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 Last Train to Nowhere (part 2)
Night fell once more, thick and smothering, as Julia Parker returned to that forsaken station. Determination clenched her jaw; the whispers from the previous night had stirred something—something primal, an itch she couldn't scratch. She needed answers. For her story? Yes, but also for herself. The air tonight was sharp, biting through her coat, as if the station had come alive to meet her, ready to unveil its secrets. The platform loomed in silence, the kind that suffocates. Moonlight spilled through shattered windows, distorting shadows into twisted forms that danced mockingly. Julia gripped her flashlight. Its beam sliced through the dark, trembling slightly in her unsteady hand. With deliberate steps, she approached the ticket booth, the one that looked like a hollowed skull in the moon’s eerie glow. But tonight was different. She wasn’t just here to explore; she was hunting—hunting the sounds of the phantom train that had eluded her before. With her notebook clutched tightly, she retraced her steps to the waiting room. Last night’s whispers had clung to these walls, seeping into every crack. Now, the air inside felt heavier, pressing on her like an unseen hand. She began writing, scratching words into the notebook, trying to capture the unease that prickled along her spine. And then, it came—the whistle. Low, mournful, drifting through the station like a ghostly sigh. She froze, pen suspended in midair. There it was again, unmistakable, echoing from... where? Nowhere. Everywhere. Her pulse quickened. The room remained still. Dust hung in the air, caught in the flashlight's beam. Her breath hitched, forming small clouds that mingled with the stagnant air. No, she wouldn’t cower. Not tonight. She had to find it—the source, the key to this mystery. With a resolute step, she moved toward the platform, the whistle now louder, more insistent, threading through the night’s silence. Coldness wrapped around her like a shroud as she stepped onto the platform. A chill dug into her bones, and she gasped. Ahead, a faint flicker—a light. It glowed in the distance, winking in and out, like the eye of some distant beast. A train’s headlamp? It must be. But how? She pressed forward, steps slow, cautious. Gravel crunched beneath her boots, muffled, as if the earth itself tried to swallow the sound. The light grew, filling her vision. Metal clanked, a rhythmic, haunting clatter. She was close, so close. And then—blackness. The light blinked out, snuffing everything into darkness. She stopped, heart hammering in her chest. Silence crashed over her, the train's echoes fading to nothingness. She stood there, shivering, the cold seeping through every layer of fabric. That feeling again—of eyes, unseen but everywhere, watching. She forced herself to breathe, one shaky inhale after another. There had to be more. There *was* more. Julia edged to the platform’s rim, her gaze tracing the rusted rails that snaked into the night. And then, a soft glow—there! At the far end, a lantern swayed. She spun around, light skittering across the platform to reveal him: the conductor. An old-fashioned uniform, sharp-edged in the lantern's glow. Brass buttons gleamed, a relic from a forgotten age. His face? Obscured. Shrouded in shadow, yet undeniably *there*. The sight rooted her to the spot, a strange mix of terror and fascination binding her limbs. The conductor stood still, lantern raised, casting a wavering pool of light. Shadows stretched and recoiled around him, alive, dancing in twisted arcs. Julia’s throat tightened. This station, this place of decay and whispers—it was more than haunted. It was inhabited. She took a step forward, her flashlight trembling in her grasp. “Hello?” The word cracked in the air, brittle, uncertain. “Are you... real?” Silence. The conductor didn't respond. No nod, no motion. Just the slow, deliberate raising of his lantern as he began to walk. His steps, measured, echoing through the void. Julia hesitated but found herself trailing behind, curiosity blazing stronger than fear. A rhythmic clanking resumed, distant yet clear, as though an invisible train matched their pace. The platform stretched endlessly, her breath fogging the air. The conductor marched on, lantern swaying like a hypnotist's pendulum. They approached a curve, rails disappearing into shadowed gloom. He stopped, turning. She couldn’t see his face, but she felt his gaze pierce her, through flesh, bone, soul. “Why are you here?” Her voice barely escaped her lips, trembling, as if caught in the same icy grip that clutched the air around them. “What do you want?” He didn't answer. Only lifted the lantern again, signaling her forward. With slow, deliberate steps, he walked to the platform's edge, where the tracks vanished into the infinite dark. Julia followed, every nerve screaming at her to turn back. But she couldn’t. The whistle. It rose again, piercing, filling her head with its mournful wail. She glanced back, searching, expecting—nothing. Tracks lay bare, empty, and yet the sound... it surged, louder, closer. The conductor halted, lantern held high as if peering into the abyss. And then, darkness. His lantern snuffed out, plunging everything into pitch-black void. Julia gasped, heart leaping to her throat. The conductor? Gone. Vanished like smoke in the wind. Only the whistle lingered, echoing, receding into the void. Panic flooded her veins. She turned, stumbling back toward the station. Her footsteps rang out, erratic, mismatched. The waiting room loomed ahead, its mouth wide and waiting. She glanced back, one last look at the platform. Whispers flared up again, softer now, mingling with the dying whistle. No. She wasn’t done here. This encounter, this ghostly figure—it was a mere glimpse into something far more sinister, a fragment of a larger, darker puzzle. Julia swallowed hard. The phantom conductor had led her to the edge of the unknown. And that edge? It stretched on, inviting, daring her to step forward. The last train to nowhere wasn’t just a haunting. It was an invitation. And she was just beginning to understand.
