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.

Someone Is Watching -Chapter 6
The rain had stopped entirely, leaving the city glimmering under the soft glow of streetlights. But inside the apartment, the only world that mattered was the one between Elena and Adrian.
By Rosalina Jane6 months ago in Horror
The Parked Car
"Someone needs to get out and push," I sigh, revving the engine again. "Fuck that. It's cold as hell," Rick argues, zipping up his coat for emphasis.
By Kera Hollow6 months ago in Horror
FEED ME SEYMOUR
Honestly, it’s a tragedy that my best friend hasn't seen the movie yet. I am at a crossroads, either I am about to ruin the whole plot, to rent it to them by the sword, or just to burst into flames spontaneously at the mere thought of having to maintain this masterpiece.
By TripleZ6 months ago in Horror
What the Lake Remembers. Content Warning.
The road to Harrow Lake didn't appear on any GPS. Colin had found the hand-drawn map tucked into the back of his grandfather's fishing journal, and he'd taken it as a sign.
By RC Adamson6 months ago in Horror
The Cure
The intensity was killing me. I woke to a thundering headache. My silent screams found no sympathy. I peeled my face from the sunken pillow soiled with saliva and droplets of blood from my tongue. I was alive. As I stretched out my limbs to awaken each muscle in my crumpled body, a strong smell hit my nose. Paris, 2022. A loud and flamboyant Gaultier scent. After I reminded myself how my body functioned, I stood up. Still wonky, and along with the flowery, fruity nose-fuck of that damn scent, there was a bitterness in the air. Bitter irony. Red blood cells with a dash of white and thick, unyielding plasma. My feet stumped and almost buckled when I stumbled through to the bathroom. A bottle of green liquid stared me down in the sanitised white ensuite. It called to me. Like a lover might call when it wants a taste, a tangle, a time spent well in your arms and twisted around your body. The neck fit my hand like a weapon, and as I swallowed the last of the toxin, my heartbeat hitched as I became fully awake. The cracked mirror refused to offer guidance or solace. Blood, red and a little white, traced along the imperfections. Bad dream? Nightmare? Clichés. All clichés. This was existence. As elevated as it was downtrodden. I cracked my fists. As each knuckle and joint shifted and rubbed raw against the others, my primal roar was felt. Unheard. Life felt borrowed. Carbon copied. Crude, deformed. Recognised as existence through persistence. Death refused. The malicious presence, as the green toxin coated my stomach, stronger than the acid. I felt whole and a hole. Where had the sanity... humanity drained? Clichéd clenched at my throat. Fuck. The toxin started to wear off quickly. My body needed more. Propped up by the tiled walls, I dragged my unwilling body—muscular but ineffective—through to the kitchen. From the window flashed a gunfight. A fire dance at twilight. An unopened bottle felt at home and offered a surge of normality momentarily as I sunk the sap-like serum. As I kicked the door to the night air open, bullets ripped through the air as smoke, death, and lead filled my lungs. My head spun round to meet a direct hit to my skull. My body twisted as I felt the punch connect but lose its impact. I retaliated, gripping one masked figure by the collar and yanking it toward my razor-sharp knee. A familiar crunch was felt. Unheard. They came in waves—dozens, human-shaped but twisted in their movements, masks glinting in the firelight. Each one fell to the force I carried, unable to withstand it. Inevitability. Radio bled through the chaos: “Enemy sighted. Green Plague identified. Target locked.” In vanity, they came. In tragedy, they’d leave. Footnotes. Tombstones. Remnants of the final stand. Plague? No. I am the cure. Unheard. Felt. Sharp metal twisted into me unexpectedly. My spine recoiled. But my venom coated the protrusion, and I grappled it, ripping it from my back. Blood glided through the air and hit the nearest wretched fools who dared to stand against me. Silent screams and molten masked faces took to their knees, doubled over, granted a less than merciful end. Soon the vicinity was motionless. The contorted and degraded remains of the neutralisation force had been bested. Serenity restored. I walked back in and sat in the kitchen. The reek of the vanquished—lead and bitter irony—filled the room. It was sanitised in green and white, offsetting the misery beyond the threshold, almost like dark satire. A tankard of blue toxin awaited me, and the kiss from a demon in red, with lips as soft as peach and serpentine teeth that arched a smile. "Are we free?" Her silky question echoed through my mind as she pressed her delightful and dangerous claws into my temples. I knew she longed for it. We both did. "The world is ours," was my response as we embraced. Our breaths mingled, saliva brushed, her body settling against mine. Lust, satisfaction, and victory punctuated our tryst. Nothing else mattered.
