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 Visitor of Obscurity. It was a cold winter night.
Thick mist covered the town like a spooky cover. The moon stowed away behind overwhelming clouds, and the quiet of the farmland felt unnatural. As it was, the stir of dry takes off and the far off hoot of an owl broke the stillness. At the edge of the town stood a rotting house, once an amazing domain of an effective proprietor. Presently, it was an overlooked antique, broken and crumbling—half devoured by nature and time. The villagers called it “Shonar Bari”, in spite of the fact that nothing brilliant remained around it. Its wooden entryways squeaked indeed without wind, and at night, unusual lights were some of the time seen glinting from its upper floors—despite no one living there for decades.
By Israquzzaman Ronyabout a year ago in Horror
The Watcher in the Walls . Content Warning. AI-Generated.
The Watcher in the Walls Mara’s mind was a fragile thing—fractured by grief, haunted by the unexplained disappearance of her twin sister, Laina, five years prior. When their grandmother’s Victorian estate fell to her through inheritance, she saw it as both a refuge and an experiment: maybe, just maybe, this dust-choked house held answers. Her first night, the house’s silence felt oppressive. Beneath the sigh of wind through rotten eaves, she heard something else: a soft, rhythmic tapping behind the plaster walls. Those walls, she remembered, had vignettes painted by Laina when they were children—twisted landscapes of black trees and eyes with no pupils. Shrugging off a chill, Mara blamed old pipes. Night two, she woke at precisely 3:06 a.m. Her breath caught in her throat. The tapping had changed—now a slow, pulsing heartbeat, a pressure against the other side of the wall. Her flashlight revealed nothing but decaying floral wallpaper. She closed her eyes. But behind her eyelids, she saw Laina—beckoning. (Suspense Beat) Later that evening, when Mara crept into the corridor with a single lit candle, the flickering flame stretched her shadow into an impossible silhouette that skittered ahead of her. With each step, the floorboards groaned like tortured sighs. She paused as the candle sputtered—then died. In the darkness, she felt a breath on her neck and heard the softest whisper: “You shouldn’t have come back.” The candle flashed again, and in that heartbeat of light, she saw fresh scratches gouged into the wall—tiny, childlike letters spelling “STAY WITH ME.” In the days that followed, Mara’s perception unraveled. She’d open a door to find the corridors rearranged. A room that should have been empty held Laina’s pink teddy bear, soaked and stained. Objects moved when she wasn’t looking; whispered breaths followed her down the hall. Sometimes, she could swear there were two sets of footprints on the dusty floor: one hers, and one slightly smaller. By the fourth night, she was living off coffee and panic. She taped the floor plan to a board, marking every shift, every scratch in the paint. Patterns emerged: each disturbance corresponded to the dates of her sister’s disappearance. On the anniversary, all night the house throbbed with voices whispering, "Come back, Mara… take me with you…" She pulled at her hair as though each strand might hold the secrets. Desperate for answers, she found an old journal hidden behind the bricked-up fireplace in the attic. Its brittle pages bore her grandmother’s spidery script. It recounted inexplicable tremors in the walls and sightings of a pale figure for generations, always on the night of a loss. Its name was only ever whispered: The Watcher. According to legend, it was neither spirit nor human, but a manifestation born from collective grief—feeding on tragedy to blur reality and dream. That night, Mara confronted the house. She set up recordings, cameras, EMF detectors—all the tools of ghost hunters, though she believed none of it. At 3:06, the walls pulsed with cold, and the house moaned. Her devices went haywire: temperature plunged, electromagnetic readings spiked, voices resonated in the static. Then she spoke into the darkness: > "Laina? If you’re here, show me where you are…" A single floorboard creaked behind her. She spun, seeing a shape in the doorway—tall, gaunt, eyes empty black voids. But it wore Laina’s face. The twin she remembered, only too wide and too still. Mara stepped forward, heart hammering. The figure raised a finger to its lips, a silent shush, and in that moment, Mara understood: The Watcher inhabited her dead sister’s shell, tethered by Mara’s own guilt. "Stop running," it whispered in a voice like wind through graves. "It’s your turn to watch." She felt the walls breathe against her skin. The line between her mind and the house dissolved. The Watcher knew every secret she’d locked away—the night she blamed herself for Laina’s disappearance, the dreams where Laina begged for release. Mara’s scream echoed through the empty halls as the figure melted into the plaster, eyes blazing black. She collapsed, and the cameras still recorded: a single tear carving a clean path through her powdered face. When the police arrived, they found the house locked from the inside. No sign of Mara. No footprints in the dust except one set—steady, unblinking, forever pacing the hallway, watching… waiting. (Twisted Ending) A week later, a fresh journal appeared behind the attic fireplace. The pages were blank—until a single line penned itself in familiar spidery script: "I’ve always been here, inside you—thank you for setting me free." In the final camera footage, just before the feed cuts, Mara’s reflection in the hallway mirror turns toward the lens, her lips curling into Laina’s crooked smile. Then she leans close and whispers: <center>“Now, it’s your turn to write the ending.”</center>The screen goes black.
