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 Last Notification
The Last Notification It was 2:13 a.m. when my phone lit up on the nightstand. I rolled over, squinting against the glow, half expecting it to be one of those useless spam texts. But when I read the name on the screen, my breath caught in my throat.
By Kamran Ahmad4 months ago in Horror
The Relic in the Wood. Content Warning.
The night Tracie Harp was born, the moon sat heavy and red over the small Virginia town. Her mother remembered the screams of owls in the woods, the broken glass that fell from the nursery window for no reason, and the sudden cold that blanketed the house like frost.
By Crystal Cane4 months ago in Horror
The Terminal – Part One
Julian Mercer awoke with a stiff groan, his cheek pressed against the cold wooden slats of a bench. His neck ached as he sat upright, vertebrae popping, the sour taste of sleep heavy in his mouth. The overhead glow of fluorescent bulbs stabbed at his eyes, a sickly yellow glare that made everything look jaundiced and unreal.
By Shehzad Anjum4 months ago in Horror
he Final Departure Part Three – The Conductor
The Final Departure Part Three – The Conductor Julian sat rigid on the bench, knuckles white around the handle of the suitcase that wasn’t his. The voices of the lost passengers filled the station now—low murmurs, the occasional sob, the dragging thud of ruined bags over stone. None of them looked at him, but he felt swallowed by their presence.
By Shehzad Anjum4 months ago in Horror
The Final Departure Part Four – The Final Boarding
The sound came first: a grinding roar that shook the walls of the station, vibrating through the steel beams above. Then came the light—two blazing orbs far down the tunnel, cutting through the black like the eyes of some enormous beast.
By Shehzad Anjum4 months ago in Horror
The Store at Crescent Villa
At twenty-four, Arman had grown used to silence. The kind of silence that lived not in forests or fields but in neat, carefully drawn streets—rows of houses with trimmed hedges, painted fences, and gates that rarely opened. His was the last house on the crescent, larger than most, with a view of the park that remained unused.
By Shehzad Anjum4 months ago in Horror
