psychological
Mind games taken way too far; explore the disturbing genre of psychological thrillers that make us question our perception of sanity and reality.
Where the Wicked Pray.. Honorable Mention in Out of the Dream Challenge.
He didn't really care for the Holy Book... Growing up his mother had been devout, she had been strict, but not necessarily unkind...still, he never let her know that he found no solace in her faith.
By Novel Allen5 months ago in Horror
Stuck in Time. Content Warning.
Some people say dreams are our brain’s way of deleting unwanted information. Others claim they are portals to the soul, or alternative lives that we only get to see while we sleep. However, there is one thing that all people agree upon. Nightmares are best when avoided.
By Josh Ripperger5 months ago in Horror
Light at the End. Content Warning.
Sleep had become an enemy. For weeks the nightmares had grown from unsettling to outright catastrophic, the kind of terror that left me shaking long after sunrise. Even the Prazosin wasn’t helping anymore. I swallowed my night meds anyway, more out of habit than hope, and lay back as my CPAP amplified every breath into a hollow, mechanical echo. Somehow even that sound had become ominous. I fought sleep with the last scraps of my will, but exhaustion finally dragged me under.
By Billy Thomas5 months ago in Horror
The Photograph That Blinked
Elena had inherited the house the same way she had inherited everything from her grandmother — without warning and without explanation. The will was simple. One page. One line that mattered: "The house on Mercer Lane belongs to Elena. She will know what to do." She did not know what to do. But she moved in anyway, because she was twenty-six and broke and the rent in the city had become a kind of slow financial violence she could no longer afford. The house was old — creaking floors, wallpaper that had once been floral and was now just beige suggestions of flowers, radiators that clanked like something trapped inside them was trying to get out. It felt, from the first night, like the house was watching her settle in. She didn't mind. She liked old things. She liked the weight of history in rooms, the way a worn armchair held the shape of someone who was gone. It felt like company. The photograph was in the hallway. Black and white, framed in dark wood, hung at eye level as though placed specifically for someone of her height. Five people standing in front of the house — this house, she realized, recognizing the front porch — dressed in clothes that suggested the 1940s. Two older adults, three younger. All of them unsmiling, the way people never smiled in old photographs, as though joy was something too private for a camera to witness. She had studied it carefully her first night, drawn to it in the way you are drawn to something you cannot fully explain. Five people. She counted twice. She went to bed, slept badly, and woke to grey November light pressing against the curtains. She made coffee. She walked the hallway. She stopped. She turned slowly and looked at the photograph. Six people. Her coffee cup hit the floor. She stood there, bare feet in a puddle of lukewarm coffee, and stared. The new figure stood at the back of the group — slightly taller than the others, slightly out of focus in a way that felt deliberate rather than accidental, the way you might blur a face in a photograph you didn't want identified. The figure wore dark clothing. The figure's hands were visible at its sides — long fingers, very still. The figure was standing directly behind the woman on the far right. Elena leaned closer. The woman on the far right had her grandmother's jawline. Her grandmother's posture — that particular way of holding the shoulders, slightly raised, like she was perpetually bracing for something. Elena straightened up and took three steps back. She pulled out her phone and took a photo of the photograph. She zoomed in on the new figure in the back. The face was blurred — but not entirely. She could make out the outline of features. The suggestion of eyes. The pale curve of a jaw. She enhanced the image as much as her phone would allow and then sat down on the hallway floor with her back against the wall because her legs had decided they were finished standing. The face in the photograph was hers. Not similar. Not a resemblance. Hers — her exact face, her eyes, the small scar on her left cheekbone from a bicycle accident at age nine. Her face, in a photograph taken eighty years before she was born, standing behind her grandmother, in clothing she did not own, with an expression she did not recognize on herself — because it was utterly calm. Because it looked like a face that had been there a very long time and intended to stay. She called the only person she could think to call — her mother. Her mother picked up, heard the trembling in Elena's voice, and was quiet for a moment before she said: "She told me this would happen." "What?" Elena whispered. "Your grandmother. She said that when you moved into the house, you would find the photograph. She said—" her mother stopped. Elena heard her exhale slowly. "She said to tell you not to be afraid. She said the house shows people who belong to it. People who have always belonged to it." "Mom," Elena said, her voice barely holding together, "I'm in a photograph from 1944." A long silence. "I know," her mother said quietly. "So was she. Elena — check the photograph again. Count the figures." Elena looked up at the photograph on the wall. Seven people now. The newest one stood directly behind her. She turned around. The hallway was empty. But on the floor behind her, in the spilled coffee she had not cleaned up, there were two footprints — facing her, perfectly still, leading from nowhere. Like someone had been standing there, very close, for a very long time.
