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 Transmission from Black Ridge Station
In the far northern stretch of Montana, buried between jagged cliffs and miles of silent pine forest, stood an old meteorological outpost known as Black Ridge Station. It wasn’t famous, and no documentaries were ever made about it. In fact, the government files related to the station are still partially redacted. But locals remember the winter of 1994—because something happened there that no scientific explanation has ever been able to untangle. Some mysteries feel like stories. This one has the texture of something alive. Black Ridge Station was originally built to monitor extreme temperature drops in the region. The area was notorious for freezing winds that sliced through skin like broken glass. Most of the year, the station was operated remotely. Only in deep winter—when storms could rip down live wires and bury antennas—did the government send a technician for hands-on monitoring. That winter, the assignment fell to Martin Hale. He was thirty-four, calm by nature, with a reputation for being unshakeable. No reports of anxiety. No erratic behavior. No superstitions. He believed firmly in measurements, logic, and the reliability of scientific instruments. He arrived at Black Ridge Station on December 2, 1994. He was never seen again. What we know comes from three sources: Hale’s handwritten logs, the station’s audio transmissions, and the final emergency report that was recorded automatically by the main system. Each source contradicts the others—but all three point to something that moved through the forest with intention. And something that knew Hale was alone. DAY 1 — DECEMBER 2, 1994 His first log entry is ordinary. > “Arrived at 13:21. Equipment stable. Radio frequencies normal. Snow depth about four inches. Nothing unusual.” Later that night he notes something peculiar: > “Forest is unnaturally quiet. No wind. No animal noises. The stillness feels… heavy.” A silence like that rarely occurs in the deep woods. Predators, storms, or unfamiliar human activity can cause stillness. But meteorologists later confirmed no weather anomalies, and no large predators had been spotted in the region for weeks. Still, it was only Day 1. No one thought anything of it. DAY 3 — DECEMBER 4, 1994 The logs begin to shift in tone. > “Something is messing with the temperature sensors. A sudden drop of 20 degrees recorded in the west quadrant at 2 AM. No environmental cause. When I checked manually, everything seemed fine.” Temperature drops that sharp usually signal movement—something large displacing air—yet there were no tracks in the snow. Hale reset the sensors twice. The problem continued. That night, the first audio disturbance occurred. At 2:17 AM, the station microphone picks up a faint, rhythmic clicking sound. Slow at first. Then faster. Almost like a set of claws tapping lightly on the outer metal walls. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Rapid tapping—then silence. Hale radios headquarters but gets no reply. Storm clouds had rolled over the mountains, interrupting communication. The next morning he wrote: > “Heard something walking outside the station last night. Not a bear. Footsteps were too light… too precise.” DAY 5 — DECEMBER 6, 1994 This is when the story becomes chillingly real. At 4:03 AM, the station microphone records Hale speaking quietly to himself, unaware the system is capturing it. > “It knows my schedule. It only moves when I turn off the lights. Whatever it is, it’s testing the walls.” Then a metallic scrape. Sharp enough to spark. Something—someone—dragged a pointed object across the steel exterior panels of the outpost. Not once, but three times that night. The next morning, Hale writes a question in the log instead of a report: > “Why are there no tracks? Fresh snow last night. Footsteps were definite. Sounded like they were right outside my window.” When search teams later examined the site, they confirmed the same thing: Scrape marks were found on the western panel. But no footprints. Not a single one. Fresh snow… untouched. DAY 7 — DECEMBER 8, 1994 This entry is written in rushed handwriting: > “I saw it. Or something shaped like it. While checking the antennas. A tall figure at the tree line. Pale. Standing absolutely still. I blinked, and it was gone.” Locals around Black Ridge have an old legend about a creature they call The Silent Walker. Described as tall, pale, and unnervingly still. A forest omen more than a cryptid. Most residents treat it as folklore meant to keep children indoors during storms. But Hale had never heard of that legend. And his description was almost perfect. That night’s recording is the most disturbing of all. At 3:19 AM, the microphone captures slow breathing inside the station. But here’s the impossible detail: Hale was dead asleep at the time. The breathing wasn’t his. It wasn’t human either—too deep, too resonant, as though the lungs belonged to something with a chest the size of a bear. But the rhythm was wrong. Bears breathe heavily but