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.
Whispers in the Dark
Michael had always believed in his own invincibility. Power, money, and influence made him untouchable—or so he thought. He crushed rivals with a smile, betrayed friends without a second thought, and laughed at anyone foolish enough to oppose him. But the city has a memory, and the night has patience.
By OWOYELE JEREMIAH12 months ago in Horror
The Evil Warlord and His Chosen One
The fencing sword had been purchased for ten pieces of gold. Lord Jonathan Blackdawn plunged it into a tree stump. His eyes glowed red as power surged through him and he locked the stump and sword into a moment of time. Until he released the spell, the stump would not rot, the sword would not rust, and no one could pull the sword from the stump.
By Jamais Jochim12 months ago in Horror
The Room That Wasn’t There
When Daniel moved into the old stone house on Maple Street, he wasn’t looking for adventure — just peace. After a brutal breakup and a draining job, he wanted silence, fresh air, and a place where no one knew his name. The house had stood empty for decades, its last owner disappearing without a trace in the late 1970s. The real estate agent mentioned that history with a nervous smile, brushing it off as “local legend.” Daniel didn’t care. He got it cheap. The first few days were calm. Dusty sunlight through cracked windows. The creak of old floors. The occasional scuttle of mice in the attic. It was lonely, but peaceful. Exactly what he wanted. Then, one night, he woke up to a knock. Three sharp taps. Coming from inside the wall. At first, Daniel thought he was dreaming. He sat up, heart thudding, listening. Silence. He sighed, lay back down, and tried to sleep again. But just as he was drifting off— Knock. Knock. Knock. This time, slower. Closer. He grabbed a flashlight, stumbling out of bed. The sound came from the hallway, where the wallpaper peeled away in faded curls. The beam of light quivered in his hand as he followed the sound to the end of the hall — to a wall that shouldn’t have been there. It was strange. The floorboards stopped abruptly, and the wall looked newer than the rest of the house — smooth, freshly plastered, as if someone had sealed something behind it. Daniel knocked. Something knocked back. He froze, every instinct screaming run. But curiosity — that old, dangerous curiosity — won. He pressed his ear to the wall. Behind it, faintly, came the sound of breathing. He stumbled back, nearly dropping the flashlight. His pulse hammered in his ears. “It’s an animal,” he told himself. “Just a raccoon or something trapped.” The next morning, he brought a hammer and crowbar. The first strike sent a sharp echo through the hall. The second made the plaster crumble. And the third revealed a hidden door — wooden, old, and carved with symbols Daniel didn’t recognize. He hesitated. Then he turned the handle. The air that spilled out was cold. Not normal cold — the kind that smells of earth and rot, the kind that belongs to something that hasn’t seen light in years. Inside was a small room. No windows. Just a single chair in the middle, a cracked mirror on the wall, and a message scratched into the floorboards: “Do not look at her reflection.” Daniel laughed nervously. “Weird prank,” he muttered, shining his light around. The mirror caught the beam and threw it back, warped and cloudy. Then he saw something move. Behind him. In the reflection. A woman. Pale as chalk, hair hanging in wet clumps, eyes like black pits. She stood right behind him. Daniel spun around — the room was empty. When he looked back at the mirror, she was closer. He dropped the flashlight. It flickered and went out, plunging everything into darkness. For a moment, he could only hear his breathing — fast, uneven — and then a whisper, inches from his ear: “You shouldn’t have opened the door.” He bolted out of the room, slamming the hidden door shut. His hands shook so badly he could barely turn the key in the lock. He shoved a bookshelf in front of it and didn’t sleep that night. But the next morning, the door was open again. And the bookshelf had been moved. Over the next few days, things got worse. The mirror appeared in different rooms. He’d wake up to find it leaning against the wall at the foot of his bed. Once, when he tried to smash it, the glass didn’t break — it breathed. Daniel called the real estate agent, demanding answers. She was silent for a long time before finally whispering, “You found the room?” He froze. “You knew?” “There’s a reason that house was empty,” she said. “Every owner found that room. And every one of them vanished. The mirror keeps them.” Daniel didn’t wait to hear more. He grabbed his keys, ran to the car, and sped away without looking back. But when he reached the highway, the world around him began to fade — colors draining, sounds dulling. The road stretched endlessly ahead, but his reflection in the rearview mirror was smiling. And it wasn’t his smile. The police found his car the next morning, engine running, driver’s seat empty. The only clue was a cracked mirror on the passenger side, fogged from the inside, with one word written in the condensation
By Iazaz hussain12 months ago in Horror
The Whispers Inside the Walls