By Paul Stewart6 months ago in Horror
The Nuckelavee: The Skinless Terror of the Northern Seas
There are monsters that haunt the imagination… and then there are those that seem to rot it from within. Among the cold, wind-lashed islands of northern Scotland, whispered between storm and salt, lives one of the most grotesque entities ever conceived in folklore—the Nuckelavee. It is not merely feared. It is avoided in speech. Because to speak of it, even in legend, feels like inviting something to listen. A Creature Without Mercy The Nuckelavee originates from the Orkney Islands, a place where the sea is not a backdrop—but a living, breathing force. In such a landscape, myths are rarely gentle. And this creature is considered the most malevolent of them all, with no redeeming traits whatsoever. Unlike trickster spirits or misunderstood beasts, the Nuckelavee exists for one purpose: devastation. It does not bargain. It does not hesitate. It does not stop. Islanders believed it was responsible for plagues, droughts, and the slow collapse of entire harvests. Its presence alone meant suffering had already begun. The Horror of Its Form To understand the terror it inspires, you must first confront its appearance—if only for a moment. The Nuckelavee is often described as a grotesque fusion of man and horse. But this comparison fails to capture the reality. This is no elegant centaur. This is something entirely wrong. A horse-like body rises from the ground—but from its back sprouts a distorted, fleshless human torso. Its limbs are too long, its proportions unnatural, its movements disturbingly fluid. And then there is the detail that truly defines it: It has no skin. Muscles twitch in open air. Yellow veins pulse visibly. Black blood slides beneath exposed sinew. Its head—sometimes described as enormous, sometimes as malformed—features a single burning eye and a mouth stretched too wide, filled with something closer to tools than teeth. This is not a creature you see. This is a creature you endure. Breath of Decay But its cruelty is not limited to appearance. The Nuckelavee does not need claws to destroy you. It breathes. And that is enough. Its breath was believed to poison everything it touched—crops would blacken, livestock would sicken, and entire communities would fall into despair. Fields that once fed generations would rot overnight. Animals would weaken, collapse, and die without explanation. To the people of Orkney, this was not coincidence. This was the passing shadow of something unseen. The Sea’s Reluctant Masterpiece Though it roams the land in terror, the Nuckelavee belongs to the sea. It emerges from the depths—silent, inevitable—dragging with it the smell of decay and salt. Some stories suggest it pulls victims into the water, where death is slower, colder, and far more certain. Yet strangely, the sea does not fully claim it. Because even the sea fears what it has created. According to Orcadian belief, a powerful spirit known as the Mither of the Sea is the only force capable of controlling the Nuckelavee, keeping it imprisoned during certain times of the year. When that control weakens… the creature walks. A Fear That Shaped Behavior The Nuckelavee was not just a story. It was an explanation. In a world without modern science, where disease struck without warning and crops failed without reason, people needed something to blame—something to understand. The Nuckelavee became that explanation. A failed harvest? It had passed nearby. A sudden illness? Its breath had touched the land. A dry season? It had risen from the sea in anger. Even speaking its name was avoided. Islanders would whisper it, or follow it with prayers—just in case it was listening. Because what if it was? The Only Escape For all its power, the Nuckelavee has one weakness. Fresh water. It cannot cross it. A stream, a river, even a narrow flow of clean water is enough to halt its pursuit. There is a story of a man named Tammas, who encountered the creature and survived—not through strength, not through courage, but through desperation. He fled, reaching a stream just in time, escaping