unevenly. This breathing was steady, deliberate. Almost curious. Investigators later found no signs of forced entry. No broken windows. No tampered locks. Still, the breathing happened inside the station. DAY 9 — DECEMBER 10, 1994 Hale’s final handwritten entry: > “Something is entering the station without opening the doors. I checked every panel, every seam. It watches me while I sleep. I can feel it. Last night I heard it whisper behind the equipment racks. A voice without breath. A voice not shaped for language.” Then a line scratched so hard it tore the paper: > “If it gets inside again, I won’t make it through the night.” That same night, an emergency transmission was automatically sent to the central office at 4:11 AM. Only thirty seconds long. The recording begins with frantic rustling, equipment falling, metal clanging. Hale shouts: > “Stay back! I’m warning you—” Then a sound like a hollow click, almost like jaws snapping shut. A scream. Cut short. Followed by a low, drawn-out exhale—like air escaping from deep underground. The transmission ends. When a rescue team finally reached the station three days later, Hale was gone. His parka was found on the floor. Boots still neatly by the door. Coffee mug on the table, still half-full. But no body. No blood. No signs of struggle. The only evidence was one new detail on the western wall: A handprint. A handprint far larger than a human’s, pressed deep into the steel as though by immense force. Five long, slender fingers. And each fingertip left a scorch mark. AFTERMATH Black Ridge Station was officially shut down in 1995. The government cited “structural instability.” Privately, investigators admitted they had no explanation. The station was dismantled, but the western metal panel—the one with the handprint—was taken away for analysis and never seen again. Today, locals still refuse to spend nights near the ridge. They say the forest becomes too quiet. So quiet your heartbeat feels too loud. Some hikers claim they’ve seen a tall, pale figure standing between the trees. Absolutely motionless. Others say they’ve heard tapping on their tents at night. Light, precise tapping—like claws on thin metal. Whatever took Martin Hale was never found. And whatever moved through the forest that winter never left a single footprint. But everyone agrees on one thing: Something was there. Something that didn’t fear doors, locks, or walls. Something that learned Hale’s schedule. And whispered behind him while he slept. Black Ridge Station is gone now, but the mystery remains as sharp as the scrape marks on its walls. A reminder that there are corners of the world where silence is not emptiness— It’s presence. A presence that watches. Waits. And learns. If you ever find yourself in a forest where the air is too quiet, where the snow lies untouched even though you’ve heard footsteps… remember Martin Hale. Some things move in ways science cannot measure. Some things leave no tracks. And some mysteries don’t want to be solved.
By AngelFace11 months ago in Horror
10 Best Film Adaptations of Edgar Allan Poe Novels According to AI. AI-Generated.
Edgar Allan Poe's work has had a profound and lasting impact on the horror genre, shaping the thematic and stylistic elements that define modern horror films. His exploration of psychological depth, the macabre, and the supernatural continues to resonate in contemporary storytelling.
By Ninfa Galeano11 months ago in Horror
Velvet Buzzsaw was a Unique Horror Film Ruined by the Trailer
I know that Velvet Buzzsaw wasn't a huge hit when it was released on Netflix, but I was still interested in watching the movie, due to the unique horror concept.
By Emy Quinn11 months ago in Horror
The Vanished Beneath Zion Secrets of the Subway Cave 🕳️🌑
Deep within the haunting beauty of Zion National Park, where sunlight struggles to touch the stone walls and shadows stretch like fingers across narrow canyons, lies a place few dare to enter — the Subway Cave. It is a realm untouched, mysterious, and unforgiving. For those who have ventured inside, it is not merely a cave; it is a living memory of the earth, whispering secrets older than history itself.
By Izhar Ullah11 months ago in Horror
“The Mirror That Remembers Every Face But Yours” “The Mirror That Remembers Every Face But Yours”
The Mirror That Remembers Every Face But Yours By [Ali Rehman] The mirror had been in the house longer than anyone could remember. It hung in the narrow hallway between the living room and the staircase, framed in twisted black wood carved with shapes no one recognized. Some said it was an heirloom; others whispered it was cursed.
By Ali Rehman11 months ago in Horror
“The Room Where Time Refused to Move”
The Room Where Time Refused to Move By [Ali Rehman] I never believed in ghosts or forgotten corners of the past that could trap you like a spider traps a fly. But the old house I inherited from my grandmother held secrets darker and more stubborn than any I’d imagined.
By Ali Rehman11 months ago in Horror
The Enigmatic Manuscript A Mystery from Ancient Italy. Content Warning.
