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.
Crossing the Owl's Bridge
The job was wearing on him lately but it wasn't until he was wondering how much longer he could last that the owl showed up. It had made it's home somewhere nearby and would make itself known with hoots spaced out between the night's transport calls. Owls were a bad omen for some. Jack never minded them but this particular one seemed odd somehow. A bit eerie but Jack didn't think it would be if he was going on a full night's rest. Maybe an hour or two of sunlight. It had been awhile. Sleep was limited to the point where sometimes he felt like he should check to make sure he hadn't passed out on his couch.
By Levi Chapman5 years ago in Horror
The Barn Owl Assassin
Aliza Enoc went to Rockefeller high school for her senior year. She has no friends, no siblings, no one to talk to and has been bullied at school since the day she started attending. She cries every night, alone in her room and notices a barn owl sitting outside of her window gazing at her. She noticed for a while, that the same owl watched her every time she cried but the moment she stopped crying, it disappears.
By Kiara Malone5 years ago in Horror
Deadly Wings
Cold wind blows violently across the wild landscape of the mountain region of the Northwest Territories of Canada; not in many years has a winter breeze been this ferocious. Among the rugged, frozen terrain footstep markings are planted along the deep snow, becoming more staggering and elongated as they lead up a small steep hill. At the top of the hill, a large collection of trees covers the majority of the land with many of the dead branches rustling from the wind or some of them on the verge of breaking off. One of those branches eventually becomes weak enough to the point that it breaks off and falls to the snowy ground below. As the branch lands upright into the snow, a wonderer slowly walks past it, leaving a large footstep marking behind. More markings are left behind as the wonderer, wearing prominently black and grey, tattered clothing, continues to slowly walk with the wind still incredibly strong. As the wonderer continues their slow and somewhat treacherous trek, they attempt keep their entire face hidden via a scarf and goggles; without much else and in weather like this, having something is better than nothing. The wonderer remains focused on their trek while the rustling wind continues to flow amongst the trees; branches and twigs also continue to fall onto the ground. As the wonderer makes it to the edge of the hill, they exhale in exhaustion but somewhat relief; that exhale is quickly overtaken by a loud sound which stops the wonderer in their tracks and go completely silent. The wonderer stays in place as they don’t make a move or sound, knowing that, that thud was far different from the numerous fallen branches. As the wonderer attempts to concentrate and listen for anything else, they hear a faint fluttering that becomes more prominent and eventually something lands in front of the wonderer. The wonderer quickly lifts up their goggles revealing their widen eyes, the left bright green and the right blinded, as they are face to face with a small barn owl. As the wonderer stares at the owl, it merely stares back and neither break contact; clearly this is not the first time the wonderer has seen this particular owl. Just as the wonderer takes another step, the owl quickly flies away startling the wonderer, but before they can take a breather they are imminently hit in the right shoulder by an arrow.
By Shadow Lite5 years ago in Horror
COTTON
The old man had lain in his crypt for over 60 years, every day listening to those walking by quote the price of cotton for the day. He rested in a shady grove of stately water oaks on the side of a white sandy dirt road outside of the small community called Glendale, Alabama. It’s said that he wanted to be laid to rest there, next to the road, so that he may always know the price of cotton for the day.
By Grant Whitehurst5 years ago in Horror
Vision
The stacks of papers on Sasha's desk were equally short, but equally daunting. On her left were the case reports: a plethora of stolen first aid kits; a pair of off-duty cops missing two pairs of handcuffs; and one drunken camper's sighting of a deer that was “like a zombie,” and “had marbles for eyes.”
By Kyle Christopher5 years ago in Horror
The Highway
The incessant honking was unbelievably the worst part. All that had happened, where they had come from, what he had seen, and it was the damn honking driving him mad. There was nowhere to go. Why were they honking? Both sides of the highway were completely blocked from rail to rail and beyond. Any movement there had been ended several hours past.
By Jeremy Barbati5 years ago in Horror
Twenty-Five Feet
The members of our community very rarely live their full natural lives. In fact, there’s a saying amongst us that when your number is up, you won’t even see it coming. The true terror that is the only life we know. There’s an ominous feeling in the air tonight. The weather has turned cold and a new moon has come, making it the darkest of nights. Our food supply has run out and has become scarce in the area, forcing our clan to travel deeper into the wild in order to survive. This time, we might have traveled too far, twenty-five feet away, and across a wide-open patch of grass. It might as well be twenty-five miles, for what awaits us on our perilous journey back home.
By Randal Hall5 years ago in Horror
The Old Wives Tale Owl
Old wives tales were always a fascination of my hometown. In fact, it seemed almost cult-like how everyone truly believed in them. When I graduated from high school, I left with no intentions of returning. There was nothing for me in Millston, the remarkably small town of about three hundred residents. My soul was burning for something more passionate in life. I was eager to leave it all behind and start an adventurous life doing anything new.
By Amy Perkins5 years ago in Horror
The Voices Made Me Do It
I was ten years old when the whispers started. At first, they were quiet. Little voices urging me to do little things, like breaking my mother’s dishes or slashing my father’s tires. My parents brought me to the doctor, and she asked me why I would smash my mother’s china. The voices told me to do it, I had said. If I don’t do what they say they scream so loud until my head hurts. She had only smiled at me and told me the voices were only my imagination. She told my parents I only wanted attention. I tried to tell them how the whispers never left, and how they always wanted me to do unimaginably horrible things. They denied me again and again, dismissing the voices as a need to be seen. They didn’t understand how insistent the voices became in the next six months.
By Hannah Clukies5 years ago in Horror
