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 Ninth Hour of Malachi : SEASON 3
SEASON 3 Chapter 9 FATHER PAVEL’S PRIVATE JOURNAL: Entry dated November 5th, 2003. We found the root. It is a chamber beneath the foundation, clearly pagan. Ana is down here, but she is barely visible, encased in some type of crystalline growth...the stone has accepted the entity, and the girl is the final mortar. The anchor is here, not a relic, but a crude, petrified heart. Malachi will not yield until we destroy the physical core of its power.
By Tales That Breathe at Night6 minutes ago in Horror
A Stormy Night
The night was dark and bitterly cold. Rain began early in the morning and continued relentlessly until two o’clock. Water had collected in many low-lying areas of the city, making movement difficult for people. Strong winds accompanied the rain, cutting off electricity in nearly half of the city. Lanterns and candles glowed dimly inside homes, and families carried out their essential tasks in that faint light.
By Sudais Zakwanabout 5 hours ago in Horror
Revenge of the Soul
The incident dates back to 1904. A man once said to me that near the shrine of Hazrat Khwaja Nizamuddin Auliya (Delhi), there was no well, and the water of the baoli was brackish. He offered to build a well near the eastern gate of the shrine if I permitted it. I agreed, saying that sweet water was badly needed and perhaps a well would provide it.
By Sudais Zakwanabout 16 hours ago in Horror
THE MIRROR THAT LEARNED MY NAME. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
I covered the mirror because it wouldn’t stop smiling. At first, I thought it was just exhaustion. Night shifts mess with your head, especially when you live alone. Faces blur. Reflections lag. You see things that aren’t there.
By shakir hamid3 days ago in Horror
Dusty Bones
A rickety worn shack swayed ominously as a malicious wind tore after it. A fevered cry from the weathered boards fell upon an old man’s ears. He paid it no mind however and continued to stare forlornly out the shattered panes into the ocean’s depths below. An internal battle raged through his mind as a lone candle flickered threateningly. “All alone… everyone’s gone… my fault.” His tattered memory danced across his lips as his ghosts relentlessly tormented him. One peering inside the shack may mistake him as a lone ghost himself, for his pale and frail bones looked skeletonized from his fever crazed state. He stands at this fractured window and stares at the sea, haunted always haunted.
By Mikayla Decker 5 days ago in Horror
Lose The Roses
New Orleans, 1925 Gazing out her bedroom window while wishing on the brightest star in the night sky, Stella tracks her mother’s stealthy traverse into Mrs. Hawthorne’s immaculate rose garden. Rows upon rows of roses, all colors and sizes sway in the evening breeze, a sultry dance. Their perfume fills the night air, peppery and sweet. The lustrous blade of mama’s pruning shears shines under a full moon, glinting. Why Mama steals Mrs. Hawthorne’s roses, she doesn’t understand.
By Cathy Schieffelin5 days ago in Horror
