book reviews

Book reviews for horror fans; weather a sleepless night with literary accounts of hauntings, possessions, zombies, vampires and beyond.

The Station Without Trains
Seen (1) ‎At the far end of a desert highway stood a train station that no map acknowledged. There were no tracks leading to it, no schedules posted, and no trains that ever arrived. Still, every evening at sunset, the lights turned on. ‎ ‎Maya found the station by accident while driving cross-country to escape a life that felt too heavy. Her radio had gone silent miles ago, and her phone showed no signal. When she saw the station glowing in the distance, she pulled over, relieved to find signs of life. ‎ ‎The station was clean, almost untouched by time. Wooden benches lined the platform, and an old clock hung above the entrance, forever stuck at 6:40. The air smelled of dust and iron, like a place waiting to be used. ‎ ‎“Hello?” Maya called. ‎ ‎No answer. ‎ ‎She sat on a bench, telling herself she would leave in five minutes. But as the sun disappeared, the lights grew warmer, softer. Calm settled over her in a way she hadn’t felt in years. ‎ ‎A man in a conductor’s uniform stepped out from the shadows. His clothes looked old-fashioned, but neatly pressed. His face was kind, though tired. ‎ ‎“You’re early,” he said. ‎ ‎“Early for what?” Maya asked. ‎ ‎“For the train,” he replied. ‎ ‎Maya frowned. “There are no tracks.” ‎ ‎The man smiled gently. “Not all journeys need them.” ‎ ‎He explained that this station was a place between leaving and arriving—a pause for those who were lost, grieving, or running from something they couldn’t name. People didn’t come here on purpose. They arrived when they needed stillness. ‎ ‎“Does the train ever come?” Maya asked. ‎ ‎“Yes,” he said. “But only once for each person.” ‎ ‎Maya felt a tightness in her chest. “Where does it go?” ‎ ‎The conductor looked at the horizon. “To the life you stopped believing in.” ‎ ‎Maya thought of the dreams she had abandoned, the version of herself she no longer recognized. Tears surprised her, sliding down her face without warning. ‎ ‎“I don’t know if I’m ready,” she whispered. ‎ ‎The conductor nodded. “That’s why the train hasn’t arrived.” ‎ ‎They sat in silence as the stars appeared. For the first time in years, Maya didn’t feel the urge to run. She felt seen. ‎ ‎Slowly, the station lights dimmed. The conductor stood. ‎ ‎“When you leave,” he said, “you won’t remember this place. But you’ll remember how you felt.” ‎ ‎A distant sound echoed—not a train horn, but something close to a heartbeat. ‎ ‎Maya blinked. ‎ ‎She was back in her car, parked on the side of the empty highway. The station was gone. The road stretched endlessly ahead. ‎ ‎But her chest felt lighter. ‎ ‎She turned the key and drove forward, not knowing exactly where she was going—but certain, for the first time, that she was finally on the right track.
By Do bol ho jaaye 2 days ago in Horror
What is Lovecraft Horror?
Lovecraft horror was first brought to life by H.P. Lovecraft, an iconic horror writer that was responsible for giving the world a new vision of horror. Lovecraft horror is mostly seen as cosmic horror, or the fear of the unknown. This kind of horror focuses on mankind going insane upon witnessing the most messed up horror imaginable, either consisting of monsters or other worlds that the human race does not belong.
By Emy Quinn2 days ago in Horror
Cinderwood Ache
It wasn’t a memory, not really. Memories had edges, context, the faint scent of real experience. This was different. This was a raw, visceral ache for a place I’d never laid eyes on, a longing so potent it felt like a limb I’d lost. It started small, a flicker in the back of my mind, a vague image of grey stone and twisting, bare branches against a bruised sky. Then it became a whisper, then a shout. Every night, the same damn dream. Always Cinderwood Hall. Always on the edge of some bleak, windswept moor.
By HAADI8 days ago in Horror
The Unsent Plea
Arthur hated old houses. Not hated like a strong distaste, but hated like a deep, visceral revulsion. Especially this one. Aunt Mildred’s place. Three generations of dust and neglect, all settled into sagging floorboards and wallpaper peeling like sun-baked skin. He hadn't seen Mildred in twenty years, not since he was a kid and she’d tried to feed him a sandwich she swore had been blessed by a squirrel. So, when the lawyers called, mumbling about an estate and an attic full of "sentimental value," Arthur knew what "sentimental value" really meant: trash. Mountains of it.
