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.
The Silence at Blackmere House
Blackmere House stood at the edge of a forgotten coastal cliff, where the wind howled through broken railings and the sea beat against sharp rocks like a restless heart. It was the kind of place people in the UK whispered about, a house with a history so dark that even local tour guides avoided telling the full story.
By Iazaz hussainabout a month ago in Horror
The Room I Built. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
I’ve avoided that room for years. Tonight, something inside knocks. The door creaks when I push it open. Dust drifts in pale beams of light, falling on objects I recognize but can’t place. The air is thick, almost tasting of mildew and old paper. The walls stretch higher than I remember, shadows pooling in the corners, curling like fingers. I feel a chill skitter along my spine, as if the room is breathing with me. The floorboards groan under my weight. A drawer slides open on its own, papers spilling across the floor. Scribbled notes, crumpled drawings, fragments of conversations I barely remember. And yet… they feel urgent, like they’ve been waiting. A figure crouches in the far corner, knees pulled up, head down. It wears my old school uniform. The whispers start, soft, low, almost drowned out by the sound of my own heartbeat but I recognize them immediately. Every mistake I’ve ever made, every word I wish I could take back. I should run. I know I should. But my legs refuse. The air tastes metallic, like blood. My throat is tight. And then it lifts its head. It’s my face. Swollen, twisted with all the years of anger, disappointment, and neglect I shoved away, pretending it didn’t matter. My own eyes glare at me with a fury I’ve long ignored. I lunge for the door. It doesn’t budge. The figure leans forward, voice soft, merciless: “You left me in here. Now it’s your turn.” The walls seem to pulse, closing in. My chest burns. The shadows press against me, heavier than air. And then I realize the truth: this room isn’t real. It never was. Every object, every shadow, every whispered mistake. I built it in my mind. I spent my life piling regrets here, thinking out of sight meant out of mind. And now… the room has me.
By Akuamoah Senior about a month ago in Horror
The Package. Top Story - December 2025.
It was not a dark and stormy night; instead, it was a dark and foggy one. In with the fog rolled a masked killer. He happened upon the house at 123 Cherry Lane. He stood in the street. He wore a hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes. He carried a package. It was wrapped in blue wrapping paper and a bow. He wrang the door bell and set the gift on the porch. Kyle, age 14, answered the door. He grabbed the gift and brought it inside. He set it on the coffee table as his best friend Reggie looked on.
By DJ Robbinsabout a month ago in Horror
Flash Fiction - Eye of the Beholder
Eye of the Beholder Beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder. What happens, though, when fire takes away any possible sense of exterior beauty? Does anyone then care about what’ inside, about the loving heart that beats beneath the ravaged flesh ruined by flames?
By John Watsonabout a month ago in Horror
The Last Transmission from Flight 729
By Abdul Hadi The Last Transmission from Flight 729 No one expected Flight 729 to become a ghost story. It was a routine commercial flight—Miami to San Juan, full of families beginning vacations, couples taking anniversary trips, and a quiet pilot named Captain Elias Ward who had flown the route over a thousand times. Weather forecast: clear enough. Nothing unusual.
By Abdul Hadiabout a month ago in Horror
. “The Man Who Came Home Before I Did… And Looked Exactly Like Me”
“The Man Who Came Home Before I Did… And Looked Exactly Like Me” By [Ali Rehman] I always believed that horror was something that happened on screens — in movies, in books, in legends whispered at night. I never imagined I would one day walk into a life that no longer belonged to me.
By Ali Rehmanabout a month ago in Horror
The Last Message
It was 2:14 a.m. when Ayan’s phone vibrated under his pillow. At first, he ignored it. Nights had become heavy for him—hours spent staring at the ceiling, trying to drown memories that refused to fade. Memories of her. The way she laughed with her whole face, the way she always warmed her hands on a cup of chai before drinking, the way she said his name as if it carried some hidden softness only she could hear.
By hamad khanabout a month ago in Horror