Hidden deep within the archives of European history lies one of the most perplexing and fascinating artifacts ever discovered: an ancient mysterious manuscript believed to have originated in old Italy. This cryptic document, filled with unknown symbols, strange illustrations, and undecipherable text, has puzzled linguists, historians, and cryptographers for decades. Often referred to as the enigmatic manuscript of ancient Italy, it remains one of the world’s most enduring mysteries — a puzzle that connects lost languages, forgotten civilizations, and the haunting possibility that some secrets were never meant to be understood. A Discovery Wrapped in Mystery The origins of the enigmatic manuscript are shrouded in both rumor and legend. Some historians claim it was found in a monastery in Northern Italy, hidden inside a sealed chest that had been untouched for centuries. Others believe it resurfaced during the Renaissance, when rare manuscripts were traded among scholars and alchemists. What is known for certain is that the manuscript is written in a completely unknown language. Its strange alphabet, consisting of looping characters and geometric shapes, does not match any known writing system from ancient Rome, Etruria, or medieval Italy. Scholars have attempted to link it to extinct dialects or forgotten secret societies, but no theory has ever been proven. Illustrations That Deepen the Mystery The manuscript’s pages are filled with surreal drawings that raise more questions than answers. These illustrations include: Plants that do not exist anywhere on Earth Star maps with unknown constellations Human figures performing ritualistic or alchemical acts Architectural designs resembling ancient Italian structures mixed with impossible geometry Some researchers believe the drawings may represent coded scientific knowledge, perhaps medicinal recipes or astronomical data encoded to protect it from misuse. Others think the imagery suggests the manuscript may be a work of esoteric philosophy, created for a secret order or mystical group. The combination of bizarre artwork and unreadable text has led many to compare the manuscript to the famous Voynich Manuscript — but this Italian document remains even more mysterious, as far fewer experts have studied it and much of its history is undocumented. Attempts to Decipher the Unknown Script Throughout the 20th and 21st centuries, cryptographers and linguists have attempted to decode the manuscript using: Frequency analysis AI pattern recognition Linguistic comparison tools Historical cipher techniques used in ancient Italy Despite thousands of hours of research, no one has successfully translated a single line. The writing does not behave like a random creation — it follows patterns, repetitions, and grammatical structures — suggesting it is a real language. Yet its alphabet, vocabulary, and syntax remain completely alien. Some experts have theorized that it may be written in a constructed language, built intentionally to hide secret knowledge. Others argue that it could represent the final traces of a lost ancient Italian tribe whose language vanished before being recorded. Legends Surrounding the Manuscript As with many ancient mysteries, the manuscript has accumulated a wealth of legends over the centuries. Italian folklore claims that: The manuscript was created by a Renaissance alchemist seeking to record forbidden knowledge. It once belonged to a secret monastic order believed to possess mystical powers. Reading the manuscript was said to bring visions or nightmares, depending on the reader’s purity of mind. It may have been written by someone claiming to be visited by celestial beings or enlightened by strange dreams. While these tales cannot be proven, they contribute to the manuscript’s reputation as an object of both fascination and fear. Scientific Theories and Modern Investigations Modern scholars continue to search for clues within the manuscript’s material composition. Tests on the ink and parchment suggest it likely dates from the late Middle Ages, possibly between the 1400s and 1500s — a time when Italy was an active center of art, science, and occult exploration. Some believe the manuscript could have been part of a private library of a noble Italian family, locked away for generations. Others think it may have been brought from the East and reinterpreted by Italian scribes. Theories range from: A medieval medical encyclopedia coded for secrecy An astronomical guide based on unknown star systems A philosophical text describing the universe in symbolic language A hoax created by a brilliant artist or scholar Yet none of these theories fully explain its complexity or purpose. A Timeless Puzzle Today, the enigmatic manuscript stands as one of the most intriguing relics of ancient Italy. It draws cryptographers, historians, conspiracy theorists, and curious minds from around the world. Its untouched mysteries remind us how much human history remains hidden — and how many stories are still waiting to be uncovered. Whether it is a forgotten scientific treasure, an encoded mystical text, or a relic from a lost civilization, the manuscript continues to captivate researchers, inspiring new theories and investigations. Until the day its secrets are finally revealed — if that day ever comes — the enigmatic manuscript will remain a timeless enigma, a doorway into the unknown, and one of the most captivating mysteries Italy has ever produced.
By Haunted Secrets11 months ago in Horror
The House That Waited
When the old Rehman House finally went up for sale, nobody in the village expected anyone to buy it. The place had been abandoned for decades, its windows sealed with wooden planks, its garden swallowed by wild thorns and crooked trees. Children dared each other to run up and touch the rusted gate, but no one ever stayed near it after sunset. People said it wasn’t just haunted—it was patient. It waited.
