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.
A Red and White Striped Apron
Barbra Jennings was tiny. Still, having her beside you was like standing next to a giant. Her bright red hair was cut into a groomed pixie cut and combed to one side. Her chubby face, sharp-looking eyes squished into the back of the hollow sockets, and her mouth looking like it was permanently pointing downwards made up her somewhat ghastly appearance. Her figure could take up a double hallway. Her breasts hung down and hovered over her nonexistent waistline. The giant layered lump of her upper body led down to a pair of stick thin legs with tiny feet that seemed to struggle carrying the rest of her. Waddling like a penguin, the round, wobbly lump that defined Barbra made its way through doors and hallways. Seeing her crunched over a tray of pastries, one could easily imagine the weight of her chest tipping her over and her pointy, crooked nose slowly sinking into the warm custard. To the people coming in and out of the bakery, she grinned, laughed, made jokes and quite often slipped in a little something extra when handing over the pastry boxes. The business flourished, so she only gained by doing so. The satisfied smirk that dominated her puffy face when she left the counter was beyond any customer’s observation. Her ability to disguise herself this way was performed with bewildering mastery. It was truly fascinating to watch.
By Margit Fagerbekk8 years ago in Horror
Safe and Sound
Era sits in the center of a dark room, blindfolded by a scratchy dish towel with her hands tied behind her back. Her body is soaking wet from the current events of her most recent, unsuccessful escape. The bright blue party dress sticks uncomfortably to her undergarments underneath, one side of the bodice creeps lower to expose her right breast. Cleavage prominently on display... It was perfectly cliche the only source of light she could make out was a rusted lightbulb dangling from the ceiling in a small swaying motion. The vicinity was cold, smooth wood floors and metal walls. A bunker, no doubt. One where she had been dragged back and forth to for years. Her guard was compromised far too many times... and here where she was contained and abandoned, where she would recollect what brought her here in the first place: Her dreams. Tears started to soak the fabric where it covered her eyes, hearing the familiar footsteps of the man who brought her here. The man that kept her under lock and key. The inspiration that showered her with "protection" when she needed it the most. It became the biggest mistake of her life, considering it was all she had to her name. Her thoughts, her peace of mind... Controlled by safety.
By Nicole Buck8 years ago in Horror
The Midnight Train
The cigarette I was lighting almost fell from my lips when I caught a glimpse of the man standing a hundred feet away from me on the train platform. Turning my head to get a better look, the man was suddenly gone. After a minute or so he reappeared, only this time he was to my right and a few feet closer. I shook my head to clear my thoughts because there was no way this was the same man from 5 years ago. I had been working a lot lately, and fatigue was as good of an excuse as any other.
By Brent Daniels8 years ago in Horror
My Dreadful Story
Water drips... Three days and that's all I hear... Water drips. Depending on the time of day, I could barely see my surrounding with the glare that flies through the room. If I had any idea of what's going on in this situation I would be planning and acting on my next move, but I'm not ready. I don't know where I am, why I'm here or even how I got here... On top of it all, it's too dark. The only time I could get some decent light is when the old man walks in to bring me food and water. Why are they still keeping me alive? I can see the old man's fear and pity when he looks at me... As if somebody is forcing him to feed me.... Like an animal. I could knock the old man out and run out the door when he walks in again, but I don't know what's outside these walls... It seems too easy... But it's the only way. Is that what they want me to do? If I'm going to die, it's the only thing I can do.
By Joe Ocasio8 years ago in Horror
A Not So Normal Day
It was a normal morning. A coffee breakfast, chased with dry toast and orange juice, a shower, a shave and a bathroom break. All normal. Work out clothes on, an early morning jog and another shower after. See? All normal. Dressed for work and out the door on time. It was a five block walk to the office, and me in my pressed shirt and pants and nice shoes and a blue tie to offset the lack of color in the shirt, would be there in short time. By my watch, I had half an hour and I had never been late to work.
By A.J. Brown8 years ago in Horror
Smell of Decay
The ranch house sat at the side of a hill surrounded by a forest for miles in each direction. It was small, humble, with only a room for both living and sleep, one for storing his books and valuables, and another split for food, laundry, and bathing. The creature that lived inside of the ranch house had no need of fire so there was never a smoke trail in the sky. On a slightly chilly night late in February, Vernon sat comfortably in his favorite chair and flipped the page of his book.
By William Hillson8 years ago in Horror
The Good Boy
Gerald Thompson was a large, burly, grizzled man with patches of red hair all atop his head. He was imposing, dangerous and no-nonsense. His work had often kept him busy. As a construction foreman, his ability to intimidate was the stuff of legend. He could scare the pants out of his subordinates with a glare. His long, twelve-hour shift led to at least, seven firings, a long phone battle with an order for sheetrock gave the company who was supposed to deliver the order more reason to delay the order. The day was so brutal that he jumped into his car and drove home without doing one very important thing. Pick up his seven-year-old son from his school.
By Carlos Gonzalez8 years ago in Horror
The Broken Window
Growing up on a council, the council estate had some very interesting aspects. One was the social bubble. As a child, I played within the confines of the local area, and so I didn't really see much else of different social class other than on the TV. The other was the steady stream of temporary friends from the two children's homes on the corners of Chelwood Close and Cuckmere Way.
By Colin J Davies8 years ago in Horror
The Nocturne Chamber Part 3
My head was pounding before I even opened my eyes that morning. After an informative, but ultimately fruitless, night at the bar, I had turned up nothing concrete with which to aid my investigation. I rolled out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom, blinking the sleep out of my eyes as I brushed my teeth. I thought back to the day I first heard about the Weeping Door.
By Samuel Canerday8 years ago in Horror
Let Us Be Friends
Olivia... Olivia Jones, a name I'd never forget. I am your average college girl. I guess you'd say I have quite the good amount of friends, but what does that matter... right? You would think that having an enormous group of friends, or your "circle" as we put it nowadays, would be somewhat important only in your entire high school career, but does it carry on? I guess I never did pay much attention to popularity or even the mere fact that I even had friends because I spent most of my time with my family either way.
By Yajaira Villanueva8 years ago in Horror
