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.
Carmine Red
Eric doubted anything could be done about a private student loan, but the letter in his hand said otherwise. He waited impatiently in the bank lobby on a dead Saturday afternoon. The cubicles were empty; it was just he and the teller behind a counter now. She was finishing up a call regarding his letter.
By Mr. Rothman W5 years ago in Horror
Canary
I don't know why they left her eyes open. My mother claims it’s that so we may never forget her eyes, so we can remember her eyes finally at peace. Looking down at her in this casket she almost feels like she was never really a person. She’s so still and so quiet. I feel like I can barely remember her anymore. I don’t think I can look at her like this any longer. I turn to see my mother sitting in a chair in the corner of the living room staring straight ahead, her eyes just as lost as my grandmother’s was. Her hair seems more unruly than normal, her clothes are wrinkled and her massacre has smudged under her eyes. She's been like that for a while. She slowly watched my grandmother fall deeper and deeper into psychosis as she spent most of her life putting her in and out of different mental institutions trying to find some peace for her. I can see her hands shaking as she tries to contain herself for our family and I so badly wanted to go over and touch her, comfort her somehow, but I can’t. She’ll just give me that same watery smile, tell me she’s fine, give me a sweet moist kiss on my cheek, and become lost once again. I try to spot my father, but not surprisingly he’s not around. He’s most likely chatting up every single person in this house to try to keep the spirits up and the hope alive. I don’t know what hope there is for this family, but he certainly tries his best to keep it.
By Jalyn Nwogu5 years ago in Horror
The Ghost Nina
I remember her fingers the most. Their bony spider dance webbing threads into needles at the window where I first saw her. Dancing, dancing, dancing their spiderly dance. Transparent and terrifying in their pursuit. I would often see her at that window and I would often try to follow her in my mind into the dark dampness of her concrete cage. Did her spider fingers crawl into crevasses and lips at night? Did she sleep soundly? What kind of nightmares and torments and hopes and fears did she harbor? Where did her mind travel to when I was not around to witness it?
By Victoria Chwalek5 years ago in Horror
Oblivion
Meka Jones is a 22 year old waitress living with her boyfriend in downtown Anchorage, Alaska. Getting off late from her closing shift on a bitter cold Wednesday night, she's forced to take the people mover city bus home after her boyfriend calls her to tell her that their beat up truck is dead and won't start. Unluckily for Meka, she lives on the complete opposite end of town and has a long ride ahead of her. After waiting almost 40 minutes for the final bus to arrive at midnight she finds that she and an older Alaskan Native man -humming happily to himself- are the only riders. 'Good.' She thought to herself, thankful to not have to share the bus with too many people. She sat near the front a few rows ahead of the man and pinched her face mask more securely to the bridge of her nose. She played her music loud through her headphones and looked out the big window next to her. Letting her brown almond-shaped eyes flit over the dark shapes and shadows they passed by. About 5 minutes into the ride she nearly jumped from her seat when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Leaning in the opposite direction of the offending tap, she turned to address the older man who was now sitting right behind her. "Can I help you?" Meka asked in a loud voice, hoping to get the driver's attention in the process. The older man wore glasses and seemed put together for the most part. But Meka new looks could be deceiving. She discretly reached one hand into her puffer jacket pocket feeling for her mace. The older man pointed at his ear and cocked his head awkwardly, gesturing for her to remove a headphone. With her free hand she snatched one out. "Can I help you?" She asked again more firmly this time. Throughout this entire exchange she could tell this man had a faint, absent-minded smile on his face beneath the mask he wore. which Meka found unsettling at this time of night. Especially with him suddenly so close to her. The old man held up a finger motioning for her to wait. Then he reached his other hand into his jacket and appeared to be searching for something. Meka quickly swiveled her head around to the front of the bus and caught the bus driver's eyes in the rear view mirror. He had his eyes on her and looked from her to the road and back to her again. Meka looked back at the older man and she jumped again, momentarily startled. He was holding a little black notebook up so that it was just inches from her nose. It was an old but nice-looking little book. Obsidian in color. He was trying to hand it over to her. "Oh um... no thank you. I don't want your book, sir." Meka said softening her tone just a bit, starting to think the older man struggled with a mental disability as he had not said a single word to her and had no concept of personal space. He nodded in an insistent manner and pushed the book closer to her. Then he spoke. "Blessings upon you." Then he dropped the book in the seat next to her and reached up to pull the cord. 