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.
My Identity Delusion
There was only one rule: don't open the door. The problem with that was... I'm a rebel. If you tell me not to do something, I'll do it, just because you told me not to. Put a barrier up in front of me; watch me take a battering ram to it. I'm fiercely independent.
By Lightning Bolt ⚡2 years ago in Horror
Beautiful Death
Reynold Ford was both disturbed yet in awe to find the scene. It was of a garden, one filled with roses, violets, daisies, orchids and almost every other flower you could imagine. Featuring all colours of the rainbow, against lush greenery from the crisp grass and well trimmed bushes that surrounded it. There were the prettiest little plant pots he had ever seen, painted in rosy colours of red against orange. The sun shined nicely upon this little slice of heaven too, which had the gorgeous scent of fresh fruit emitting from all the nature that surrounded this small square of absolute bliss. However, there was one major problem with this single scene of affirmation and perfection; there was a dead body within the midst of it. There, laying dead, yet gently, as if in some eternal slumber of absolute peace, was the corpse of Shannon Carr. She was a beautiful lady, only 20 years old with long blonde hair that covered her nipples. She was entirely naked, yet her body was somehow perfectly preserved like the flowers around her had protected Shannon's body from decay. The dead woman had the most angelic face, her crystal clear blue eyes were still open, facing blankly into the abyss. The sight was like something out of the bible or a scene painted by the most talented artists within France or Italy. Someone had lain poor Shannon here like this, Reynold wasn't sure if she was murdered or died of natural causes, but the sight terrified him none the less. Somebody had put this scene together and must have only recently killed the poor angel. It was like a disturbing art exhibition, right in the middle of New York's Central park for all to see. Reynold had seen it first at 6am, but soon the whole police force would come to investigate and thousands of New Yorkers gathered to look upon this beautiful death. It was a bizarre sight, police men guarding a crime scene, where people were desperately trying to take pictures of a dead body. Something about that fact seemed so disturbing to the many detectives who investigated this case. Most crime scene photos are honestly grotesque and harrowing to see, but these ones were bloodless and the body wasn't bloated, green or even decayed. The woman suffered no bruising, cuts or scars. She was left completely untouched, as if her killer had taken great care into resting her here. In fact, there was no proof to suggest this even was a murder, but perhaps a public burial. One some detectives even dared to suggest, may have even been wanted by Shannon herself. CCTV footage found the culprit, they were busy from 2am til 4am, placing all the potted plants around Shannon's dead body, which they lay in the centre of this disgusting art display. It was evidently a man spotted on the surveillance footage, but he wore a black tuxedo and what appeared to be a fancy opera mask. The lunatic was dressed to the nines, creating this bizarre scene. It baffled detectives, who followed the 'killer' back to his limo, which drove out of the city, far away from all surveillance, as if knowing where to hide from police. However, not all hope was truly lost. As evidence mounted up, it became apparent that there was an operatic artist within the city itself, calling himself 'Belle Mort' which meant Beautiful Death in French. Of course, this asshat wasn't actually French, but from San Francisco. He had an art degree and told everyone he met about how important the arts were, even if people didn't want to hear it, he would spout about it endlessly, with the utmost pretentiousness. His art was quite unsettling yet magnificent. It all involved the cycles of life and death. One of his exhibitions consisted of several dead rats in glass boxes, all of which were shown in varying stages of decomposition. Another was a truly grotesque painting that he had done entirely within his own blood (supposedly), however the vivid red had dried into a horrid brown colour which resembled monkey feces thrown at a white wall. His art was of 'an acquired taste' as he so delicately put it. Belle's legacy was of narcissistic art pieces. Some of them genuinely were marvellous, but most were simply gross and very, very wrong. He expressed in his writing, that death is a beautiful end to life, that it is the closing credits of our very own movies, or the final page of the books that are our lives. Belle believed death was beautiful, truly. That it was far better to die young and full of life, than to eventually retire and crumble to dust from old age. When Detectives questioned him about the death in Central Park, he was so excited about the concept that he practically (although involuntarily) made it obvious that it was really him who was behind such a murder. Nobody else had expressed how magnificent a piece it was before Belle, as everyone else said the crime was horrendous. He was brought into an interrogation room for questioning and it was there where he straight up confessed to Shannon's murder! Belle exclaimed that Shannon would never be remembered without him, that she was just "another New Yorker before I made her a Martyr" and that "she'll now be remembered for centuries, because