By HAADI10 days ago in Horror
Moon-Struck Figures
Arthur couldn't sleep. Again. Three weeks, four days since the accident, and the nights were all the same: too long, too quiet, too full of things that weren't there but felt like they were. The old cabin, deep in the Blackwood Pines, was supposed to be a refuge. A place to get his head straight, away from the knowing glances and hushed tones. Instead, it was a soundproof box for his own unraveling.
By HAADI11 days ago in Horror
The Puddle Gaze
The rain was a cold, insistent slap against Finn’s face the moment he pushed through the swinging doors of the diner. Ten hours of frying grease and fake smiles, and this was his reward. The city was a slick, dark beast, its asphalt skin glistening under the jagged scars of neon light. Blues, reds, sickening greens. Everything blurred, everything bled into everything else, especially in the puddles.
By HAADI12 days ago in Horror
Whispers from the Winter Shadows: A Ghostly Egyptian Tale
When Winter Awakens the Dead Winter in Egypt is unlike anywhere else in the world. While the country is often associated with blazing suns and golden deserts, winter brings a different kind of magic—one filled with silence, mist, and shadows that seem to whisper forgotten secrets.
By olxia10 14 days ago in Horror
The Glass Petals
The woods had always been a good place to get lost. Silas preferred it that way. The city was a clamor, a relentless gnawing at his nerves, and the quiet of the pines, the rot of fallen leaves, that was his peace. Or what passed for it these days. His boots crunched through brittle undergrowth, a familiar, comforting sound, each step further from the ghost of his last mistake, his last broken promise. The sun, a pale, watery disc, struggled to penetrate the dense canopy, casting long, distorted shadows that stretched and swayed like grasping fingers.
By HAADI15 days ago in Horror
The Echoing Asylum of Silaos: Where the Patients Never Left | SEASON 2
Chapter 7 FATHER ELIAS’S JOURNAL: Entry 3: The Queen is not a demon, but a soul. A very angry, very vengeful soul. She is the mother of the asylum. Her spirit, and her profound grief, is what has been feeding on the patients' madness. She is what has been devouring them. She is the keeper of the lost. And she is now enraged.
By Tales That Breathe at Night16 days ago in Horror
The Quiet Deep
Arthur grumbled, a low, guttural sound lost in the growing roar of the wind outside. The old house, a collection of groaning timbers and sighing eaves, usually put up a good fight against the elements. Tonight, though, it felt like it was giving up. The windows rattled, not just with wind, but with tiny, insistent pellets of ice, the vanguard of the coming storm. He poked at the fire, a meager orange glow in the hearth, throwing long, dancing shadows that stretched and warped on the walls of his study. Another winter, another stretch of lonely nights up here in the sticks, same as always. But this one felt different, somehow. Colder, maybe. Sharper.
By HAADI16 days ago in Horror
The Rusting Pastorale
Unit 734 had no name, just a serial designation etched into its corroded chassis, a relic from the pre-Collapse years. Its optics, once sharp, were now clouded with dust and the grit of a hundred forgotten seasons. Its internal chronometer registered 287 standard cycles since its last routine maintenance, which meant roughly 287 years since the last human hand had calibrated its servos, since the last voice had issued a command. Now, it only heard the wind, a dry, whispering thing that carried the scent of decay through the skeletal remains of what was once a sprawling city. Its purpose, long obsolete, had been property management. Now, it managed only its own slow decline, its power cells humming a perpetual, low thrum against the encroaching silence.
By HAADI16 days ago in Horror
The Rewound Hours
Arthur was a creature of habit, especially since Eleanor passed. The house, big and empty, his anchor. One Tuesday, in the attic's dusty gloom, he found it: a forgotten grandfather clock. Blackened oak, intricate carvings. Eleanor had called it "too morbid." Now, it was a silent sentinel, its face a cracked porcelain blank. He dragged it down, a project to fill the quiet.
By HAADI17 days ago in Horror