Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Horror.
Original form
Wasim was the fifteen-year-old son of Tufail Rabbani, a prominent industrialist. Unlike most boys his age, Wasim had an adventurous spirit. He loved exploring ruins, searching for hidden treasures, and collecting antiquities. Money was never a problem for him. While his father was busy managing the business, his mother ran a non-governmental organization and was often occupied with her work.
By Sudais Zakwan19 days ago in Horror
Jack the Ripper: The Silence That Never Left...
London, 1888... At night, the city did not sleep; it thinned. Gas lamps cast weak halos that failed to reach the corners of the streets. Sound behaved strangely in Whitechapel. Footsteps overlapped. Voices blurred. A single cry could vanish into brick and fog before it fully formed. Thousands of people moved through the same narrow corridors each evening, close enough to brush past one another, distant enough to remain unknown.
By Veil of Shadows19 days ago in Horror
Magic on Whisper Street. Content Warning.
The moon leered out at the children as they walked. Which children you ask? It’s Jack and Amy Kramer age 11; they are fraternal twins. They walk with purpose. The objective is to get candy. They lived on Whisper Street and that was a very special street. Halloween magic existed here. Since they were highly imaginative children, they could easily access this magic.
By DJ Robbins20 days ago in Horror
3:17 AM.
The first thing people noticed about Building 9A was how quiet it was. Too quiet. No children played in the corridors. No televisions hummed behind closed doors. Even during the day, the building felt frozen in time, as if sound itself refused to stay there for long. But the rent was cheap, and the city was expensive, so people moved in anyway.
By Rosalina Jane20 days ago in Horror
Stories Told At Twilight
A 300-word flash fiction regarding the above image: She never realized the pale blue of her eyes until now. Pressing the palm of her hands against the cold porcelain sink, she sank deeper into her own gaze. Her eyes were not only pale but striking.
By JB Ingland20 days ago in Horror
The Haar: A Fog That Hides More Than You Want to See
Short introduction The Haar is a short horror novel set in a quiet Scottish coastal town. It mixes folklore, grief, body horror, and revenge in a way that feels both strange and oddly emotional. On the surface, it looks like a creature feature. But once you start reading, you realize it’s really about loneliness, loss, and what happens when someone finally decides they’ve had enough of being stepped on.
By Rosalina Jane21 days ago in Horror
Hell Without Fire: Why A Short Stay in Hell Quietly Ruined My Peace
Short introduction A Short Stay in Hell by Steven L. Peck is a very short novel, almost novella-length, but don’t let that fool you. It’s one of those books you finish quickly and then keep thinking about for way longer than you want to. It falls under horror, but not the usual kind. There are no monsters, no gore, no shocking twists. Instead, it deals with eternity, punishment, and what happens when hope is stretched way past its breaking point. It’s quiet, simple, and somehow deeply unsettling.
By Rosalina Jane21 days ago in Horror
Someone Has Been Watching Me My Whole Life
The first time I saw him, he was standing beside my mother’s grave. Clad in a black coat, with no umbrella and an emotionless face, he stood perfectly still. Rain soaked his hair, yet he didn’t move, only gazing at her name carved into the stone. When he caught me watching, he looked up and smiled.
By Rosalina Jane21 days ago in Horror
REVIEW - The Sanguine (Directed by Patrick McNerney and Daniel Jones)
This excellent film, produced and directed by Patrick McNerney and Daniel Jones (with the latter also writing and taking an on-screen role as The Elder) blends folklore with fantasy, creating a suspenseful and scary short.
By MegaFlix Movie Awards21 days ago in Horror
The Giant Who Never Spoke
The rain was coming down in sheets that night, drumming on the old tin roof like impatient fingers, and I was maybe twelve, curled up on the porch swing with a blanket that smelled like pipe tobacco and my granddad’s coat. He didn’t talk much anymore-age had stolen most of his words-but stories? Those he still had. He’d lean back in his rocker, eyes half-closed, and let them spill out slow, like molasses in January.
By KWAO LEARNER WINFRED21 days ago in Horror
