travel
Haunted locales and houses of horror from the Amityville home to the Tower of London; travel tips for those seeking a trip filled with fun and evil.
The Midnight Dressmaker
In the quiet village of Gallowmere, where the moon always seemed just a little too full and the air always smelled faintly of roses and ash, there was once a woman named Elara. She was known far and wide as The Midnight Dressmaker. She wasn’t called that because she worked late. No—Elara only opened her boutique at midnight. That was when her shop lit up with soft candlelight, and she’d welcome anyone who knocked on her tall, black wooden door. By dawn, the shop would vanish into darkness again—shutters closed, windows covered, as if it had never opened. Elara was beautiful. Not in a warm, friendly way, but in the kind of beauty that made your heart skip—icy and elegant, like snow that had never been touched. Her eyes were grey, like storm clouds, and her voice was soft as silk. But what truly made her famous were her dresses. People claimed her gowns could make anyone breathtaking. If you wore one of Elara’s creations, you’d be the center of any room, the dream of every eye. Brides came from miles away. Actors begged for her designs. No matter how rich or poor you were, if she accepted your request… she never charged a coin. She only asked for something personal—something that "held a memory." A necklace, a diary, even a single teardrop on a handkerchief. And people always gave it. They said she worked with shadows and lace, with whispers and dreams. But those who wore her dresses never talked about them afterward. Not even once. That would’ve been the end of the story—just an eerie village rumor—if not for Maera, a curious 17-year-old girl who lived down the lane from Elara’s shop. Maera loved fairy tales, especially the ones that ended badly. She had a heart full of wonder and just enough foolish bravery to think she could solve any mystery. One night, when the air was thick with summer and the stars blinked like watchful eyes, Maera did something nobody else had dared: she snuck into Elara’s shop. She waited until the bell chimed midnight and the shop’s windows glowed golden. Then, wearing her father’s dark coat and her own trembling courage, she slipped through the side door that Elara had forgotten to lock. Inside, the boutique was like a dream stitched together by nightmares. Mannequins stood frozen like statues, all wearing half-finished gowns. Some dresses shimmered with golden thread, others were made of dark, feathery silk that seemed to breathe. There were mirrors—tall, warped, and dusty—lining the walls. None of them showed her reflection. At the center of the room, Elara stood with her back turned, humming a lullaby no one had heard in years. On a pedestal was her latest work: a gown so beautiful it almost made Maera cry. It glittered like midnight waves and smelled like old flowers and ink. But then Maera saw something that made her knees shake. The hem of the dress—dripping. Not with paint. Not with dye. With something darker, thicker. Blood. Elara turned slowly, her fingers still holding a silver needle threaded with red. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice as soft as snow. Maera tried to run, but her feet were rooted. Her voice didn’t come. Elara smiled—not cruelly, but with a sadness that filled the room like fog. “You’re just like I was,” she whispered. “Curious. Bright. Foolish.” Then she told Maera the truth—the truth that stitched everything together like seams no one ever saw. Elara had once been a simple girl too. Many, many years ago. She was in love. But her village had burned during a war, and she lost everything—her home, her family, her love. In her grief, she cried by the ruins until a stranger approached her. He was cloaked in black, with eyes like coals. He offered her a gift: The Needle of Remembrance. With it, she could sew beauty from pain, create gowns that captured memory, desire, sorrow… even life. But magic always comes at a cost. For every dress she made, a little piece of her soul was stitched