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.

Boy on the Bridge
Like all stories that are worth telling, this one is true. Granted, an absurdity, as you will soon come to see; a true story that cannot possibly be, yet one that I have a first-hand account of. My own first-hand account. Twice, so far.
By Simon Mcbride8 years ago in Horror
Dreamer Chapter 3
Lorrianna awoke, tired and a tad confused as she had the strangest dream but she couldn't recall what it was, only that it was strange.
By Rebecca Larece8 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
Dreamer
Lorri walked through the tunnels quietly, barely able to see past the tears falling from her face. The ten-year-old girl roamed the dark tunnels for what seemed like hours, her little white dress dirty from mud and grime from the walls of the tunnels.
By Rebecca Larece8 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
I Was Only Babysitting
To know the difference between right and wrong is so minor in most peoples eyes, but in the mind of a small child it can be clouded. The intellectual hold a child has with their curiosity alone can bring an adult to their knees. I know these are big words from just a teenage girl, but all I can speak of is what I've seen with my own eyes. A child only knows what they are shown growing up. This is my belief only. So what could I have shown him?
By Lena Rai8 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
Santa Isn't Real
When I was younger, I was just like any other child. I was raised with stories of the tooth fairy and the sandman and, of course, Santa Claus. I had always believed it and I never really questioned it. It doesn’t make sense when you think about it, telling children about all of these people and creatures, because they’ll inevitably grow up and know it was all a joke—a worldwide prank on every human aged up to eleven (or fifteen if you were really gullible like my friend was). But now I know better. Why else would they keep the truth from us? It wasn’t to take advantage of a capitalist idea as some people say. It was to protect us. And the way I found out that Santa Claus isn’t real has given me nightmares until the very end.
By Rhia Barton8 years ago in Horror
Spooky Tales 1
The Wedding Ring Alan and Kate were dared to spend one night in a haunted house. Being ghost enthusiasts, they leaped at the chance to experience anything spooky so they accepted. Now Alan was in love with Kate, he saw this as the perfect opportunity to try to ask him to marry her.
By Lee Fisher8 years ago in Horror
Fate
The prologue in the first book of the Destiny Saga. Prologue Three bloodshot eyes peered through a grove of dead shrubs, watching the land ahead of them. Nemoro crouched low, his twisting, crimson horns barely visible behind the blackened and slightly tarred branches.
By Ruby Steel8 years ago in Horror
Tick, Tick, Tick
Tick, tick, tick. The soft sound of my clock greets me, letting me know that I’ve woken up before my alarm has gone off. I open my eyes, praying that there’s no light streaming in through my window, the telltale sign that I still have a few hours of sleep before I have to get up for work. Thankfully I see nothing. Its pitch black. I can’t see the light from my router in the corner of my room, or the flashing beacon that is my smoke detector. No, I see nothing. This is not my room. Awareness has set in and I realize that these are not my sheets and that I’m still wearing the same jeans from last night. Last night. I went out with friends after work to celebrate the weekend. Relief courses through me as I realize that I must have made a drunken spectacle of myself and Vanessa probably took me home with her, to her new apartment that I was clearly too drunk to fully appreciate. As I come to my senses, I hear Vanessa’s hard breathing coming from the other side of the bed, though I don’t feel her next to me. She must have slept on the floor. How odd. It seems louder than her usual delicate breathing, but I attribute my sensitivity to sound to the migraine that is now making itself known. I’m sure I won’t be going back to sleep for a while, so I might as well get some aspirin and water and check out the new apartment. I push down the covers, hop out of bed and onto the cold floor. Cement? Surely, I would have noticed that my hardwood-obsessed best friend had rented an apartment with cement floors. I hobble about the room, searching for a wall, while my head pounds with a steady beat. I find a light switch and flip it. Fortunately for my headache, a dim glow filters through the door-less threshold of a small closet. On the shelf in the closet is a bag of pills, a single car key, and a clock. I vaguely consider how strange it is that Vanessa would have these things sitting in the closet and not on the nightstand. As I turn around to look for the door, I freeze. I can’t move. I can’t even scream. Every nerve in my body is ablaze and my muscles tense