By Iazaz hussain11 months ago in Horror
Black Tape.. AI-Generated.
When I moved into the apartment, I thought it was a fresh start. Fresh paint, new floors, a little balcony that caught the afternoon sun just right. I unpacked my boxes slowly, half listening to music, half just enjoying the silence that wasn’t mine yet. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The mattress was stiff, the air felt different. I kept telling myself it was just new place nerves, but when I turned over and saw the faint outline of the window blinds on the ceiling, I felt eyes on me, though I was alone.
By William Ebden.11 months ago in Horror
The Whispers in the Walls: A Haunting Mystery
Story: Rachel knew she was making a mistake, but the old manor was all she could afford. After months of searching for a quiet place to focus on her writing, she found herself standing in front of the eerie, crumbling house on the outskirts of town. The locals spoke in hushed tones whenever it was mentioned, often crossing themselves, muttering about the past—the mysterious disappearance of the Blackwell family years ago, and the strange whispers that some claimed still haunted the house. But to Rachel, who had always prided herself on her logical mind, such tales were nothing but folklore. She was here for peace, not for ghost stories. The house, with its peeling wallpaper and broken windows, seemed to be a relic of another time. Rachel didn't mind the decay; in fact, she found it charming, the perfect setting to get away from the hustle of city life. She moved in, eager to begin her work, but it didn’t take long before things started to feel... off. At night, a soft murmur would echo through the house—whispers that seemed to come from the walls themselves. At first, Rachel dismissed them as the house settling, the creaks of old wood in the night. But the longer she stayed, the harder it became to ignore. The whispers began to grow louder, clearer, as if they were beckoning her. There were nights when she could swear she heard her name. "Rachel... come closer... we are waiting." The voice was soft, almost loving, but also tinged with something darker. Despite her growing unease, Rachel resisted the idea of leaving; she was a journalist, after all. Her skepticism kept her rooted in the house, convincing her that there must be a logical explanation. But as the days passed, the inexplicable events only grew more frequent. Furniture shifted, objects vanished, and strange cold spots appeared in the corners of her room. The whispers became frantic, desperate—almost pleading. One evening, as Rachel sat at her desk, she thought she heard a faint sound from upstairs. It wasn’t the usual creaks of the house. It was a soft, shuffling noise, like someone dragging their feet along the floor. Unable to ignore the sensation that something was horribly wrong, Rachel ventured upstairs. The air grew colder the closer she got to the attic, the sound of the whispers growing louder in her ears, as if urging her forward. With a tremor in her hand, she turned the attic door handle. It creaked open, revealing a dark, oppressive space. The musty air was thick with the smell of dust and decay. In the center of the room sat an old wooden chest, its surface covered in strange symbols, some of which seemed to shift when she looked at them. Rachel’s heart raced, but her curiosity won out over fear. She opened the chest. Inside, there were photographs—old, yellowed pictures of a family she didn’t recognize, and a leather-bound diary. She flipped through it hastily, her fingers trembling as she read the cryptic entries. The last pages were written in a hurried, panicked scrawl. The Blackwell family had been living in the house when they discovered something horrifying in the basement—a force darker than any they had ever imagined. A curse that had been passed down through generations, a curse that fed on fear, trapped the souls of its victims, keeping them bound to the walls of the house forever. The family had tried to leave, but the whispers had followed them, growing louder, more insistent. The night before they disappeared, the father had written about their final moments, how the house would not let them go, how it had started to take their spirits, one by one. As Rachel read, a cold draft swept through the room, extinguishing the candle she had been using. The whispers in the walls ceased for a moment, leaving only silence. But the silence was suffocating, heavy with an unspoken dread. A chill ran down Rachel’s spine as she glanced toward the door. There, standing in the doorway, were the Blackwell family—pale, gaunt, their eyes hollow but gleaming with an unnatural light. "Join us," they whispered in perfect unison. "You’re not alone here. You’ll never leave." The words echoed in her head as Rachel’s heart pounded in her chest. She backed away slowly, her mind spinning with terror. But before she could move, the door slammed shut, trapping her in the attic with them. She turned back to face the family, only to see them advance, their faces now twisted in anguish, the glowing eyes of the curse fixated on her. Rachel opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The whispers had returned, louder than ever, now coming from every direction. Her vision blurred as the shadows around her deepened. And just as she felt herself being pulled into the darkness, she realized—she had become part of the house. The whispers had won.
