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 Tip
Knock, knock, knock. “Housekeeping.” The maid rapped three times on the door and swiped her pass key over the sensor as she announced her presence in a practiced but cheerful voice. She gently pushed open the door with her right hand and grabbed her tote of cleaning supplies off the cart with her left hand in one fluid motion born of repetition. Her eyes scanned the dark room as she entered and a small, but audible sigh of relief escaped her lips as she realized that room 602 was currently unoccupied. The thought of one more creepy old man leering at her while she cleaned up after him, or worse another “couple” giggling away under the covers as she sifted through their empty beer bottles and Chinese takeout containers… Ugh. She was just happy to find herself alone to do her thankless job in peace, even if there was no tip.
By Celeste Moody5 years ago in Horror
A Ceaseless Buzzing
The quiet of the cemetery is such a comfort to me that I don’t know what I would do without them. That’s a morbid-sounding thing to say, but it’s simply true: I need cemeteries to survive. The problem with living people is that they don’t ever stop; from the moment they can open their eyes they have thoughts after thoughts after thoughts cascading down like a multi-tiered fountain of directionless information and ideas and desires that can’t be meted out or fulfilled because often times the thoughts as so nested into the psyche that the person doesn’t even know they have them.
By Ashton Harris5 years ago in Horror
On the Conservation of Loneliness
My home is a damp place, where the fiery crowns of streetlamps beckon wanderers such as myself through our bone chilling mists, and the solemn drip of the day to day seems to erode us as the broken cobblestone beneath each dreary step we have remaining. The hollow cacophony of distant laughs among shut in houses accompanied a lonely stroll of mine on such an evening four weeks ago. My study is often more of a suffocation chamber than a creative space, with its walls acting as more of a prison sentencing me to the drudgery of work that I would otherwise enjoy were it not for the pressure to produce it for a better shot at food and rent. The irony of going about tasks in an oppressive environment to eventually earn enough wages to sustain such an existence within it, is not lost on me in the slightest. So these walks; as cold, heavy, and haunting as they can be; offer reprieve from the paralyzing fear of being unable to carry my weight financially, or the gripping inadequacy I feel to see the halting progress of my work itself. At least with each step away from my study I feel a measurable displacement along a resistive path, and can see a change in my surroundings until of course hunger or tiredness sets in, and the sum of my efforts brings me once again to this prison of mine.
By Devon Gulley5 years ago in Horror
Reward
I sat in my car in front of the old abandoned farm house at the end of the street. The house sat vacant as long as I had lived in this neighborhood, which was going on 15 years now. The house had been abandoned by its owner and left to the elements. Its white paint chipped away and large windows boarded up, only a glimmer of the beauty it once held. A chill ran down my spine thinking about what was happening inside the house now. My eyes scanned the area, searching for any sign of life.
By Jaime Niedzwiecki 5 years ago in Horror
When Beggars Ride
‘For the third time this week,’ hissed the lone man into his palms. He was drifting along the silent pavement, beneath the tender streetlamps in dungarees so stained with sweat and muted colours wholly betraying the fact that once they had been new and white.
By Fabian de Kerckhove5 years ago in Horror
The Recovery
As he finishes removing his gear, drying off, and taking in his hand the hot cup of coffee, he walks across towards the dimly lit tent to begin what he does after every dive: detailing every aspect that he could remember. It is late into the night, the cool winds blowing in from the east, the insects of the air making their songs, and the intersperse voices of medical professionals, divers, and news reporters chatting of the events that just took place. His thoughts are occupied with questions like "what just happened?” and "did I suffer the worst gas narcosis of my life?" He needs to know. The only way for him to do this is to put it into words that he can see, feel, and to study each sentence so that he does not miss any detail. For him, talking it out helps little, words in the air some would say, and all they do is hang there to be blown away by the wind. So, he leaves the small crowd of people to debrief in solitude. He enters the tent that is propped up close to the water’s edge. It is a large, shaded area with a few picnic tables under it mostly filled with gear of all kinds such as camera’s, scuba equipment, food, and coffee. Still damp, cold, and mind boggy with thoughts racing, he grabs his notebook out of his black messenger bag. It is a small leather-bound black book that feels soft in his hands, sturdy, and contained within its pages are his experiences throughout his diving career. Yet this dive was unlike any he had experienced before.
By Jonathan Klarich5 years ago in Horror