1. The House on Elden Street It was just supposed to be a quick renovation job. Mark Henson, a struggling contractor from Baltimore, had taken the offer because it paid double the usual rate. The client—an elderly woman named Mrs. Albright—had called him personally, her voice trembling through the phone. > “It’s an old property on Elden Street, number 39. I just need the walls repaired. Nothing else. Don’t… dig too deep.” Those last words should’ve been enough to make him decline. But he needed the money. When he first arrived, the house looked like it had been abandoned for decades. Ivy crept up the windows, the roof sagged in the middle, and a faint smell of damp earth hung in the air. Yet, the front door was freshly painted a deep crimson, like someone had recently tried to breathe life back into the place. 2. The Whispers Begin On the first day, everything went fine. Mark measured the walls, took photos, and noted the cracks in the foundation. But on the second day, he heard something strange. A faint murmur, like someone whispering from inside the walls. He froze, holding his hammer mid-air. “Hello?” The whisper stopped. He waited a full minute, heart pounding, then shook his head. Probably wind through the vents, he told himself. Old houses do weird things. Later that night, when he replayed his phone’s voice memo from the day, he noticed something. In the background—beneath the scratching of his pencil—there it was again. > “Mark…” His name. Whispered so softly, it almost blended with the static. The Hidden Room By the fourth day, curiosity had turned into obsession. The whispers came more often now—whenever he hammered, scraped, or even touched the wall. Sometimes it sounded like multiple voices, murmuring together, rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic chant. Mark started knocking along the plaster, searching for hollow spots. Near the living room corner, he found one. When he chipped away the plaster, a layer of rotted wood fell out, revealing a small, bricked-over doorway. He grabbed a chisel and hammer, ignoring the chill creeping up his spine. After an hour of work, the bricks gave way, revealing a dark, narrow passage. The smell hit him instantly—something between mold and decay. He turned on his flashlight. At the end of the passage was a small room. No windows. No furniture. Just one thing in the center: a chair, bolted to the floor… and a tape recorder resting on it. The tape was still inside. 4. The Recording Mark’s hands trembled as he pressed play. A man’s voice came through, distorted but calm. > “Day one: the subject is responding to auditory exposure.” “Day five: whispers intensify at night.” “Day ten: the voices have started saying my name.” A sudden scream tore through the speaker, followed by silence. Then, faintly, a whisper on the tape said: > “Don’t stop the recording…” Mark yanked the cassette out and stumbled backward, breathing hard. The flashlight flickered. Something moved in the corner of the room. At first, it looked like a shadow—but shadows don’t move toward the light. 5. The Thing in the Walls He bolted out of the hidden room, but as he reached the living room, the walls themselves began to move. The wallpaper rippled, bulging outward as though something inside was trying to escape. A deep groaning sound filled the house, followed by frantic whispering in dozens of voices. > “Stay with us… Mark…” “You opened it…” “Now you belong here…” He grabbed his tools, sprinted for the door—but the knob wouldn’t turn. It was ice-cold, slick like something alive. The crimson paint on the door seemed darker now, almost wet. Behind him, the whispers grew into screams. He turned just in time to see a pale hand press against the wall from the inside, fingers stretching the wallpaper like thin skin. He threw his body against the door, and it finally gave way. Outside, the night air hit him like a slap. He didn’t look back. 6. Aftermath Two days later, police arrived at 39 Elden Street after neighbors reported strange noises. They found Mark’s van parked outside. Tools still in the back. Phone on the dashboard, recording. Inside the house, there was no sign of struggle—just new plaster covering one wall in the living room. When they played the phone recording, it captured only static. Then, near the end: > “Hello? Who’s there?” (pause) “Mark…” Mrs. Albright never returned. The property went back on the market, but no one stayed longer than a few nights. Every new tenant complained about the same thing. The whispers. Always starting on the second day. Always calling them by name. --- 7. The Final Tape A year later, a local urban explorer broke into the house to make a video for his channel. He found the hidden room, the chair, and the old tape recorder—still sitting there. He pressed play. The voice on the tape was new this time. > “Day one: the subject’s name is Alex.” “Day two: whispers intensify.” “Day three…” The explorer’s flashlight flickered. > “Day three: the voices say… my name.” The video ended there. It was uploaded automatically from his phone. The police never found Alex. But those who’ve watched the clip say that, if you listen closely at the end, you can hear a faint voice whispering your name too.
By Iazaz hussain12 months ago in Horror
Click Clack the Clown
John cursed as his snagged his finger on the sharp end of the wire he had been snipping away at. He sucked the blood droplet the was welling up. “Told you to wear gloves” Jodie’s smarmy tone drifted over. He hated it when his sister got one on him. He folded the square of wire he had been cutting and beckoned to his sister.
By Scott Grim12 months ago in Horror
Looking For Zombie Bites
Bambi twisted the shower controls to get the hot water flowing. She stripped off her bloody clothes, piling them on the bench next to her clean clothes. Just more fuel for the fire. She grabbed her towel and tossed it over the rack. The water was steaming so she entered the shower. She grabbed the shower head and let the hot water tattoo her muscular frame, water passing over her scars and tattoos. She then put the shower head back and just put her head under the hot water, enjoying the water flowing through her long blond hair.
By Jamais Jochim12 months ago in Horror
