—I’m sure of it. The ground was still soft, the prints fresh. I knelt and touched the earth where they circled my tent like a ritual. My breath came fast, like I was running though I hadn’t moved an inch. They were human. Or close enough. I thought about turning back. I should have. But that word on the map—Vivo—pulled at me like a thread unraveling something ancient inside. I packed my gear and moved northeast, deeper into the heart of the map, following a path I felt more than saw. I stopped marking trees behind me. I wasn’t trying to find my way back anymore. By the fourth day, I found the first carving. A spiral, cut deep into the bark of a kapok tree. It wasn’t made by a machete. It looked older—weathered and dark with age. The same spiral from my grandfather’s journal. I followed them. One spiral became two. Then a line of symbols snaked along the trunks like breadcrumbs. They weren’t random. They were guiding me somewhere. The deeper I went, the less the jungle resembled anything I'd seen. Vines hung like curtains, thick and twisted. The air felt dense, not just with moisture, but with pressure—like standing underwater. My thoughts began to blur. Time didn’t move right anymore. An hour felt like a blink. Or a day. Then I found it. A clearing, perfect and unnatural. A wide circle of flat ground, surrounded by impossibly tall trees, their bark black as charcoal. In the center stood a monolith—smooth, shaped like a teardrop, humming slightly when I stepped closer. I reached out to touch it. “Daniel,” a voice said behind me. I froze. Nobody out here knew my name. Slowly, I turned around. There was no one there. Only the trees and the whisper of leaves. But the jungle wasn’t silent anymore. It was breathing.
By Shah saab ITabout a year ago in Horror
"The Clock's Curse: A Haunted Timepiece That Dragged Its Victim into Darkness "The silence of the night was broken by a single sound—
The silence of the night was broken by a single sound— Tick. Tick. Tick. Each tick of the ancient brass clock stabbed deeper into Abid's chest, like invisible needles.
By Md.Moniruzzamanabout a year ago in Horror
Vampire Kiss
Act 1: The Enigma** In the small, sleepy town of Aldergrove, shadows danced beneath the full moon's glow. The air was thick with mystery, and the scent of an oncoming storm lingered like a whisper on the breeze. This was where I first met her—Samantha, with her raven-black hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of midnight, and her eyes, a haunting and deep shade of crimson, that seemed to draw me in like a moth to a flame.
By MOHAMMED NAZIM HOSSAINabout a year ago in Horror
The Whispers of Misty Cove
They say some places are better left alone. The old lighthouse at Misty Cove, perched precariously on the jagged cliffs, was one such place, shrouded in an aura of forgotten tales and lingering unease. For years, the villagers whispered stories about the abandoned structure, their voices hushed with a mixture of fear and fascination. They spoke of strange, ethereal lights that flickered within its shattered lantern room at the stroke of midnight, and the faint, melancholic sound of music that the wind sometimes carried from its desolate tower. No one had dared to step inside the decaying structure since the devastating great storm of 1963, a tempest that had swallowed ships whole and claimed the lighthouse keeper, Mr. Hargrove, who vanished without a trace, leaving behind only unanswered questions and a growing sense of dread.
By Shades of Faith about a year ago in Horror
