Horror
The One's Who Come Back
The Therapist’s Room: The Ones Who Come Back Everyone knew the old story. When someone dies badly, they linger. That was the version passed around in whispers and television specials and badly printed paperbacks sold beside incense and dreamcatchers. A spirit with unfinished business. A presence in the hallway. Cold spots, flickering lights, footsteps overhead. The dead, apparently, became poets the moment their heart stopped. They floated about in old houses wearing sorrow and purpose, waiting to deliver messages in riddles to whichever woman in a linen blouse happened to be spiritually available.
By Teena Quinn about 5 hours ago in Fiction
The Midnight Alley: The Boy Who Called His Killer “Dad”
Lightning cracked overhead as Detective Lena Carter’s boots splashed through the rain-slicked alley. The call had come just moments ago—a child was hurt, and the storm didn’t care. Narrow walls of brick reflected the flickering light from a struggling streetlamp, puddles trembling under each flash. On the wet ground lay a boy, twelve years old, eyes wide in final surprise, blood glimmering in crimson streams across the cracks beneath him. Clutched in his small, trembling fingers was a soaked scrap of paper. Carter leaned close, throat tight: the letters D_A_ smeared by rain.
By imtiazalamabout 10 hours ago in Fiction
It Lurked in Darkness. Content Warning.
Ray enjoyed investigating abandoned places with his friends. It was something of a hobby now that they all started as just a fun thing to do when they spent time together. This weekend they would be visiting the Halloran Manor a long since abandoned home that had been forgotten by time.
By 3rrornightshiftabout 14 hours ago in Fiction
Space and Time. Content Warning.
Time I just wanted to explore the world. See its beauty, relish the experience of discovery; at least, a discovery new to me. But even that seemed to be a tall order. As soon as I received my apprenticeship honors from the village leader, my dear mother was bewitched as she ventured to the mountains. They told me not a single person has ever awakened from a bewitchment, that after twelve years, the souls of those bewitched will be snuffed as tribute to the gods. They told me this was divine retribution. That this was fate, and if not for her going up to the mountains to pray to her false deities, she would still be alive. But she was alive…
By bemnet zelalem3 days ago in Fiction
Echoes of Resistance
The streets of Bristol were alive that day, though not with the usual hum of buses and chatter, but with the heavy pulse of voices that demanded to be heard. I had not intended to join the protest—I came to observe, to write, to bear witness—but once I stepped into the swell of people, the energy was impossible to ignore. The banners waved above heads, each one a story, a demand, a prayer. The scent of rain-soaked asphalt mixed with the faint tang of chalk from hastily scrawled messages, leaving the air electric.
By imtiazalam3 days ago in Fiction
I Heard Someone Breathing While I Slept Alone
The Night Everything Changed I woke up at 3:12 AM, a time I’ve always associated with nightmares and the “witching hour.” At first, I thought it was just the wind brushing against the window blinds. But then I heard it—a slow, deliberate breathing coming from the darkness beside my bed.
By Mohammad Hamid3 days ago in Fiction