inside. And for each masterpiece, someone had to pay—in blood, or in time. The dress would steal something from its wearer: their voice, their dreams, sometimes even their shadow. That’s why they never spoke afterward. And now, the needle had begun to whisper. It was hungry again. Tired of old memories. It wanted new ones. Maera’s. Elara pleaded with the needle to spare the girl. But the needle had rules. Only one way out: if Elara gave herself entirely to the final stitch. And she did. In front of Maera, Elara pricked her finger, whispering an ancient word. The thread blazed red, and the dress curled around her like vines. Her body shimmered, then folded into the fabric. She vanished—forever sewn into her last creation. The dress fell limp. Still beautiful, but empty now. Quiet. Maera dropped to her knees, breathless. The next morning, the boutique was gone. Just an old, boarded-up house, filled with cobwebs and dust. People say Maera was never the same after that. She stopped speaking for a year. But then one day, she began to sew. Just simple things at first. Scarves. Ribbons. Shawls. But with every stitch, her hands moved like they’d done it a thousand times before. She never used red thread. She never sewed at night. And if anyone asked why she kept a silver needle locked in a glass case on her shelf, she’d only smile and say: “Some dresses are too beautiful to wear. And some beauty... is better left unfinished.” The End.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Room That Wasn’t There
Okay, so listen. I gotta tell you about this super weird thing that happened to my friend Lucas last summer. Like, it still gives me goosebumps just thinking about it. Lucas and his family moved into this old house in a town called Pine Hollow. The house was huge, with creaky wooden floors and a dusty attic and those big windows that always look kinda spooky at night. But the weirdest thing about the house was how it sometimes felt bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside. You know how in cartoons, a tiny box can hold a million things? Like that.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers in the Jungle. AI-Generated.
It was supposed to be the perfect getaway. Three friends, Ayaan, Bilal, and Usman, had been planning their jungle adventure for months. The idea was simple: to escape the busy city life, explore the unknown, and challenge themselves to survive in the wilderness. Ayaan had heard stories of a forgotten jungle, nestled deep in the mountains — untouched, mysterious, and waiting to be explored.
By nasir shahabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Turn at Hollow Creek
The Shortcut It was the last weekend before school started, and 12-year-old Eli, Mira, Jayden, and Sophia wanted to do something fun—one last adventure before summer ended. Mira had the idea. “My cousin said there’s an old trail behind Hollow Creek Road. It’s supposed to lead to an abandoned campground,” she said. “No one’s been there in years. Wanna go?” “Abandoned?” Eli raised an eyebrow. “That usually means don’t go.” “Or it means we’ll be the first to explore it,” said Jayden, already stuffing snacks into his backpack. Sophia didn’t say much. She was the quiet one. But when she nodded, that was it. They were going. They grabbed flashlights, trail mix, their phones, and set off on their bikes by 3 p.m. That was their first mistake. Hollow Creek Road Hollow Creek Road looked like something from an old horror movie. Trees leaned over the gravel road like they were whispering to each other. The sunlight barely reached through the branches, and the wind made weird whistling noises in the leaves. Halfway down the road, they saw the sign. It was nailed to a tree, crooked and scratched up: "LAST TURN AHEAD. DON’T ENTER AFTER DARK." “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mira laughed nervously. Jayden kicked at the sign. “Probably just to keep people out. Classic ‘haunted trail’ trick.” They turned anyway. That was their second mistake. The Forest That Didn’t Want Them The trail started off fine. Quiet. Peaceful. But about 10 minutes in, things got weird. The forest got too quiet. No squirrels. No birds. Even the air felt wrong. Like it had stopped moving. Sophia stopped walking and said, “Do you guys hear that?” “Hear what?” Eli asked. And then they all realized—it was their footsteps. But not just theirs. There was one more set. Behind them. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. They spun around. No one there. They laughed it off. "Just echoes," Jayden said. But no one believed that. Especially not Sophia. The Campground By 4:15, they found the old campground. It was exactly how Mira described it: empty cabins, a rusty firepit, and a creepy old bell tower with a broken rope. But the weirdest part? Everything looked clean. No dust. No leaves. No bugs. Like someone had just been there. Or was still there. “I don’t like this,” Eli whispered. Jayden shrugged. “Let’s check out the cabins.” That was the third mistake. Something in the Cabin They entered the first cabin. It smelled like mold and rotting wood. On the wall was a chalkboard. Still had writing on it: Camp Schedule Wake-up — 7:00 a.m. Breakfast — 8:00 a.m. Lights Out — 9:00 p.m. No Leaving After Dark Then, below it, in big letters: “THE FOREST TAKES WHO STAYS.” The air suddenly felt heavy. Like something had closed the door… even though none of them touched it. Jayden tried to open it. Locked. “What the—?” Then the window slammed shut by itself. Mira screamed. Something was moving in the ceiling. Like claws. Scraping. Run They didn’t wait. Jayden kicked the door until it burst open, and they ran into the woods, not even caring which way they came from. But the path was gone. Where the trail had been before, there were now just trees. Thick and twisted and way too close together. “It was right here! I swear!” Eli said. Sophia was crying quietly. “It doesn’t want us to leave.” “What?” Mira asked. Sophia looked up, eyes wide. “The woods. They brought us here. They don’t want us to go.” Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. That sound again. Right behind them. The Shadows They ran until the sky started turning orange. And then… they saw it. A figure. Tall. Thin. Almost stick-like. Standing in the distance between the trees. They froze. It didn’t move. Until Jayden whispered, “Is that a person?” The figure twitched—its neck bent sideways. Then it vanished. And suddenly… there were more. Dozens. Standing still. All around them. Watching. Then Mira said the words that made everyone panic: “They look like scarecrows.” But these scarecrows didn’t have poles. They moved. The Bell Eli remembered something from the chalkboard: “No leaving after dark.” “But it didn’t say anything about ringing the bell,” he said. “The tower!” Mira pointed. They made a run for it, ducking branches, dodging roots, ignoring the whispering wind that now seemed to say their names. Sophia tripped. A scarecrow grabbed her foot. Its fingers were like branches—snapping, dry, and cold. Jayden tackled it, pulling her free. They made it to the tower. Eli grabbed the rope—rotted and thin—and yanked with all his strength. BONGGGGGG. The sound echoed through the woods. And all the shadows screamed. The Escape The forest shifted. Literally—trees moved, creaking and groaning like they were alive. And then, there it was. The trail. Back where it had been before. They didn’t think, didn’t talk—they just ran. Jayden tripped once, but Sophia helped him up. Mira twisted her ankle but kept going. They didn’t stop until they reached their bikes. And even then, they didn’t stop pedaling until Hollow Creek Road was far behind them. The sun was down. But they made it. Don’t Go Back Back home, their phones said it was 2 a.m. They had been gone for nearly 10 hours. But to them… it felt like 2. None of them could sleep that night. The next day, they all made a promise. Never go back to Hollow Creek. Never talk about what they saw. And never, ever take shortcuts through the woods again. But Eli still hears the bell sometimes. Especially at night. When the wind dies down. And the forest holds its breath.
