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 Reflection in the Mirror
Lena leaned forward in her seat and stared through the windshield as the tires of the vehicle skidded across the gravel. Her father said, pointing to the large Victorian house between the trees, "There it is." Its once-white paint was chipped and peeling, vines coiled up the sides like green veins, and several windows stared out like lifeless eyes.
By Abu Rayhan Rupokabout a year ago in Horror
The Cab Ride
I stood near the edge of the curb waiting for the next available taxi to come take me back to my hotel. While I was out a little later than I intended to be exploring the sights of the city at night, I've been enjoying my trip to Tokyo, Japan.
By Jasmine Aguilarabout a year ago in Horror
The Quiet Apartment
It was ideal for someone starting from scratch. She told herself the creaks were normal, the dim hallway lights just old wiring. However, what gnawed at her was the silence. She had no idea who her neighbors were. Through the thin walls, there are no muffled voices or footsteps above. Not even a dog barking or a door slamming. Just… silence.
By sobuj chandra dashabout a year ago in Horror
My Best Friend Went Missing 10 Years Ago—Then He Walked Into My House Like Nothing Happened
It all began with a mysterious disappearance. No trace. No note. Not even a body. Just mystery. Ten years later, he’s back— As if nothing happened. Same voice. Same face. Same gestures. But I can’t shake the constant thought: Something is off. --- It was a slightly cloudy night when a knock on the door jolted me upright. My heart skipped. Who could that be? The clock read 9:47 p.m. Too late for casual visitors. Still in a haze, I crept to the door and peeped through the hole. I froze. I sucked in a sharp breath, eyes straining to make sense of the face outside. Am I seeing this right? That can’t be… So many questions. Not a single answer. My hand moved before my mind could catch up. I turned the doorknob. And there he was. Standing under the porch light like no time had passed. Jack. --- He brushed past me casually, like he'd been gone ten minutes, not ten years. My body tensed as he moved inside. No coat. No shoes wet from rain. No explanation. Just that same calm swagger, the familiar smirk, jet-black hair falling over his eyes. His clothes looked too clean. Pressed. Like he’d stepped out of a department store display. “Hi, Em,” he said. Same rasp in his voice. Smooth, but with that tiny scratch at the edge. But something… something was missing. Or maybe added. “Hi…” I barely managed, my voice cracking. Someone wake me up. Please. Over and over, I chanted it in my head. He sniffed the air and smiled. “What’s for dinner?” He turned before I could answer. “Cream pie? Could never miss that smell—not in this life.” Not in this life? --- I stood there, frozen. Watching him move like he belonged. He admired the paintings, the wallpaper, then stopped at a portrait on the wall. “You still have this?” I blinked. No. No, that hasn’t been there in years. I gave it away. I remember. But there it was. Hanging crookedly. I couldn’t even remember seeing it go up. Something inside me started to itch. He asked about school. About people. But his phrasing was… off. Names he shouldn’t forget. Places he shouldn't mix up. He asked if the old football coach was “still at the academy.” Jack never called it an academy. --- Then I saw a chance. “How’s Pete been?” I asked, voice even. He grinned. “Been great. Still out finding trouble, you know him.” I didn’t even breathe. Jack never had a brother. No Pete. No sister. No cousins close enough to call family. I didn’t correct him. I didn’t say a word. Because suddenly I wasn’t sure what I was talking to. --- As if summoned by my dread, the oven dinged. The pie was done. Before I could move, he was already there. He opened the oven like he knew where it was. Pulled the drawer. Took out a knife. My breath caught in my throat. My feet moved back instinctively. He saw me flinch. “Relax,” he chuckled, the sound hollow. “It’s just for the pie.” I watched his hand. He sliced with his left. Jack was right-handed. I remember. He used to make jokes about it—how “lefties are freaks.” His words. Not mine. I backed away slowly. And then I saw it. In the hallway mirror—he cast no reflection. None. Just the hallway behind him, undisturbed. --- I needed answers. I needed to be sure. I slipped out of the room, my heart hammering. I found the old photo album hidden on the shelf—the one with our memories. I flipped through it, my hands trembling. There was a picture of Jack and me, taken just a week before his disappearance. The same smile. The same familiar eyes. But as I flipped the pages, one particular photo caught my attention. A news clipping, yellowing at the edges: “Jack Ellis, presumed dead after vanishing under mysterious circumstances. Police find no trace of the teen in a river search.” I felt the room spin. This can’t be real. He can’t be here. He’s dead! --- Just as the thought hit me, the lights flickered above. Once. Twice. I rushed back to the living room. Jack—or whatever this thing was—hadn't moved from the kitchen. But something was wrong. His face had shifted. Not physically but his features seemed slightly ......stretched. The lines of his face were more sharp, and his eyes glinted unnaturally. The air grew colder, making me shiver. My phone buzzed in my pocket, but when I checked it, the screen was glitching. Words scrambled across the screen like a message was trying to form, but then it disappeared. I glanced back at him. His head tilted, almost like he was listening for something… or watching me. And then I noticed it. The faintest hum—almost like a low frequency I couldn’t hear, but could feel in my bones. He turned slowly toward me, eyes narrowing. “You look uncomfortable, Em. Is something wrong?”
By Gift Abotsi about a year ago in Horror
