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.
Macabre
I hate this room. It’s drafty with dirty eggshell wallpaper and dark gray granite flooring. The lone rectangular window sits high on the outside wall, allowing only a tiny beam of sunlight. Sometimes I can see people walking. Thick white spider webs float in the corner by the door, some resisted underneath my desk. My rough cotton knitted blanket and brick-like pillow are the only things on my bed. I hear heels clicking down the hall before the echoes of my door unlock. The aroma of cleaning supplies quickly fills my 10x10 room as my door swings open. She walks into my room and immediately sits at my desk.
By Ciara Bazile8 years ago in Horror
The Return of the Tell-Tale Heart.... Top Story - December 2017.
I planned so carefully… so how can I be mad? How can you say that I’m mad when I am in perfect health with a steady hold on reality? Would a madman wait for seven nights, carefully planning? I think not. So when I say the old man’s heart was beating, haunting me, it must be so. Yet, here I am, sitting in a home for mad-men with shackles around my wrists. What was I to do though, let the beating of the old man’s dead heart slowly drive me mad? I cared for the old man but his eye… his vulture eye still haunts me to this very day. The psychiatrists try to compel me to admit I am mad, and that the beating was my own heart out of fear, but no! I do not believe such lies! The eye was a villain and the beating was its idea of revenge. But how I strategically cut the body up and hid it beneath the floor boards is something a madman would not do. Yet, I still sit here. I have daily meetings with psychiatrists who continuously just tell me I am mad. As I sit here and recall the events of my most recent appointment, I can hear the beating, like I do most days, faintly in the back of my head. As I walked into the office the chill hit me, and it reminded me of the tiring ways I waited outside the door of the old man’s room. The appointment went on calmly and I talked cheerfully, much like I did with the police the night I killed the man. Then it happened, he was there. I never thought it to be possible, but there was the old man with his vulture eye, and it was staring directly at me. At this point some might think I am off my rocker, but no! Would a madman kill so strategically?
By Zoe Vinacco8 years ago in Horror
Dreamer Chapter 2
Eyes shot open as the sound of the phone awoke him from his sleep, disoriented and confused for a moment. He slowly sitting up and looking at the top of his small dresser by his bed that had an empty cup next to his bottle of apple whiskey. He rubbed his head, a small migraine hitting him as his mouth was as dry as a bone.
By Rebecca Larece8 years ago in Horror
Laws of Nature
If all you do is babysit a little kid, no one can blame you for anything, right? Well, apparently not. That is, not if they run away. Or drink some bleach when they said they were going to the bathroom. Why would you put bleach in a two liter of Sprite? I thought this would be easy. I mean, I’ve done it before and everything went just fine then. I don’t want to have to tell her parents, but which is better? That or finding her laying in a cornfield poisoned by bleach, near an inevitable death if left without care? I’m going to call them, then set out to look for her.
By Jack Newkirk8 years ago in Horror
Eden
The address said 696 Eden St. and the building was easy to find, considering it was the only building on the whole street. There was a substantial contrast between the picture of the address on Google Maps and this colossal-sized building. The picture only displayed the logo ”Ever After Homes” and the front entrance of the building. I whipped my phone out from my smoky-grey pea coat to dial the number of Dr. Lucie—my battery was at three percent. I needed to get out of this frigid weather, especially since my interview was in five minutes. Being that I was short on time and energy on my phone, I began to walk hastily toward the most familiar entrance—the door was locked.
By Gerry Galvan II8 years ago in Horror
Spooky Tales 2
I love you. Walter Davis didn’t believe in ghosts. So, it didn’t bother him when his estate agent told him that the house he was buying was supposedly haunted. The story of the house is one of unrequited love and tragedy. Years ago, the young woman of the house fell in love with the lord’s son, they lay together but the son refused to make an honest woman of her. So, in despair and dishonor she hung herself from the attic rafters. Of course, this just flew over Walter’s head, so he quickly wrote out the check and began moving in. Maybe he should have listened, for not long since he began to unpack that some strange occurrences started to happen. He left some boxes of plates and cups in the kitchen and left the room for a moment to grab the box of cutlery, but when he returned he found that the contents of the boxes had been removed and put away in the proper places. Walter had no idea how this happened, but hey at least it was one job he didn’t have to do.
By Lee Fisher8 years ago in Horror
