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 Eyes in the Walls
I paid little attention to the unusual groans and creaks the third level of the old building produced when I first moved into the apartment. After all, it was an old building—one that had seen better days. But there was something about it, something unsettling, that gnawed at me from the moment I stepped through the door.
By A S M Rajib Hassan Choudhuryabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Door
# The Last Door The basement door creaked as I pushed it open, the sound echoing in the empty house. My aunt and uncle's footsteps had faded minutes ago, their car pulling out of the driveway with promises to return before dark. At seventeen, I was finally deemed responsible enough to stay home alone—a rare privilege during my summer visits.
By A S M Rajib Hassan Choudhuryabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers of the Palasik
In a quiet village nestled between the misty highlands of West Sumatra, there lived an old healer named Mak Rina. Known for her midwifery skills and potions made from forest herbs, she helped many women during childbirth. But some whispered that she never aged… and that babies born near her hut often fell mysteriously ill — or vanished.
By Maulana Dimasiqi Akhnakhauri Akeyla Syahabout a year ago in Horror
The Curse of Hantu Kum-Kum
In the heart of Kalimantan’s thick rainforest, in a small Dayak village nestled by the banks of the Mahakam River, lived a midwife named Nek Tini. Known for her herbal knowledge and powerful mantras, she was both respected and feared. Rumors whispered that she once dabbled in black magic — using spells from the old days, when shamans would speak to spirits and sacrifice animals to keep peace between the worlds.
By Maulana Dimasiqi Akhnakhauri Akeyla Syahabout a year ago in Horror
Pathogen, Ch. 11
While Marnie was still reeling from shock, Julian leaned over the center console and took a peek out her window. A second later, he threw himself violently in the other direction, kicking open the passenger side door in the process. Marnie grimaced at the sound of him tossing his cookies onto the asphalt, but she couldn't blame him for it a bit. Honestly, it was all she could do to keep from tossing her own cookies. Tossing cookies felt like a very appropriate response to seeing a gore-covered zombie sitting in a pile of what used to be a person.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Horror
Tori
“Tori! Victoria!” I screamed, running down the dark, damp hallway. At least two feet of water had flooded in. From where, I didn’t know. Sharp raindrops stabbed at my skin, but in the hallway I knew that was impossible. I couldn’t think about that though. All I could think about was finding Tori. As I ran, I created little images in my mind of Tori; to be sure I could remember what she looked like. To be sure I would recognize her when I saw her. I felt certain she would find Tori behind the door at the end of the hall, if she ever made it there. But thinking like that never helps desperate situations so I replaced the thought with an image of Tori and I standing side by side, but the last time we’d been that close was almost two months ago, before Tori went missing. We look so much alike, Tori and I. I suddenly stopped, frozen.
By Evella Greyabout a year ago in Horror
The Midnight Caller
The phone would ring every night at midnight; nobody was ever on the other end. Up until one night, I answered. The first call arrived exactly one week following my arrival at the old Victorian on Maple Street. From the brink of sleep, a loud ring sliced through the nocturnal calm, shocking me. Fumbling in the dark, I responded groggily, "Hello?" only to be confronted with emptiness—not even the politeness of breathing or background sounds. just nothing.
By A S M Rajib Hassan Choudhuryabout a year ago in Horror
The last voicemail
I didn't realize the dead could leave voicemails. At least not until yesterday. At 3:17 a.m., my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but something about it felt odd. The ringtone sounded twisted, like if it came from underwater. I let it go to voicemail and attempted to go back asleep. I checked the message this morning. It was from my sister Maddie. A sister who died two years ago. Her voice was weak, but it was hers. "Ryan," she said quietly, "I don't have much time." It is freezing here. He monitors everything. Don't trust the lights. Then static. Then came quiet. I played it again. One hundred times. I checked the number. It's burned into my memory. I tried to call back. It did not exist. My hands couldn't quit shaking. Maddie died in a vehicle accident, which included a closed casket, a funeral, and grieving therapy. I witnessed the wreck personally. There is no going back from that. But this was her voice. I knew it like it was my own. I drove back to our hometown. The voicemail did not give me a choice. Maddie and I would sneak out to an old cabin in the woods behind our house, which we called "The Quiet." I hadn't been there since she died, but I found myself trudging down the path regardless, boots crunching in the frost and breath hanging in the air like ghosts.
By Mastura Islamabout a year ago in Horror