By Lucien Hollow about a year ago in Horror
The Last Locker
Hey friend, okay, so you remember that one weird hallway in school? You know, the one that always feels a little colder? The one where the lights flicker even though no one else seems to care? Yeah. That hallway? That’s where this story takes place. It’s about a girl named Callie Winters, and how one very bad week led her to open the one locker in school that no one ever touches. They say what she found inside changed everything—and not in a good way. The Wrong Kind of Attention Callie Winters wasn’t popular. She wasn’t the class clown. She wasn’t a genius. She was just… Callie. Kind of quiet. Liked to doodle. Always sat in the middle of the class, never the front or the back. But after what happened, everyone knew her name. Not because she wanted it. Because they had to remember. It all started on a rainy Tuesday—the day someone shoved her into the lockers. Her books spilled everywhere, her notebook ripped, and everyone laughed. Everyone except the new janitor. He just watched. He didn’t blink. He didn’t help. He just stared… at Locker 17. The Locker Nobody Claimed Locker 17 was different. It sat at the far end of the East Wing hallway—where no teachers walked, and the lights always flickered like broken candles. No one knew who it belonged to. The school said it was “out of use.” But students whispered other stories: That it used to belong to a girl named Jessa Greer who disappeared after setting the science lab on fire. That you could hear someone whispering your name when you walked past. That someone once opened it—and never came back to class. Callie always thought it was just made-up junk. Until she heard it whisper her name. Whisper, Whisper The day after the locker incident, Callie walked past Locker 17 again. It was raining, just like the day before. Her books were soggy. Her hair stuck to her face. And her heart? Heavy. Because the girls who laughed yesterday? They laughed again today. So when she passed Locker 17… she stopped. And she heard it. “Calllllieeeee…” Her eyes widened. “Who’s there?!” Nothing. She leaned in. Held her breath. “They’ll pay if you let me out.” She jumped back. Looked around. The hallway was empty. Except for the janitor—still watching from the end. And still not blinking. What Was Inside The next morning, her locker was vandalized. Ripped open. Her favorite sketchbook ruined. She ran to the principal’s office. No one helped. Not even her teacher, who said, “Kids will be kids.” So Callie went back. To Locker 17. This time, the lock was… gone. The door hung slightly open. She hesitated. Then reached for it. And inside? Nothing. Just a mirror. A dirty, cracked mirror that hadn’t been there before. She leaned in—and her reflection smiled before she did. Then it whispered: “Do you want them to be afraid, too?” And for just a moment… Callie whispered back: “Yes.” The Change That’s when things started to get weird. The next day, the girls who bullied her? One slipped and fell face-first into her lunch. Another lost her voice during a class presentation. By Thursday, the worst one—Mara—ran out of the bathroom screaming, saying the mirror whispered her name. Callie didn’t smile. But something inside her did. That night, she had a dream. She was in a dark hallway, facing Locker 17. The door creaked open. Inside was herself. Except her eyes were pitch black. And she said: “Let me stay.” The Warning Ellis, the janitor, finally spoke to her. “You opened it, didn’t you?” Callie looked up. “Opened what?” “The mirror. The mouth.” He knelt beside her. “That locker is a door, not a box. It doesn’t hold things—it lets them out.” Callie’s hands trembled. “What did I let out?” He didn’t answer. Just handed her a note. It read: “You have seven days. After that, it won’t need your permission anymore.” The Countdown Every night, she had the dream again. The hallway. The locker. The mirror. Each time, her dark reflection looked more real. More alive. And at school? People were terrified of her. Doors creaked when she passed. Lights flickered more. Even the principal stared at her with wide, tired eyes. Locker 17 whispered louder now. “Only one more day…” The Choice On the seventh day, Callie stood in front of Locker 17. The school was silent. Empty. The janitor was gone. Just her. And the locker. The mirror inside glowed faintly. She could leave it. Walk away. Try to forget. But the voice inside whispered: “They’ll never stop unless I stay.” Callie closed her eyes. And stepped inside. Gone The next day, her classmates noticed something odd. Locker 17 was gone. Not locked. Not boarded. Gone. Like it had never been there. So was Callie. But in the back hallway… there was now a mirror. Cracked. And sometimes… if you walked past it alone… You could hear a girl giggling softly. Or crying. Or whispering… “Do you want them to be afraid, too?” The New Girl A month later, a new girl transferred to the school. Shy. Kept her head down. But the first time she walked down the East Wing hallway, she stopped. Looked into the mirror. And smiled… before her reflection did. So yeah. If your school has a hallway that feels off? If there’s a locker no one talks about? Or a mirror that seems to watch you… Walk faster. Don’t look back. And whatever you do… Don’t open it. Because it might not be you who comes out again.
