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.
Discovering the Themes in Tales of Mystery & Suspense by Tomas One
Tomas One’s Tales of Mystery & Suspense isn’t just another crime novel—it’s a deep, disturbing exploration of identity, trauma, and corruption. The story grips you with its twists, pulls you into the tangled lives of its broken characters, and never lets go. Through figures like Lorcan Davies, obsessed with collecting gnomes, and the manipulative Sir John Stephenson, we’re taken on an unsettling journey where choices haunt, and morality is never black and white.
By covard williamabout a year ago in Horror
Pathogen, Ch. 10. Content Warning.
A set of knuckles rapping sharply on her window jolted Marnie from a deep, dreamless sleep. For a second, she forgot where she was, until she saw Julian snoozing in the passenger seat beside her. The moment she laid eyes on him, everything that had happened the night before came rushing to the front of her mind like a flash-flood. Apparently he was a pretty heavy sleeper, as he hadn't been awakened by the knocking like her.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Horror
The Devil’s Ledger: Blood Ink and Broken Oaths
No one remembered when the book first appeared in the church’s library. Bound in cracked, black leather and sealed with a tarnished silver clasp, it didn’t belong in St. Bartholomew’s. The old cathedral in the center of town was more accustomed to dusty hymnals and yellowed scripture—not ominous tomes that seemed to breathe when touched, or shift ever so slightly when left alone. Father Merrin found it wedged between the Psalms and the Book of Lamentations—a cruel irony, he’d later think. At first glance, it looked like a forgotten relic. No title. No author. Just a spine with faded crimson stitching and an unsettling weight, as if it bore not pages, but burdens. When he opened it, the air changed—grew colder. Heavy. There were names written on every page in a script that bled like wet ink, though no pen had touched the parchment. Some names were ancient, written in forgotten tongues. Others were disturbingly familiar—names of townsfolk. Names of people who had vanished without a trace. Then came the last page. Blank, save for a single etched line: “One promise. One price. One place in the ledger.” --- Julian Voss noticed the change long before he ever saw the book. He had been living above the church since the fire. His bookstore, reduced to ash in a blaze the fire marshal called "unnatural"—a word they later scrubbed from the report. All that survived the flames was a scorched brass key shaped like a devil’s head. A key Julian didn’t remember owning… but kept anyway. After the fire, the dreams began. A figure made of smoke and shadow, flickering like a dying candle. Always asking the same question in a voice like rusted chains: “What did you promise, Julian?” He didn’t remember making any promises. But deep down, some part of him—the part he refused to listen to—believed otherwise. The dreams led him to the sanctuary one storm-wracked night. Thunder cracked. The candles had long since blown out. Yet the altar glowed. And the book was open. --- Julian approached slowly, heartbeat echoing in the silence. As he neared, he saw it—his name, freshly scrawled in thick red ink that hadn’t dried. Julian Voss. His throat went dry. He reached to tear the page, but the book pulsed beneath his fingers—warm and alive, like flesh. It wouldn’t let him. Then it whispered. Not in words, but through sensation—memories he didn’t remember. Screaming in the smoke. The smell of burning paper. Pleading with someone in the dark, “I’ll do anything... just take it back.” And someone had. “One promise. One price. One place in the ledger.” Julian staggered back, the book’s glow crawling up his arms like vines. He fell to his knees, and that’s when he noticed the margins—faint scratches barely visible under the blood-red script. Confessions. Scrawled in desperation. Ragged, frantic. Some in Latin. Some in symbols. Some barely legible. But one stood out, etched deeper than the rest: “The only way out is to take a name out... or add another.” --- The next morning, the book was gone. Father Merrin never saw Julian again. But the front door was left ajar, rain pooling on the floor. Footprints—bare, muddied—led out into the woods behind the chapel... and stopped. As if the walker had vanished mid-step. The townspeople whispered. About a shadow in the bell tower. A figure glimpsed in the mirror when no one else was there. The name Julian Voss, scratched into the underside of pews, appearing on windows in condensation. --- Years later, the book reappeared. Not in the church—but buried beneath the rubble of a courthouse fire three states away. Unburnt. Unmarked. Humming softly when touched. A new name had been added in blood. And just beneath it, a single word written in that same haunting, half-faded hand: “Forgive me.” --- They say every soul has a price. The question is: when the Devil sends the bill… whose name will you write to save your own?
By Gift Abotsi about a year ago in Horror
Midnight Souls: A Love That Wasn’t Meant to Be. AI-Generated.
Under the flickering moonlight, two hearts found each other - but their souls told a different story. In the quiet and foggy town of Elmsbridge, midnight is like a long dream, and an extraordinary story that transcends the laws of time, memory and even the soul unfolds.
By Fusion Tales about a year ago in Horror
A Scary Ghost Story
The Shadows That Whisper Ella moved into the old, creaky house at the edge of town on a cold October night. The kind of house that looked like it had been abandoned for a long time, hidden behind overgrown trees and a gate made of rusty iron. But she didn't care because it was perfect for her because it was quiet, private, and away from the city's noise. The first few days were overly tranquil. Ella spent her time settling in, exploring the house, and unpacking. An eerie atmosphere was created by the dim light filtering through the dusty windows, the walls sighed from the wind, and the floors creaked beneath her feet. But she didn't start noticing strange things until the fifth night. It began with a faint whispering in the dark. She initially attributed it to the house shifting or to the wind blowing through wall cracks. But as they got louder, the whispers became obvious. "Help me..." With a pounding heart, Ella froze in her bed. She told herself it was just her imagination. However, the whispers persisted, becoming increasingly distinct and desperate. They came back every night at midnight. She tried to ignore them and sleep through the numbing shivers, but the sound was always there, sneaking into her dreams and staying with her even when she was asleep. Ella couldn't take it anymore one night. She ventured into the basement of the house, the location of the whispers, armed with a flashlight and trembling hands. The stairs creaked under her weight, each step echoing in the thick silence. The air was damp and suffocating at the bottom, and the shadows ran unnaturally along the walls. She noticed a faded door that was half hidden behind a pile of old furniture as she reached the far corner of the basement. The whispers were louder now, as if calling her, pleading for her attention. Ella took a deep breath before opening the door. Her blood froze as she discovered what was inside. The only thing in the room was a worn-out rocking chair in the middle, which was small and empty. However, the person seated in the chair, not the chair itself, was what frightened her. a pale, gaunt woman whose face was obscured by her long, tangled hair. She murmured to herself as she rocked back and forth with her bony fingers clenching the chair's arms. “Please… help me…”
By Writer Johnabout a year ago in Horror
Might night horror story
Sur **"The Reflection"** It was supposed to be just another antique mirror—one of many Ellie had collected over the years. She found it in a dusty little thrift shop tucked between two boarded-up storefronts in a forgotten part of town. The frame was ornate, with twisted vines carved into the wood and faded silver inlay. The shop owner, an old woman with clouded eyes, gave Ellie a strange look as she rang up the purchase.
By MD SAKIL AHMEDabout a year ago in Horror
Belief in The International Space Station
There is no noise in space. No shouts, no footsteps, no echoes of explosions—just silence that penetrates the soul of a person. The International Space Station (ISS) was silent even on the day when everything was breaking down beneath the Earth.
By The Content Crafterabout a year ago in Horror
The Curse of the Jungle
The jungle stretched for miles, a vast and untamed wilderness. The trees towered like ancient guardians, their twisted roots enshrouding the earth in a maze of mystery. Amidst the dense foliage and eerie silence, a lone figure moved with purpose. Her name was Samara, and she was no ordinary girl...
By Md Bulbul Ahammedabout a year ago in Horror