By Chue Thandiwe about a year ago in Horror
Make It Make Sense
Verse I: Mumbo Jumbo "Please, sit and make yourself comfortable, as the reading will commence shortly." Two seats faced each other with a table in between, covered by a silky purple cloth pulled taut to remove any creases. Only an enchanted looking deck of cards sat on top of it, placed neatly beside a jeweled box where they probably came from.
By Leon Warczak about a year ago in Horror
The Wrong House
Bobbie and Robby were both burglars. Two young men who did nothing but steal from those more fortunate than them. You couldn't possibly justify theft, but in the minds of these two youngsters, they saw themselves as modern day Robin Hoods. Stealing from the rich, to give to the poor. Only the so-called "poor" in this story referred to only these two. They were brothers, Bobbie and Robby White were their names and the father of these two was called Toby. Perhaps his grandfather was called Coby or something like that. Believe me, the similar names were the only amusing thing about these two brothers. Both of them were (pardon my french) twats. Arrogant men who thought the world was out to get them, treating everyone like they were the enemy. In reality, it was these two crooks that were the villains. They had stolen from a total of 49 houses, apartments and even hotel rooms across the whole of New York City. At first the two of them had next to no money, by the time they were thieving in Manhattan, the brothers were positively rich, living like Kings. They should've stopped, of course they should have! Bobbie and Robby were far beyond lucky to get away with as much as they already had. Yet, these burglaries had become an addiction to them. The thrill of almost getting caught, of narrowly escaping with treasure worth hundreds, if not thousands of dollars was unlike anything else. It was daring and exciting, got your heart thumping wildly in your chest! There was nothing like this. No drugs, alcohol or natural feeling could match the adrenaline and risk that came with sneaking into a stranger's home, wearing black ski masks and leather gloves. Even if they were the richest men in the big apple, Bobbie and Robby would still be burglars, because no amount of money could buy anything that matched this strange high. Of course, just like with all criminals who get way too greedy; eventually they got clumsy, way too clumsy! One night in Queens, they chose to steal from the wrong house, one a psychotic killer lived in the darkness. Upon breaking into the house, they immediately smelt death, like rotting ham burger meat under a summer sun in Texas. "We should leave..." Bobbie whispered (he was the smart one). "No..." Robby shook his head, pressing forwards (he was the dumb one). Bobbie followed his brother with great hesitation and dread, this wasn't the usual thrill he felt when robbing houses. Tonight he was scared. Scared of the hideous stench of death, of course he only continued this robbery because of his stupid brother Robby. They both crept into the kitchen where the smell was coming from, Robby was the curious cat and curiosity killed the cat. The killer inside this house sprung out from a dark corner of the room, big, sharp kitchen knife in hand, he stabbed and murdered Robby within an instant. "Robby, no!" Bobbie cried, backing away from the knife wielding lunatic, whose knife was stained red with his brother's blood. The psycho began laughing, his teeth were mostly missing and they were black with rot. He stunk worse than hell itself. This man's clothes were stained a dark brown, like dried up gore. He hadn't washed in years (or so Bobbie thought). "You picked the wrong house!" The killer laughed maniacally, dancing with the knife, licking the fresh red liquid upon it like juice. Bobbie tried to defend himself as the killer dived towards him, knife slashing wildly. Bobbie didn't stand a chance, as his body was cut to pieces, he screamed, pleading for mercy. "Please mister!" He begged, "I'm so young, please don't kill me!" "This is the first time a curious cat came to me!" He giggled, "normally I have to hunt my victims down, this is a surprise to be sure... But a welcome one!" Then the killer sliced open Bobbie's throat. He died in his arms, eyes bulging in pure terror! At least the brothers both tasted delicious, the killer was a cannibal you see and ate their livers with a Salisbury steak.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Horror
Black Magic
Islamic Perspective on the Spiritual Threat of Black Magic Black magic, also known as dark magic or sorcery, is the use of supernatural powers for evil purposes. It involves calling on occult spiritual forces to cause harm, control other people, or manipulate circumstances for one's own benefit. This practice is common in a lot of different cultures all over the world, and it's often done behind closed doors, making it even more dangerous and terrifying.
By Niemur Hasan Durjoyabout a year ago in Horror
Shadows in the Sacred: The Haunted Legacy of Laos’ Ban Pak Ou Caves
The Spooky Past of Ban Pak Ou Caves, Laos Situated where the Mekong and Nam Ou rivers meet, 25 kilometers north of Luang Prabang, are the Ban Pak Ou Caves, a labyrinth of religious wonder and spooky legend. These caves' limestones—divided into Tham Ting (lower cave) and Tham Theung (upper cave)—are famous not only for the thousands of Buddha images but also for being two of the spookiest locations in Laos. Let us visit their diverse history and the ghostly stories surrounding them.
By Kyrol Mojikalabout a year ago in Horror
The Midnight Train and the Cemetery’s Shadow: A True Haunted Encounter That Still Haunts Us
It was the winter of 2001. My companion and I had traveled from our town to the area town for a few errands. The day went by speedier than anticipated, and by the time we come to the transport terminal to return, it was as of now night.
By Kevin Hudsonabout a year ago in Horror
The Thing in the House
Maya had always hated her grandmother’s old house. The place smelled like mothballs, forgotten memories, and something else... something rotten, hidden deep in the walls. But after her grandmother's funeral, she had no choice but to stay the night alone.
By Shakib Hossenabout a year ago in Horror