By Lucien Hollow about a year ago in Horror
The Voice at the Door
The rain was a steady, mournful rhythm against the windows, a soundtrack to the oppressive silence inside our small cottage. Three days. It had been three days since we’d buried my mother, Clara. Three days since her vibrant laughter, her comforting presence, had been reduced to a cold, sterile memory. The grief was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, making every breath an effort. My wife, Sarah, sat across from me, her face pale and drawn. She hadn't cried much, not openly, but I could see the sorrow etched in the lines around her eyes, the way she clutched the steaming mug of tea, as if seeking warmth against an internal chill. She had loved my mother, truly loved her, and her quiet suffering was almost harder to bear than my own. A sudden, sharp rap echoed through the house, cutting through the rain and our unspoken grief. We both stiffened, our eyes meeting across the dimly lit room. It was late, past midnight. Who could it be? Another rap, louder this time, more insistent. I pushed myself up from the armchair. “I’ll get it,” I murmured, my voice raspy. “No!” Sarah’s voice was sharp, a sudden tremor in her tone. She stood up, her eyes wide, almost pleading. “Don’t, Daniel. Don’t open it.” I paused, surprised by her vehemence. “Sarah, it’s probably just a neighbor, or someone lost. It’s pouring outside.” “No,” she repeated, stepping towards me, her hand reaching out to grasp my arm. Her fingers were cold. “Please, just… don’t.” Before I could question her, a sound, faint but unmistakable, drifted from the front door. A voice. A voice that sent a jolt of ice through my veins, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. “Daniel? Are you there, my son? It’s your mother. Let me in, it’s so cold out here.” My blood ran cold. It was Mother’s voice. Her gentle, slightly reedy tone, the familiar way she elongated the ‘so’ in ‘so cold.’ Impossible. My mind screamed in protest. This had to be a cruel, sadistic prank. But who would do such a thing? I turned to Sarah, my face a mask of disbelief and dawning horror. “Sarah… did you hear that? It’s Mother! But… how?” Sarah’s grip on my arm tightened, her nails digging into my skin. Her eyes, usually so warm, were filled with a profound, terrifying dread. “Don’t open the door, Daniel!” she hissed, her voice barely a whisper, yet filled with an urgency that terrified me. “Please, for God’s sake, don’t!” Another series of knocks, more frantic now, accompanied by that voice, pleading, cajoling. “Daniel, darling, please. My old bones are freezing. Just a moment, let me come in. I need my son.” My heart was a war drum in my chest. Every fiber of my being yearned to rush to the door, to throw it open, to embrace the mother I had just buried. My grief-stricken mind wrestled with the horrifying reality. She was dead. We had stood by her grave just three days ago, watched the coffin lowered into the earth. “It’s not her, Daniel,” Sarah choked out, tears finally streaming down her face. “It can’t be. It’s… it’s something else. Something trying to get in.” Her words made a chilling kind of sense, even as my emotions fought against them. The raw, desperate need in that voice, the way it played on my deepest sorrow, felt predatory. But the resemblance was uncanny. Every inflection, every nuance, was exactly like Mother. The knocking escalated into a frantic pounding, rattling the doorframe. And the voice changed, subtly. The soft pleading took on a sharper edge, a hint of impatience, even anger. “Daniel! Are you going to leave your mother out in the storm? After all I’ve done for you? After all these years?” A shiver of genuine fear ran down my spine. Mother, for all her love, had never resorted to emotional manipulation, not like this. This was a twisted mimicry, a violation of her memory. “Who are you?” I yelled back, my voice trembling, cracking. “Leave us alone!” A silence fell, thick and unnerving, broken only by the relentless rain. My heart pounded so loudly I thought Sarah must hear it. Then, a low, guttural chuckle emanated from the other side of the door. It wasn't Mother’s laughter. It was something else. Something ancient and malevolent, devoid of humor, filled with contempt. And then the voice returned, but this