By The Insight Ledger 11 months ago in Horror
The House That Waited for Me
I always thought fear came from things we didn’t understand. But the house at the end of Shalimar Road changed that. Some fears aren’t born from mystery—they come from recognition, from something deep inside you waking up too slowly to warn you. The house wasn’t abandoned in the usual sense. It wasn’t broken, collapsing, or covered with graffiti. Its windows weren’t shattered. Its gate wasn’t locked with chains or warnings. It simply stood there, untouched, as if the world around it had evolved while it remained stuck in a memory. I had passed the place dozens of times without really seeing it, but one night, the moon lit up the entire street except that one roof. Everything else glowed silver; the house swallowed the light. Something about that bothered me in a way I couldn’t explain. Maybe that’s why I started noticing it more. And then I began dreaming about it. In the first dream, I was standing in the garden, the grass brushing against my legs, the air thick with fog. The front door was open, and a boy’s silhouette stood inside. In the second dream, he was closer, almost at arm’s length—though his face was always blurred, like someone smeared it with their thumb. After the second dream, curiosity won. Or maybe something was pulling me. A week later, on a quiet, windless evening, I walked to the house. The street was empty, the air unnaturally still. The gate wasn’t locked—just held by a thin, rusted chain that gave way under the slightest touch. The garden felt wrong. The plants didn’t sway with the breeze; they leaned, almost hunched, pointing toward the door like silent witnesses. When I stepped onto the porch, I felt cold fingers of air slip across my skin from inside the house. The door stood slightly open—an invitation or a warning, I still don’t know. I pushed it gently, expecting a creak, but it moved without a sound. The living room looked like it belonged to another decade. The furniture was old but not decayed. A thin layer of dust covered everything except one small corner near the window, where the floor was unnervingly clean. Someone had been standing there. A portrait hung crooked on the wall. A family of three—mother, father, and a boy around twelve. The mother’s face had faded, the father’s smile looked too deliberate, but the boy… his eyes had an intensity that made my chest tighten. It felt like he knew me. My phone buzzed in my hand. The bright screen lit the dark room and showed a message from an unknown number: “You came back. Don’t go upstairs.” My throat dried instantly. The message didn’t make sense. How could I have “come back” to a place I had never been? My phone buzzed again. “He remembers you.” Something cracked upstairs—slow, deliberate, as if someone shifted their weight. I turned toward the staircase, and the light in the house seemed to dim. Instinct told me to leave. The house told me otherwise. The front door slammed shut with a violent thud that shook the frame. My heart hammered as the footsteps upstairs grew louder. They weren’t the random creaks of an old home. They had rhythm. Weight. Purpose. Someone was there. I tried the window. It didn’t budge. I tried the door; it wouldn’t open. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and stopped. Silence. A suffocating silence that pressed against my ears until it almost hurt. I didn’t want to turn around. I didn’t want to see what waited there. My phone buzzed once more. “Run.” But I had nowhere to run. The air behind me thickened, as if the room itself was breathing slowly and deeply. I felt the presence before I heard it. A shift in the air. A faint exhale. A coldness that had nothing to do with temperature. I shut my eyes. For a moment—just a moment—the world dimmed, like someone turned down reality itself. When I opened my eyes again, the door stood wide open behind me. The house was quiet. The presence was gone. I didn’t think. I sprinted out and didn’t stop until I reached the main road. That night, unable to sleep, I searched for old records of the address. After some digging through archived reports, I found a missing-person case from the late 90s. A boy, twelve years old. The same face from the portrait. The same cold eyes. His name was listed below the photo, though reading it sent a strange, heavy ache through my chest. Under it was a final note from investigators: “Last seen with a neighborhood child who was never identified.” Something inside me froze. Maybe that’s why the boy recognized me. Maybe that’s why the house waited. Memories don’t always return gently. Some come back like a door slamming shut in the dark—loud enough to shake you, but too late to escape what’s already inside. And every night since, at exactly 3:11 AM, my phone buzzes with a single message: “Come back.”