until I feel like they’ll tear. To my right, at the foot of the bed -that I now realize is just a box spring and a mattress with dirty sheets- is a body. It is naked, sitting in a pool of blood, and a chilling light blue color. The curly brown hair is matted and plastered across the unrecognizable face, covering the eyes and forehead. The cheekbones are crushed, the lips are swollen to at least five times their normal size and the nose is completely obliterated. Her chest and abdomen are covered in dark red marks, that can only be the product of a knife. I didn’t think that I could have feelings of sadness and horror so strong for a stranger until this very moment. It has taken me only seconds to process this scene as my attention is drawn to the form lying next to the woman. As I look at the man on the floor, I have a visceral reaction to the fact that it was his breathing I had been listening to just moments ago. His slack face looks peaceful, a stark contrast to the rest of him. Poking out of the collar of his shirt is a tattoo of a bull with beady eyes and black horns. His hands are bloodied, his light hair snarled, and sitting on his stomach is a knife, the knife, covered in dried blood. The steady rise and fall of his chest tells me that if I have a chance at all of getting out of here, this is it. I don’t have time to think about how I got here, why I am untouched, or who these people are. I need to think. Think back to the self-defense techniques that my dad taught me when I was younger. I look around the room, and find the door which is directly across from me, about twelve feet away. I have no choice but to step in the blood surrounding the dead woman, as there is so much of it covering the floor. I hold my breath as I step between the man’s legs. I decide it would be best if I had the knife and not him if he were to wake up, and so I carefully inch forward, and gently reach for the knife on the man’s stomach, keeping my eyes on his face, praying to God that he doesn’t wake up. I pick up the knife and glance at the woman for one brief moment. It is this decision that changes everything about the situation. I see, on the left side of her ribcage, just under her left breast, a tattoo. It is in very delicate script and it's marred by blood enough that I can’t make out the words, but I don’t need to see the letters to know what they say. They say “best friends”, and I know this because Vanessa and I got matching tattoos for her twenty-second birthday. I realize, a moment too late, that I am standing over a man, a murderer, who is over three times my size, and he is awake. I look into his dark brown eyes and a rage that I have never felt before comes bubbling out of me in the form of an unfamiliar screech. I take the knife and stab at him just as he reaches for my throat with his brawny hand. I see nothing but blackness as he slams my head into the concrete where he was just lying. He sits all of his weight on my stomach and I cannot breathe, but I concentrate on the feel of the knife in my hand and I plunge it into his calf. His lips pull into a sickening sneer, exposing unexpectedly straight, white teeth. I realize that he isn’t feeling any pain, and that must be attributed to whatever the pills are in the closet. I stab him in the leg again, lower this time, making sure that I damage something important, his Achilles tendon. He picks me up by my hair and throws me onto the bed. He grabs the knife from my hand and rips off his belt, tossing it on the bed next to me, staggering as he does so as his left leg can no longer support him. He says something to me but I can’t hear it over the blood rushing in my ears. He grabs the hem of his shirt, and I know that I have to act now. As he pulls his shirt over his head, I grab his belt and jump towards him. I catch him off guard and we both crash onto the floor. I slam my knee into his head, and when it makes contact with the floor, I wrap the belt around his neck. I tighten it as much as possible and hold it. His shirt is still over his face and its now covered in the blood coming from what must be his nose. He flails and tries to grab me, but the combination of head trauma and drugs are clearly too much for him. After what seems like the longest five minutes of my life, I hear a gurgled gasp and his body goes slack. I stand up and run towards the door. I throw it open and see that I am in an abandoned housing complex. I run down the stairs, and across the parking lot. It’s dark out, but there are a few cars in the road in front of me and I run out into the road, waving my hands above my head. I run up to the only stopped car and the driver rolls down his window. I ask the man to help me and he tells me to get in. As I put on my seat belt, I look over to him to express my gratitude, but the words are caught in my throat. He is leering at me, and all I can see is the faded tattoo of a black-horned bull.
By Lauren .8 years ago in Horror