time, it was a chilling, distorted parody of my mother’s voice, stretched and deepened, laced with a faint, gurgling sound, like water bubbling through mud. “You buried me, Daniel. You put me in the cold, dark ground. But I’m still here. And I need to come home.” The pounding on the door intensified, becoming violent, as if something heavy was slamming against it. The entire frame shuddered. Sarah let out a strangled cry, burying her face in my shoulder. I could feel her shaking uncontrollably. “It knows,” I whispered, my eyes fixed on the trembling wood of the door. “It knows we buried her.” “It’s not her, Daniel,” Sarah sobbed into my shirt. “It's using her… to get to us.” Suddenly, the pounding stopped. Another silence, even more terrifying than the last. Then, a scratching sound began, slow and deliberate, like long, sharp nails dragging across the wood, moving from the doorknob, upwards. And then, I heard it. A faint, wet sniffing sound from directly outside the keyhole, followed by a soft, almost inaudible sigh. Then, the voice again, a whisper now, right at the keyhole, raw and intimate, filled with a horrific intimacy that turned my stomach. “I can smell your fear, Daniel. And I can smell your grief. Such a heavy grief. It’s almost as heavy as the earth on my coffin.” I stumbled back, pulling Sarah with me, away from the door. My mind reeled. This wasn't some trick of sound or light. This was real. Something was out there. Something that had taken on my mother’s voice, her memories, to gain entry. Something that was preying on my sorrow. The scratching continued, now higher up the door, then lower, as if whatever was outside was circling, testing, searching for a weakness. A faint, earthy scent, like damp grave soil, began to seep through the cracks around the doorframe, mixing with the clean smell of rain. Sarah clung to me, her face buried against my chest. “What does it want?” she whimpered. The voice answered, a low, satisfied murmur from the other side of the door. “I want to be warm again, my son. And you are so warm. You held my hand when I was cold. Now, let me hold yours. Forever.” A chilling sound, like a wet, sucking noise, came from the keyhole, followed by a faint, clicking sound, as if something was attempting to turn the lock from the outside. Panic surged through me, cold and absolute. It wasn't just a voice. It was trying to get in. It was trying to claim me, just as it had claimed Mother’s voice. I dragged Sarah back, away from the door, towards the deepest part of the house, the small, enclosed pantry where we kept emergency supplies. We huddled there, in the oppressive darkness, listening to the rain, and to the faint, persistent scratching that continued at the front door. It went on and on, punctuated by the chilling whispers of a voice that was both familiar and utterly alien. I knew then, with a sickening certainty, that the grave had not held her. And now, the thing that had followed her back was patiently waiting, clawing at the door, to finally claim what it believed was its due. My mother's voice, transformed into a siren's call from the abyss. And the night was long. So very long.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
“The Secret Room My Landlord Never Told Me About”
When I first moved into Apartment 3B on Halstead Street, I thought I'd found the deal of a lifetime. Two bedrooms, high ceilings, vintage windows, and a view that didn’t face another brick wall. It was oddly affordable, the kind of place that makes you pause and think, "What's the catch?"
By Hamad Haiderabout a year ago in Horror
Home of nightmares. AI-Generated.
There was a place deep in the deserts of Arizona, hidden beneath the scorched sun and forgotten highways. A place known only through whispers and secondhand rumors. Journalists, thrill-seekers, and investigators flocked there in growing numbers, each lured by the legends surrounding it.
By ADIR SEGALabout a year ago in Horror
The Bunker
I can’t be the only one looking for answers about this place. Aren’t you just a little curious? There are so many questions; who built it, why was it built here, and the thing that nags at me more than all the other questions, what’s being kept behind that reinforced door? I know none of it is any of my business, but I simply must know.