By AngelFace11 months ago in Horror
Someone Who Looks Exactly Like Me Keeps Triggering My Cameras at Night
I know everyone online says this, but this really isn’t just some creepy story I made up to go viral. If I could go back and never install that stupid camera, never open that first notification, I would. This whole thing has eaten up my life. I barely sleep now. I moved states. And I still feel watched. Last summer, after my divorce, I moved into a cheap rental house on the edge of town. The landlord told me the previous tenant “left in a hurry,” which should have been a warning, but I was broke and tired and just wanted a place that wasn’t my sister’s couch. The house wasn’t scary looking, just old and quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet where you start hearing your own heartbeat if you sit still long enough. My sister bought me a basic WiFi camera system for the front and back yard. “It’ll make you feel safer,” she said. If only that were true. I set everything up and forgot about it. Three nights later, my phone buzzed at 3:17 in the morning. The notification said: “Front Driveway Camera: Motion Detected.” I almost ignored it. I wish I had. But I was awake anyway, half-thinking about bills. So I opened the app. There was a man standing at the very edge of my driveway. Just standing. Facing my house. Completely still, like he’d been waiting there. I sat straight up. At first I thought maybe it was a neighbor or someone drunk, but there was something wrong about the way he stood. Too still. Too fixed. His hoodie, his jeans, his pale face blurred by the night vision. All of it felt off in a way I couldn’t describe. He didn’t move a muscle. I watched him for five minutes, barely breathing, trying to convince myself it was a weird fluke. Then the camera glitched. Just a blink. When the feed came back, the driveway was empty. The slider refused to show the moment he left. Just a jump from “man standing there” to “no one at all.” The next night at 3:17, my phone buzzed again. “Front Driveway Camera: Motion Detected.” He was back. Same spot. Same posture. Same completely unnatural stillness. But this time, I noticed something else. On the far right of the screen, in the reflection of my front window, I saw a shape. A head and shoulders. Standing inside my house. Someone looking out. I was in my bedroom. My skin went cold. I stared at the reflection, trying not to blink. The reflection didn’t move. The man in the driveway didn’t move. I whispered “Hello?” even though that made no sense. There was no answer. The feed glitched. Both figures vanished. I didn’t sleep. I barely even breathed. The third night, he was closer. Halfway up the driveway now, like he’d cut the distance in half. I could see more of his face. Stubble. Dark hair. His mouth slightly open like he was concentrating. I thought about calling the police, but what would I say? “There’s a guy on my camera but he only appears in grainy night vision and vanishes every time the footage glitches?” I’d sound crazy. I called my sister instead. She told me to call the cops. I told her I didn’t know if it was a person. She sighed and said she’d come the next day to look at the cameras with me. We looked at all the footage. She pointed out how the hoodie folded exactly like real fabric. How the man’s shoulders weren’t a glitch. But she couldn’t explain why he never moved. Not even a shift. Not even a blink. We factory reset everything and she left for work. At 3:17 a.m., the camera pinged again. This time he was at my front door. Right up against it. So close his face filled the frame. Too pale. Wet-looking, either from rain or sweat. His mouth slightly parted. No eyes visible in the shadow. He wasn’t knocking. He wasn’t trying the handle. Just standing inches away, head tilted like he was listening to something inside. That’s when I heard breathing. Not from the phone. From the hallway. Right behind the front door. Slow, deliberate inhaling. Then a long, shaky exhale. My heart started beating so hard I felt dizzy. On the camera, the man’s shoulders rose and fell in the exact same rhythm as the breathing I was hearing. I stood up without remembering deciding to. My whole body was shaking. I walked toward the hallway, terrified but somehow unable to stop. I was five feet from the door when I whispered, “Who is there?” The breathing stopped. On the screen, the man in the camera seemed to freeze even more than before. Then a voice on the other side of the door said, “You.” Except it was my voice. Not just similar. Exactly my voice. Same tone. Same wobble. Same way I had said that word earlier in the week to a salesman at the door. It was like someone recorded me and played it back through the wood. I stumbled backward. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped my phone. “You,” the voice repeated, with the exact same timing. Like a recording. On the screen, the man at the door tilted his head slightly, like he was listening. I called 911 while backing toward the back door. The dispatcher tried to calm me down, told me the police were coming, told me to stay put. I absolutely did not stay put. I slipped out the back door into the cold air, shaking so hard my keys jangled. The yard smelled like wet leaves. The quiet felt wrong again. I checked the feed. At 3:24, the camera glitched and the man was gone. A crunch of leaves came from the tree line behind the house. I turned. There was a person in the dark trees watching me. Tall. Still. Facing me. And in the faint light, I realized I was looking at my own face. I ran and didn’t stop until I reached my car. Two weeks later, I moved states. I hoped the thing wouldn’t follow. But last night, at 3:17 a.m., my driveway camera buzzed again. This time the figure under it wasn’t at the edge of the street. He was standing directly beneath the camera, head tilted up toward it. And the scar on the back of his neck was mine.
By Brandon Partridge11 months ago in Horror