By Black Rose2 years ago in Horror
The Last Train to Nowhere (part 1)
The moon hung low, sagging like a tired old lantern in the night’s cloak. Silver light spilled across the railway platform, once alive with the din of trains and hurried passengers. Now? A ruin. Cracked tiles lay scattered like ancient bones, walls crumbling under years of neglect, windows shattered into jagged teeth. Weeds, the only tenants, poked defiantly through gaps in the concrete. Wind whipped around corners, rustling leaves, sending them skittering like frantic mice. Julia Parker stepped off the last bus, its red taillights vanishing into the blackness. Her footsteps echoed—a lonely sound swallowed by the vast emptiness. Cold air bit at her, seeping through her coat. She pulled it tighter, eyes scanning the station. There was something about this place, a strange allure mingled with foreboding, that had called to her. As a writer of horror, she thrived in places where shadows whispered secrets. This station had stories; she could feel them. The ticket booth stood nearby, a hollowed shell cloaked in darkness, resembling some skeletal sentinel. Julia approached, flashlight in hand. Its beam cut through the dark, casting wavering, ghostly shadows. She hesitated at the threshold, the grip of anxiety squeezing her gut, then pushed forward. Her boots crunched on debris—broken glass, splintered wood, decayed memories. Somewhere within, a chill slithered up her spine. Ahead stretched the platform, an endless ribbon swallowed by night, her flashlight the only point of light. Click, clack, click—her steps echoed, mocking her solitude. Then, a sound. Soft. A murmur, like distant whispers carried on a breeze. She froze, ears straining. Whispers? Yes, unmistakable. They fluttered, faint, melodic, calling from... the waiting room? Julia shivered. The air grew colder. She was here for inspiration, and the station wasn’t disappointing. She turned toward the waiting room, its entrance gaping like a mouth in the gloom. A hollow breath caught in her throat. Curiosity nudged her forward. Step by step, each one louder than the last, she approached. Inside, the waiting room stretched out—a cavern of decay. Benches, once painted green, now flaked and grayed, lined the walls. Dust hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of mold. Her flashlight flickered, painting eerie patterns on the walls. The whispers swirled around her now, growing louder, clearer—but still, elusive. Fragments of words clawed at her senses. “Help us… Waiting… The end...” The voices wove in and out, floating through the air like cobwebs. She spun around, heart hammering. Coldness pressed against her, a presence that made her skin prickle. Someone—or something—was here, watching. And then, darkness. Her flashlight sputtered and died. Panic surged, clawing at her chest. Julia fumbled, hands shaking, mind racing. The whispers crescendoed, encircling her like a mist of voices, pleading, threatening, echoing. “Help... Waiting… The end…” No! The flashlight! She banged it against her palm, desperate. Light flared back, piercing the blackness. The whispers ceased, silence roaring in their absence. She gasped for breath, eyes wide, scanning the room. Nothing. Just broken benches, sagging walls, and dust. But the feeling lingered. She wasn’t alone. It pressed on her, that sense of unseen eyes. Holding the flashlight out like a weapon, she edged toward a door leading back to the platform. The hinges creaked, a screech that sent chills through her. Outside, the platform lay bathed in moonlight, unnaturally bright, almost blinding. Tracks stretched on, vanishing into the endless night. Julia moved cautiously, each footfall swallowed by the gravel beneath. A sound—low, mournful—floated to her ears. A whistle? Yes, but from where? There was no train, no sign of life. Only the stillness. She walked on, heart pounding. The whispers started again, weaving through the air, now with an undercurrent of a soft, distant whistle. Shivering, she glanced around. Locals said this station was haunted; she had laughed it off. But now, standing here, cold sweat slicking her skin, she wasn’t laughing. At the platform’s edge, she noticed something odd—two rusted signs buried halfway in the dirt. One read: “Nowhere.” The other: “Eternity.” She stared, pulse quickening. What kind of place was this? A joke? A warning? The words seemed to mock her. Suddenly, the sound of an approaching train roared into the stillness. She spun around, heart lodging in her throat. Down the tracks, a shadow moved—no, a figure! She blinked, peering harder. Nothing. Only the whispering wind, the dark tracks stretching on. Had she imagined it? The whistle blew again, louder, insistent. Julia stumbled back, cold realization sinking in. She stood at the precipice of something vast, unknowable. The whispers faded, leaving only a pounding dread. This wasn’t just inspiration; it was... something else. With a final glance at the dark expanse, she turned and fled back toward the station, her footsteps an erratic beat against the gravel. The whispers followed, haunting, receding into the night as she hurried away. The last train to nowhere wasn’t a mere story; it was a grim reality lurking just beyond the veil of her understanding.
