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 4
Chapter 12 (Climax and Immediate Aftermath) CHRONICLE LOG: Final entry in the retrieved portion of Father Pavel’s journal. The entry consists of only two words, written in a shaky, almost illegible hand, before the page is consumed by a jagged tear: "She awoke." The whereabouts of Father Pavel remain officially undisclosed.
By Tales That Breathe at Night25 days ago in Horror
Day 9: Entry two. Content Warning.
Day eight isn’t lost; I couldn’t write. The sensation was so cold. I spoke to Harvest-woman April, who focused more on telling me she isn’t that kind of doctor. I slipped up stating that I could’ve been, and on occasions, was for emphasis, which sucked her in until she asked me what I thought of the nature of my illness. Her terms carried something I wasn’t expecting but understood. A certain defeated curiosity; ‘I mean, if I don’t have to get up, I’ll look into it as a kind of help.' Started with my past, which she’s getting none of, whether she knows or not, and switched effortlessly into second opinions for which I had loads of examples. Before Wolfman Patrick stole me away, she said she’ll get back to me and my case. Her smile said a hint of hypocritical oath might still flicker, but the concealing of her horror of the topics said patience wasn’t sharp enough for the private practice bedside manner. Coldman Jason needed a word.
By Willem Indigo27 days ago in Horror
There are places history tries to erase.
There are places history tries to erase. You won’t find this village on most modern maps. The roads that once led to it have long been swallowed by weeds and time. But if you follow the old county records—yellowed papers tucked away in a forgotten archive—you’ll find a single line written in faded ink:
By sagar dhital29 days ago in Horror
The abandoned prison
The abandoned prison stood at the edge of town like a silent witness to the horrors of a past nobody wanted to remember. Its walls, once painted a hopeful white, were now cracked, faded, and streaked with the grime of decades. Rusted iron bars, twisted and broken, clanged softly whenever the wind whispered through the empty corridors. I don’t know why I found myself drawn to this place, but there was something about it—a pull, almost magnetic—that demanded I see it with my own eyes.
By sagar dhitalabout a month ago in Horror