of moi" he said in that fake French accent. The sad reality, is that everything Belle expressed is unfortunately true to this day. Nobody would've known Shannon (outside of friends and family) if it wasn't for her murder. Nobody would've noticed her profound beauty, that not even she was aware of, if it wasn't for Belle. The sick artist had won, his 'artwork' was discussed worldwide and some unhinged internet corners dared to celebrate his 'creativity' as they so called it. Unfortunately for Belle Mort, but fortunately for us, he was given the death sentence in 2004, so his fame was short-lived. As the pretentious artist awaited his death behind bars, he wept like a baby, realising the horror of what he had done. Poisoning such a young and beautiful woman, ending her short, sweet life way too soon, it was only after the fact he realised what a monster he had become. The art piece was nothing but a cruel mockery, a spit in the face of those who loved the poor girl and the stolen dreams of a young soul who had a promising future that was actually bright! Oh how he wept and screamed in horror, realising what an absolute villain he was. Before he could be executed, other inmates on death row heard about Belle's crime and decided to speed things along. They all shanked him with broken glass shards, Belle was seen by prison guards, screaming for mercy and begging for help. However, the guards decided to neglect their duties and allow him to be tortured to death. They would all later say the incident happened too quickly for any of them to intervene. Yet, even the other prisoners would know they could've stepped in to help, they just chose not to. Not even the new guy stepped in, he too allowed that early death to happen. As everyone agreed, Belle deserved far worse than the lethal injection or electric chair. A monster like that didn't earn the respect of a dignified death, not after making a show of Shannon's corpse, purely for his own vanity, that was a sick and truly degenerate crime, one that many believed had been dealt with appropriately. After Belle Mort was killed, his body was nothing but bloody pulp and shredded prison rags. The man looked like a busted tube of red paint. His gore painted the floor in hideous shades of flesh, he had become a grotesque piece of art in of himself. When news broke out worldwide of his death, everyone was relieved to hear that such a despicable human being had finally been put down in the most agonising way possible. Ironically, Belle Mort's most remembered piece, was his own death.
By Joseph Roy Wright2 years ago in Horror
The Rest Stop
There was only one rule: don't open the door. It was unorthodoxed, the detour from the highway, landed me at a rest stop. It was dark, except for the door leading into the main building, and it had a light on and what appeared to be statues on the window sills.
By Gregory Payton2 years ago in Horror
The Midnight Slasher
For several years now, on the midnight of every month's end, a killer stalks the streets of New Orleans. One that strikes in the dark, within the most hidden corners of the city. He or she has never been caught. Not that police haven't tried to catch this mysterious killer, only they seem to slip the sights of Detectives alike. Whoever this stranger is, they are skilled and resourceful, someone who knows the law system a little too well, in order to escape it so easily. Many speculate it is a rogue police officer, taking up the role of a vigilante, as the killer only murders drug dealers, con artists and sometimes other killers. They are clearly someone who believes in a certain sense of lethal justice. They always use sharp blades, presumably because this is a silent weapon that is quick to slaughter. Only a small handful of survivors have faced this so-called 'Midnight Slasher' and lived to tell the tale. The following are three known encounters with this mysterious, deadly stranger.
By Joseph Roy Wright2 years ago in Horror
Door Of War. Content Warning.
There was only one rule: don't open the door. It was October 31st, the night of Halloween. I thought my friends were joking when they told me not to open it, because tonight was the night when friends played spooky jokes on each other, so unknown to them, I opened it anyway.
By Carol Ann Townend2 years ago in Horror
Scary stories :“When They Stole My Face: The Nightmare of a Man Without an Identity”
I wake up to the sound of rain tapping against the windows of the small studio apartment in Portland that I share with my wife, Amber. The faint smell of coffee grounds and mildew lingers in the air, along with a sour tang I can't place, but it turns my stomach. My phone lies dead beside me on the nightstand—strange, I could’ve sworn I plugged it in last night. I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and the ache in my muscles feels deeper than it should, like I’ve been lying still for days. Yesterday's clothes cling to my skin with the stale scent of sweat, as if I’ve worn them for too long. The clock reads 10:42 a.m. I never sleep this late on a weekday. A cold dread creeps in as I stumble out of bed. My car keys aren’t on the hook by the door, and my laptop is missing from the desk. I shuffle towards the kitchen, every step heavy as though my body’s forgotten how to move. As I round the corner, I see our dog, Baxter, standing stiff in the middle of the room. His tail is low, hackles raised, lips curled back to show his teeth in a way I’ve never seen before.
By atamna youssouef2 years ago in Horror
