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.
In the Swamp of the Night:An Anatolian Jinn Wedding. Content Warning.
I. The Frog Hunter in the Dark In a remote village of Anatolia, there lived a young man who made his living by catching frogs. His name was Ismail. Since his childhood, he and his father would go to wetlands and swamp edges at night to catch frogs, then take them to town to sell.
By Bülent ORTAKCİ10 months ago in Horror
Whispers in the Hospital Ward:. AI-Generated.
The hospital ward was quiet at night. Machines hummed softly, monitors blinked, and the faint fragrance of antiseptic lingered in the air. Patients slept in their beds, nurses moved silently from room to room, and the world outside seemed far away. Yet in that silence, whispers began to rise—faint, fragile, but impossible to ignore.
By The Writer...A_Awan10 months ago in Horror
The Snow Outside Never Stopped. AI-Generated.
Elias Rowe hated winter, not because of the cold, but because winter remembered things he tried to forget. His cabin sat deep in the northern woods, isolated by design. No neighbors. No roads once the snow piled high enough. Just trees, silence, and the slow ticking of time inside his head.
By shakir hamid10 months ago in Horror
The Snow That Knows Your Name. AI-Generated.
The first snow fell too early that year. In Hollowridge, winter was expected to arrive slowly — teasing the town with frost before committing. But this time, it came overnight. By morning, rooftops were buried, roads erased, and the forest surrounding the town stood frozen in a thick white silence.
By shakir hamid10 months ago in Horror
Underskin. Content Warning.
There’s something under my skin. I feel it moving there, sometimes. Squiggling like a maggot flailing in a bird’s mouth. Slowly, it works its way from place to place, and my fingers writhe with its passage; the passing of a slug leaving rot along its wake.
By I. D. Reeves10 months ago in Horror
Something Knocks After Midnight
The knocking started after midnight, which is how I knew it wasn’t normal. Normal sounds belong to daylight. Footsteps, doors, voices. Even the house itself has a language you learn over time—the sigh of cooling pipes, the tick of wood contracting, the occasional complaint from an old foundation. These sounds have rhythm. They repeat. They make sense. This did not. Three slow knocks. Not loud. Not urgent. Considerate. As if whoever—or whatever—was on the other side understood the concept of manners. I lay in bed, counting my breaths, waiting for my brain to offer an explanation it could live with. Wind. Branches. A neighbor who’d lost their way. The house, playing tricks. Three knocks again. Same tempo. Same spacing. Patient. The sound came from the front door. I didn’t move. There is a particular paralysis that comes with being awake enough to recognize danger but tired enough to doubt yourself. I told myself that if it knocked a third time, I would get up. It knocked a third time. I sat up slowly, every instinct screaming that doors are thresholds for a reason. I didn’t turn on the lights. Light feels like confidence, and I didn’t have any to spare. I walked barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards cold and unhelpful beneath my feet. The peephole showed nothing. No shape. No shadow. Just the warped reflection of my own eye, wide and unbelieving. I almost laughed. That was when the voice spoke. “I know you’re home.” It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It sounded close to the door, close enough that I imagined breath touching the wood. The voice was calm, familiar in a way that made my skin tighten. “Please,” it said. “It’s cold out here.” I recognized the voice then. It was mine. Not a recording. Not a trick of memory. It carried the exact cadence I used when I was tired, when I was trying not to sound afraid. Every inflection was perfect. I backed away from the door. “No,” I said, and hated how small it sounded. The voice sighed, just like I did when patience ran thin. “You always do this,” it said. “You always hesitate at the worst moments.” Three knocks. I stumbled back down the hall and locked myself in the bedroom, heart racing, mind scrambling for rules. Monsters follow rules. That’s what stories teach us. If I could just identify them, I could survive. Don’t invite it in. Don’t answer questions. Don’t open the door. Simple. The knocking moved. It came from the bedroom door. Three slow knocks. I pressed myself into the corner, phone clenched uselessly in my hand. No missed calls. No notifications. No comfort there. “Why are you hiding?” my voice asked from the other side. “You do this every time something wants you to change.” I clamped my hands over my ears. It didn’t help. The voice wasn’t traveling through sound. It was inside the room, inside my chest, vibrating against thoughts I’d worked hard to bury. It knew things—specific things. Regrets. Pauses. The exact moment I’d chosen safety over truth, silence over confrontation, comfort over honesty. “You could’ve been more,” it said gently. “You still can be. Just open the door.” The handle rattled once. Not violently. Testing. I screamed then, a raw sound that surprised me with its volume. The knocking stopped. Silence flooded the room, thick and oppressive. Minutes passed. Maybe hours. I didn’t move. Eventually, exhaustion won. Fear fades when the body demands rest. I woke to sunlight. Morning had no memory of the night. Birds sang. Cars passed. The house returned to its usual, harmless noises. I laughed shakily and told myself what everyone tells themselves after surviving something unexplainable. Stress. Dream. Imagination. I went about my day. That evening, I found the note. It was on the kitchen table, written in my handwriting. You didn’t let me in last night. My stomach dropped. That’s okay, the note continued. I’ll try again when you’re weaker. I burned the paper in the sink, watched the words curl and blacken, disappear into ash. That was weeks ago. The knocking hasn’t returned—not yet. But sometimes, when I hesitate too long before making a decision, when I choose silence again, when I stare at doors I’m afraid to open, I hear it. Not knocking. Waiting. And I know, with a certainty that makes sleep difficult, that one night I’ll be too tired to argue. One night, I’ll open the door. And whatever sounds like me will finally come home.
By LUNA EDITH10 months ago in Horror