By Noman Afridi5 months ago in Horror
Day Her Field of Vision Split. Honorable Mention in Out of the Dream Challenge.
The loose, malingering curtains loitered lazily in the dark. As a pale luminosity filtered through the pane, no one could see the moon wane; beneath her brow, her eyes slunk from side to side in REM. She stirred, sifting through the layers of her light-woven blanket, her feet hanging out to feel the coolness of her bed.
By Caitlin Charlton5 months ago in Horror
The Never-Ending Staircase
She didn't know how she got here. Goddess, she wasn't even sure where "here" was. Sunlight poured in - bright and cheerful - from the tall window to her left, illuminating a handsome, mahogany stairwell. She bent over the railing and craned her neck until it was sore, her stomach pressing against the spindles with every panicked breath at the dizzying sight below. Millions of steps stared back at her, but the bottom was nowhere in sight.
By Natalie Gray5 months ago in Horror
Where No One Goes: Chapter 4
Inside the auxiliary communications room of the Old Transit Station, the air grew heavy with the smell of scorched circuitry and cold sweat. Jack watched the terminal monitor as the pristine golden line of the Upper Tier defensive shields blazed to life on the horizon. The sirens in the distance continued to wail, a beautiful, mocking song of safety meant for someone else. He looked down at the station’s automated defense grid status on the console. It remained completely gray, disabled by a remote administrative override from the High Command Citadel, "They aren't coming," Jack whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow to the stomach, "They aren't going to open the turrets. They're leaving me here to die."
By Mara Edwards5 months ago in Horror
Where No One Goes: Chapter 3
The silver-plated console in the High Command Citadel of the Upper Tiers usually hummed with the quiet, comforting purr of total control. Commander Vance stood before the panoramic viewport, looking down at the tiered city. From this height, the Lower Fringes were nothing but a smudge of yellow fog beneath a blanket of pristine white towers.
By Mara Edwards5 months ago in Horror
Where No One Goes: Chapter 2
The red glare of a thousand waking machine eyes reflected off the low-hanging smog. Jack scrambled to his feet, his breath rattling in his throat as the iron sirens of Sector 9 tore the night apart. The dead zone was dead no longer. Beneath his boots, the ground vibrated with the deep, rhythmic thrum of buried generators roaring to maximum output. To his left, the reinforced steel gates that had kept the sector quarantined for a generation were grinding backward into the concrete walls.
By Mara Edwards5 months ago in Horror
Where No One Goes
The iron padlock on the rusted gates of Sector 9 was cold against Jack’s fingers. To the rest of the city, the Sector was a ghost story, a quarantined dead zone closed after the Collapse. To Jack, it was a goldmine of forgotten technology. He was a scrapper, an outsider who lived on the fringes of the upper tiers, surviving on what society threw away. He knew he shouldn't be here. The warning signs were clear. Red paint flaked off the bars, spelling out danger. Jack ignored them. He squeezed through a gap in the fence, slipping into the dark.
By Mara Edwards5 months ago in Horror
Unexpected Awakening
The copper taste of ozone clung to the back of my throat. I was running, though my legs felt like they were submerged in cold, thickening molasses. Behind me, the rhythmic snick-tock of uneven footsteps echoed against obsidian walls that pulsed with a faint, diseased heartbeat. I didn’t know what was hunting me through this labyrinth of shadows, but I knew its hunger was older than the stars. Every instinct screamed that if it caught me, death would be the merciful option.
By Mara Edwards5 months ago in Horror