as the creature faltered at the boundary. It is a rare moment in these tales. Because most encounters do not end in escape. Origins in Fear and Reality The mythology of the Nuckelavee likely draws from a mixture of influences—Norse traditions, Celtic water spirits, and the harsh realities of island life. It shares similarities with creatures like the kelpie, yet stands apart in one critical way: It is not deceptive. It does not lure. It destroys openly. Some scholars suggest that such myths arose to explain environmental hardships—disease outbreaks, livestock epidemics, and unpredictable weather patterns. But explanation does not diminish fear. If anything, it deepens it. Because it means this creature was born not from imagination alone… but from suffering. A Monster Without Redemption Most myths offer balance. A lesson. A weakness. A hidden kindness. The Nuckelavee offers none. It is described as entirely evil—without a single redeeming quality. No bargains. No sympathy. No escape, unless you are lucky… or fast. It is the embodiment of things that cannot be reasoned with: disease, famine, and the slow collapse of life itself. Why It Still Haunts Us Even now, long after science has explained the plagues and droughts that once terrified the Orkney Islands, the Nuckelavee endures. Because it represents something deeper than folklore. It represents the fear of helplessness. The idea that something vast and merciless can rise without warning—strip the land bare, poison the air, and leave nothing behind but silence. And perhaps that is why it remains so haunting. Not because it is real. But because the feeling it embodies still is. Some monsters chase you. Some monsters hide. And some… like the Nuckelavee… simply arrive— and the world begins to die around you.
By E. hasan6 months ago in Horror
The Whisper in the Walls
Sarah moved into the Victorian-style house on the outskirts of Blackwood seeking silence, but the house had its own voice. It started as a rhythmic scratching behind the bedroom wallpaper, which she dismissed as mice. However, as the weeks passed, the sound evolved. It wasn’t the frantic clawing of a rodent; it was the slow, deliberate sound of fingernails dragging across wood, moving in sync with her footsteps as she walked down the hallway.
By Edge Words6 months ago in Horror
What happened ToThe Sodder Children?
In the early hours of Christmas Eve, 1945, a house fire devastated the Sodder family in Fayetteville, West Virginia. George and Jennie Sodder escaped with four of their children, but five others—Maurice, Martha, Louis, Jennie, and Betty—were never seen again. While local officials quickly labeled the fire an accident caused by faulty wiring, the Sodders spent the rest of their lives convinced that their children had been kidnapped and the fire set as a cover.
By Edge Words6 months ago in Horror
Someone Is Watching -Chapter 5
The apartment felt smaller than ever. Every shadow seemed to bend toward Adrian, every silence charged with the weight of his presence.
By Rosalina Jane6 months ago in Horror
The Calder House
Everyone in town knew you didn't look at the windows of the Calder house after dark. Not because of anything that had happened. Nobody could point to an event, a date, a name. It was older than that — the kind of knowing that lives in the body before it reaches the brain. Mothers corrected their children without knowing why. Teenagers dared each other and then, at the last moment, looked away. Even dogs crossed the street a full thirty yards before reaching the property line.
By Aarsh Malik6 months ago in Horror
The Report Said I’d Go Missing—And It’s Coming True
It started innocently enough. I was scrolling through a forum for missing persons—something morbid, but harmless, right? Then I saw it.
By Mariana Farias6 months ago in Horror
The Last Notification
The first notification came three nights after the funeral. 3:17 AM. I remember the time because I hadn’t been sleeping much. Grief does that—it turns your nights into long, hollow corridors where every thought echoes too loudly.
By Mariana Farias6 months ago in Horror