By Black Rose2 years ago in Horror
Murmurs in the Haze
**Title: Murmurs in the Fog** The night draped weighty over the little seaside town of Havenbrook. The fog came in from the ocean, twisting like spooky fingers around the light posts and the old Victorian houses that lined the cobbled roads. It was a calm evening, save for an intermittent cry of a far off seagull or the delicate lap of waves against the rough shore. Be that as it may, something different waited in the air — something cold, something… disrupted.
By MD. Sultan Mahmud2 years ago in Horror
THE MIRROR'S GAZE
Amelia had always been drawn to the charm of old things. The scent of aged wood, the intricate designs that spoke of a time long past, and the stories that seemed to whisper from every corner of an antique shop. It was on one such visit to a quaint little store nestled in a forgotten alley that she found it—the mirror.
By Ryan Ebakor 2 years ago in Horror
The Last Door
The house on Wren Street sat in perpetual silence, its darkened windows hiding secrets older than the town itself. People spoke of it in murmurs, casting sidelong glances as if even mentioning it could bring ill luck. Whispers swirled: some said it was haunted; others, that it carried a curse. But nobody really knew. It was just there, a place where the air felt thicker, heavy with unseen eyes. And the shadows? Well, they had a life of their own. Samantha wasn't one for tales. No, she was rational, grounded, the kind who demanded evidence before entertaining such fancies. So, when she inherited the house from her late aunt, she dismissed the stories. To her, it was an opportunity. Sure, it was an ancient structure, but perhaps it could be transformed into something useful—a quaint bed-and-breakfast, maybe. People loved a bit of history, didn’t they? The day she arrived, the sky was a blanket of steely gray. Cold seeped into her bones as the wind gusted through the gnarled trees lining the property, almost as if the land itself wished to warn her. With keys gripped firmly in her hand, she approached the rusty gate. It groaned, protesting as she pushed it open. The house loomed ahead, a looming silhouette against the bleak horizon. Inside, the air was stale. It tasted of dust and decay, as if time itself had rotted away within these walls. Cobwebs hung in thick sheets, veiling every corner. It’s just a house, she reminded herself, her voice echoing in the vast emptiness. She flicked the light switch. A dim, flickering glow stretched down a narrow hallway, lined with doors on either side, each one ancient, worn. As she explored, moving room to room, something odd caught her eye. At the far end of the hallway stood a door that didn’t belong. It was stark, freshly painted in an unyielding black, contrasting sharply with the faded, peeling wallpaper. Frowning, she traced its frame with her fingertips. Why was this door so… new? Had her aunt renovated? And if so, why just this door? It was locked. She rattled the handle, but it held firm. Irritation prickled at her thoughts. This is my house now. What could possibly be behind a door I’m not allowed to open? She spent the next hours searching every crevice—the kitchen drawers, the attic’s dusty corners, the closets crammed with relics of a forgotten past. No key. A tight knot of unease twisted in her stomach. A door, in her house, that she couldn't open? Why? Night crept in, bringing with it a thick silence. As Samantha settled into one of the upstairs bedrooms, an unnerving sensation washed over her. The feeling of being watched. Outside, the wind howled, causing the house to moan and creak in response. Just as sleep began to tug at her eyelids, a sound pierced the quiet. Thud. Pause. Thud. Again, it came from the hallway. Her pulse quickened. Grabbing the flashlight beside her, she edged out of bed. Darkness swallowed the hallway, an abyss that seemed almost… sentient. Slowly, she crept toward that black door. Thud. Thud. The sound grew louder, more insistent. "Hello?" she called, her voice wavering. Silence answered, except for the steady, rhythmic pounding. Trembling, she reached out and touched the door. The noise stopped. Cold dread washed over her, rooting her feet to the spot. It’s just an old house. Nothing more. Yet, as she turned away, a sharp click echoed through the hallway. She spun back, heart hammering against her ribs. The door knob was twisting, moving on its