By Mark Gagnonabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Seat on the Bus
Hey, can I tell you something that still gives me chills? You know how buses always feel kind of weird when it’s cloudy? Like everything is quiet and you can’t see outside, and the windows fog up like the world just… disappeared? That’s how it was the day Mina got on the bus. Except... we didn’t see her get on. And that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about. The Beginning: Ordinary, Until It Wasn’t It started like any other school day. I was sitting in the back of Bus 6, middle row, left side—my usual spot. My best friend Kevin was next to me, chewing on a pen cap like always. We had just finished the science test and were half-asleep from boredom. It was foggy outside, like the kind of fog that wraps around trees and makes them look like they're floating. The sun couldn’t get through it. Everything looked gray and weird, like the world had been erased. Mr. Ahmed, the bus driver, kept the headlights on, and we all joked about how he couldn’t even see the road. That’s when Mina was suddenly sitting beside me. Who’s Mina? Mina was a quiet girl. Really quiet. Like, whisper-when-she-talks kind of quiet. She always wore the same navy blue hoodie with a small rip on the sleeve and carried a faded pink backpack. She was new that year. Nobody really knew her. We never saw her eat lunch. She didn’t talk to teachers much. She was just... there. But that day? She hadn’t been at school. I knew she hadn’t. Kevin even said, “Yo, Mina’s out sick again, right?” And yet… here she was, sitting next to me. No one remembered her getting on. Not even the driver. She Was Too Still I looked at her. She was staring straight ahead, not blinking, not moving. Her hoodie was pulled low over her face. “Mina?” I whispered. She turned slowly and looked at me. Her eyes were dark. I don’t mean brown—I mean dark, like when you look into a tunnel and you can’t see the end. She didn’t say anything. She just stared. “Are you okay?” Still nothing. That’s when I noticed something... Her hoodie was damp. Like she had just come in from the rain. But it hadn’t rained all day. And her backpack? It was dripping. Everything Got Cold Kevin leaned over. “Dude... why is it so cold?” He was right. The bus had gotten freezing. All the windows fogged up completely, even though they were already shut. The heaters were on, but they weren’t doing anything. Mr. Ahmed muttered something under his breath. “Stupid bus…” Then the radio started hissing. Not music. Not talking. Just static. Everyone looked around. Some kids joked, “It’s ghosts!” But their laughs didn’t sound real. I looked back at Mina. She hadn’t moved. Something in the Window I wiped the fog off the window with my sleeve. Outside was just trees… all gray… all dead-looking. But for a second—I saw something behind the bus. A shadow. Running. On all fours. Fast. But with long arms, like a person crawling backwards. It was too quick to be a person. Kevin saw it too. He grabbed my sleeve. “Tell me you saw that.” I nodded slowly. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. We both turned to Mina. And she was smiling. Only it wasn’t a happy smile. It was too wide. Like her cheeks had been pulled. Her lips cracked at the corners. That was the first time she spoke. “He’s almost here.” Emergency Stop I yelled, “Stop the bus! Something’s chasing us!” Mr. Ahmed pulled the emergency brake. The bus screeched to a halt. Kids screamed. Bags flew. Someone hit their head on the seat in front of them. Kevin and I turned back to Mina—but her seat? Empty. Like completely empty. Her backpack was gone. Her hoodie—gone. She was just… not there anymore. I looked at the window where she’d been sitting. And written in the fog, in what looked like a finger dipped in mud, were the words: “Too late.” Into the Woods We begged Mr. Ahmed to drive. “Something’s out there!” But the bus wouldn’t start. We heard footsteps on the roof. THUMP. THUMP. Then silence. And then—a hand slapped the side window. Not a normal hand. Long fingers. Black nails. Wet, like it had just crawled out of a swamp. All the kids were screaming now. One girl threw up. Someone fainted. But I grabbed Kevin’s arm, and we ducked low. I don’t know why—instinct maybe. When we looked up again… the fog was gone. Just like that. Sunlight. Clear skies. The heater working again. And the bus? Started right up like nothing ever happened. But Where’s Mina? We made it home. The police were called. Our parents thought we were all pranking the school or making up a “group hallucination.” But here's the thing: Mina was never on the attendance list. Not for that day. Not for that year. Not at all. She never existed. They even checked school photos. Class rosters. Nothing. No Mina. But I remember her. Her voice. That hoodie. The way she whispered “He’s almost here.” And that smile... Kevin remembers too. We still talk about it sometimes, late at night, when neither of us can sleep.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