'Ding!' "Stop requested" the bus' built-in automated voice alerted. The old man leaned away from Meka and just stared at her with an eerily knowing look in his eyes. Not quite wise, but as if he was in on something she knew nothing about. The bus lurched forward again. "Um...thanks." Meka deadpanned picking up the little book slowly and holding it in her lap. She now sat at an angle so that she could keep an eye on the man while simultaneously maintaining a greater distance from him. Her back against the window. She heard the booming voice of the bus driver, who so far had been no help at all, "Here you are my man. This is you." They'd come to his stop. The old man stood slowly and gracefully. Staring down at Meka now. "Goodnight." Meka squeaked out. Now realizing how tall he was. He spoke again, applying emphasis and weight to each word individually, "Blessings upon you." The man then turned and exited from the rear door. He all but vanished as soon a he stepped off of the bus and into the frigid, twilight Alaskan air. "Yeah seems he's missing a few screws but he was harmless." The driver laughed. Meka couldn't remember asking for his opinion. She was still feeling anxious about the entire interaction. Meka laughed humorlessly as the bus drove on. Her curiosity began to eat at her. The mysterious little book in her lap burned the corners of her mind threatening to consume her and she caved. Besides, it was her property now after all. She gingerly pried open the cover of the little black book and peeked inside. It was full of names. She flipped through it until she got to where whomever had been writing had left off and her blood went cold as ice. Meka Jones. The last name written down. Right under a Jonathan Kilpek. She shut the book and her mind raced with all sorts of thoughts. 'Did he write all of these names in here?' 'How the hell does he know my name?' 'Why'd he give the book to me?' 'HOW does he know my name?' 'Is this a joke?'. She shoved the book into her messenger bag and figured as soon as she and her boyfriend were able to get their truck jump-started, they'd go to the police and file a report. About half an hour later and Meka found herself trudging through a snowy sidewalk a block away from her house, snatching off her mask. "Almost home" Meka muttered to herself as her teeth chattered. She was pretty sure her bag had become much heavier since she first chucked the book inside, but it was most likely just her imagination. She ended up switching her satchel from shoulder to shoulder a fee times anyways. As she walked, she reached into her bag to take another look at the ominous notebook. Her fingers felt around for it but grazed what felt like paper. Perhaps the book was open and she was touching the inside pages. No. The texture was off. And there weren't this many pages in the book. She came to a complete stop beneath a streetlight and checked her surroundings before dropping the bag to the powdered street and swatting next to it. "Jesus you're heavy!" she exclaimed. She used both hands to pry the opening wider and gasped at what she found inside. Bundles of money. Meka picked one up to observe it closer. One hundred dollar bills. She rooted through the bag and there was no trace of the little black notebook, but her bag was full of bundles of rubber banded hundreds. She stayed squatted in that position for 10 long seconds before snapping into action. Her mind began racing with all she and her boyfriend, Garrett, could do with money like this. She quickly zipped her bag shut. Standing, she pulled it over her head so it hung across her body. She then took off running the rest of the way home. Perhaps she shouldn't have accepted the book from the man. perhaps she should've called a cab and avoided the bus altogether. Maybe she should've asked the bus driver to drop her off close to the police station so that she could get rid of the damn thing from the start. Or maybe she should've just listened to that little voice in the back of her mind that tried to warn her as her apartment complex finally came into view that night.***
By Arayah Cook5 years ago in Horror
Have You Seen Miss Mulopwe?
It is September 4, 1997, in Lubumbashi, in the south of the Democratic Republic of Congo, and it is the first day of school since the civil war ended. There's traffic in front of the Catholic boarding school of Madini. Students unload private cars of luggage and give goodbye hugs to their parents and guardians.
By Esther Musau5 years ago in Horror
Abstract Hearts
What a ride! It’s been about two whole months and I finally finished the project for my client. A tedious task, but well worth the time. Her features are so humble. The loose coils of her hair, the round cheeks into a petite feminine chin. Delicate yet somehow so strong, as if she could scream and get whatever it is she set her eyes upon. Modest bust, with curves enough, slender toned calves. He’ll be pleased. This drive feels like I’m trekking across the continent. If I’m not mistaken the navigation system says it's twenty-five minutes yet to go. The inquiry was quite vague from my recollection:
By Wendy Douglas5 years ago in Horror
The Book of Chance
The paintings around Thomas seemed like far-off friends that he had once known in another part of his life, so distant he could barely remember their names. He remembered painting each one, and in all those moments, she was there. Katherine, mother to their son, his wife. Hit by another car, sliding on a patch of ice. Since she’d died, life had splintered into two halves, and his insides ached with every reminder of the part he could never return to. Now he stood in his section of the art gallery, waiting for someone to take them away so he didn’t have to look at them anymore.
By Breanna Wignall5 years ago in Horror
Eating my experiences (25)
TOME 26 The spiraling numbness took hold of me for an indeterminate amount of time. My friends and cat, who I had cast aside for a small morsel of fun now flitted about me in failed attempts to get me to speak, but I felt as though I had not only murdered my mother, but slept with her too, a fate not easily forgotten.
By L.D. Malachite 5 years ago in Horror
An evening at Whitetree manor
Rain lightly pattered against the roof above me while gravel crunched and crinkled beneath me. I peered through the window from the inside of the cold, damp carriage and could very clearly see a a large manor made from brick. At the front was a grand set of stairs leading to double, heavy oak doors, above the doors was a brazen plaque with the name “Whitetree” stamped into it.
By Stephen Brandstetter5 years ago in Horror
Reclamation
Warm hands woke me from the slumber that bound me. How much time had elapsed since I coalesced into this form? Months? Decades? The sands of time flowed beyond my reach, close enough to remind me I was cut off from the corporeal world but too far away to affect me.
By Caitlin Justine5 years ago in Horror
