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 Messenger
Elea had felt a cool wave of relief when she opened her eyes to find Anders still sleeping in her lap. His breathing was labored, but he was still breathing and that made her rejoice almost to the point of tears. Elea and her younger brothers, Bo and Anders, and sister, Agnes had come to the farm three years ago when their parents had died of consumption. Delores Inger took in wayward children and Elea had initially been very grateful to have somewhere to go with her siblings. But, they soon found out that Widow Inger did not house children out of the goodness of her heart. She took them in as free labor for her farm, forcing them to work long hard hours with little in return.
By M K Dotson5 years ago in Horror
Blood, Rust and Blueberries
As sun set on the small, western town of Merylville, the summer heat lingered, and flashes of lightning lit up the omni-colored sky. There were large greyish-purple clouds gathered overhead, but rain was extremely rare in these parts. The townsfolk were closing their local shops and rounding up their horses to ride home for the evening, hurriedly to avoid the potential dangers of mother nature’s beautiful fury in the skies.
By Ryan Barbin aka “Dirt”5 years ago in Horror
Ritual
She stood with her hands folded in front of her, watching as the sun set behind the barn. As the sun descended below the horizon, it left a reddish orange glow that looked like fire. The clouds drifted towards the east, fleeing the sunset as smoke would an actual fire. It was a sight to see, but it was short-lived as the moon rose in the sun’s place.
By Cassidy Moon5 years ago in Horror
Soul Eater
The full moon cast a blue glow that shone through my blinds and left a horizontal pattern imprinted on my carpet. Little flecks of dust stirred up by the air conditioning glinted as they passed by the cracks of light. The display was peaceful and memorizing in their simple way. It was hard to think of the dust being a dirty particulate when they danced in the light like that.
By E. J. Strange5 years ago in Horror
Fatal Weekend
Time away is essential. From the demanding expectations of life along with all of it's obstacles. Couldn't have worked out better for these young newlyweds of a year. And what a better way to celebrate their anniversary? Tony and Nina who are both in their early thirties take the scenic route.
By Ace Howell5 years ago in Horror
A Night at Clairborne Farm
Jennifer fell against the trunk of a pine tree at the edge of the forest and tried to catch her breath. She thought her years on the college track team would have better prepared her for a run this long, but that had been several years ago. Before her, stretched a wide-open field. The clear night sky allowed the full moon to illuminate the tall grass as it blew in the summer breeze. A large house sat a few hundred yards away, but thankfully she was fast enough to have put significant distance between herself and the beast of a man pursuing her. With one more deep breath, she pushed off from the tree and sprinted across the field.
By A. Scott Harlow5 years ago in Horror
The Barn
I placed one foot in front of the other in yet another plodding step. Was this the ten-thousandth step? Or the hundred-thousandth? When I started my journey, I planned to count each forward step as a measure of progress, something positive to outweigh the bleak, lifeless landscape. But I’d lost count hours—days—ago. About the time I’d eaten the last crumbling remnants of the peanut butter crackers pilfered from a gas station mini-mart.
By Meg Leader5 years ago in Horror
Fred
It seems like the old barn doesn't have a place in time anymore, as if it belongs to nature and the past. The timber my Uncle built the barn from has weathered and turned gray over the years. At the street, a steel gate runs between two rotting fence posts. The broken lock lets it squeak in the light breeze, and red flakes of rust look like blood on the damp ground. A sagging chicken coop stands behind the barn, and a once lovely house graces the west field. Maple and sumac trees surround the buildings and have littered the ground over time. The scent of ancient roses and lilacs fill the air; wildflowers and grasses have pretty much taken over all they can. Surprisingly, a single Marigold plant blooms beside the broken barn door. Someone almost had to plant it as they are not perennials, or perhaps a passing bird dropped some seeds. It strikes me as odd, though, because Marigolds were my Aunt Grace's favorite flower. Today there is a slight drizzle in the air, and the cloud layer gives everything a gunmetal gray backdrop adding to the sense of desolation. Something about the place cries loneliness.
By April Walch5 years ago in Horror
Family Traditions
The old barn in the back of our property was a bit of an eyesore. The deteriorating wood that shaped the roof was peeling badly, and the rotting walls of the structure had been permanently stained a syrupy brown by bouts of heavy rain. The average person would have considered it an embarrassment, a glaring scar sticking out harshly against the rolling hills of our orderly pastures. Having grown up alongside the barn, I didn’t give much thought as to how the building looked. I disliked it for an entirely different reason. I associated two things with the building: hard work and the sacrifice of my free time. During the summer months I spent most of my Saturday afternoons shut inside the cold, fluorescent lit structure working alongside my father as I helped him butcher our livestock and any wild game we'd managed to secure. I began accompanying him to accomplish these chores a month or so after my twelfth birthday, my Saturdays snatched out of my grasp right as I was old enough to start enjoying a bit of freedom. This fact often shocked individuals who had no experience growing up on a farm. Understandably, watching a twelve-year-old handle a captive bolt capable of downing a fully grown bull would make any city dweller’s heart skip a beat. Despite this, I never felt as if I was in any danger. My mother made sure of it. She was the one who had insisted I turn twelve before helping my father. She wanted to preserve my childhood innocence as long as possible. Even after I began working in the barn her wariness still lingered, ingrained in the back of my father's mind. She'd never forgive him if I was hurt, and he knew it. Due to this fact, it was months before I was even allowed to use a bell scraper, much less touch the scalding tank. Contrarily, had it been left up to my father, I would have been helping him out as soon as I could lift a meat saw. He often boasted about skinning his first pig at just ten.
By Mary Moody5 years ago in Horror