own. Panic surged, freezing her limbs. It turned slowly, deliberately, until the door creaked open, revealing a sliver of yawning darkness. Don't. Every fiber of her being screamed to run. Yet curiosity, that insidious lure, pulled her forward. She pushed the door open wider. A rush of frigid air hit her face, carrying with it the scent of damp earth. Flashlight in hand, she stepped into the room. It was small. Windowless. And at its center stood a single object: a tall, ornate mirror encased in a cracked, decaying frame. Dust cloaked its surface, thick as if untouched for centuries. She approached, a sense of wrongness prickling along her skin. Just as her hand reached out to wipe the glass clean, she saw it. A shape within the mirror, a faint, undulating shadow. She froze. No one else is here. No one. But the shadow moved, turning, twisting, until its hollow eyes locked onto hers. A scream died in her throat as she stumbled back, dropping the flashlight. It clattered to the floor, rolling away. A whisper filled the air, low and chilling. "The door was meant to stay closed." The door slammed shut with a thunderous crash, sealing the room—and whatever lay within—behind it. Samantha staggered back, heart in her throat. The door stood firm, mocking her with its impenetrable barrier. She fled to her room, locking herself inside. Pressing her back against the door, she tried to steady her breathing. But one thought pounded in her head, relentless: Some doors should never be opened. This was one of them. From that night on, the house on Wren Street was not silent. For every evening, as darkness settled in, the rhythmic thudding would begin behind The Last Door. And Samantha would lie awake, eyes wide in the dark, haunted by the sound that seemed to echo from the depths of a nightmare she dared not revisit.
By Black Rose2 years ago in Horror
Wade. Content Warning.
Well, I finally arrived here, at my brother's hometown, it's very late at night. They had been expecting me, and while Wade's wife and their young daughter would be long asleep by now, Wade was a night-owl like me, and would be happy to wait up.
By Karen Cave2 years ago in Horror
To My Big Brother. Content Warning.
March 3rd I always kind of hated my brother. Well, hate is a strong word. I just always hated how easy everything was for him. He's two years older than me, but everything just comes so easily for him. In high school, he was in ROTC, taking courses in criminal justice so he could get a leg up on his law enforcement career, and had a string of friends and girlfriends to make his high school years amazing. He never seemed to study, always retained what he needed for tests, and finished his high school years half a year early with a nearly perfect GPA. He didn't need to, he could have gone straight to the police academy, but he chose to join the Army for four years, saying it was his "duty to his country. He served as an MP and later as a base investigator for base-related crimes. He was practically ready to start police work when he got out.
By Joshua Campbell2 years ago in Horror
The Call of Darkness
That night the woodland was unusually quiet, as though not even the animals dared to break the stifling silence. Maya gripped her lantern firmly and continued walking deeper into the forest, the soft ground beneath her boots muted her every step.
By MD. RAFIQUL ISLAM MURAD 2 years ago in Horror
The Ghost Of Cooper Path
During the previous century, a dirt path off the main local road served local horse loving teenagers with a recreational friendly trail riding outlet. Most time, youths were safe in the same way a swimmer would be in water a few feet deep. But one afternoon. following an immature argument about boys, Hollow whose Hungarian bloodline sometimes ended up as a curse, separated herself from the informal pony club group, leaving the pack, wanting to go home.
By Marc OBrien2 years ago in Horror
First Date. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
First Date It had been months since Laura had agreed to go on a date. Skeptical of online dating, she meticulously scrutinized every profile, every message. So when she matched with Ethan, a seemingly normal guy with a love for hiking and an infectious smile, she decided to give it a shot. They agreed to meet at an old diner on the outskirts of town—quaint, quiet, and perfect for a first date.
By Audrey Rose2 years ago in Horror
