Creepy Writing Prompts Novels & Stories

Her body trembled as a wave of panic surged through her. Suddenly, her skin began to crawl, literally. She gasped, clutching at her back, the spot where the mark had been made. It felt like something moved under her skin, like tiny, invisible tendrils were twisting beneath the surface. Cold fingers. Crawling. “Stop…” she whispered, her voice breaking. The whispers grew louder, more insistent. “YOU SHOULD SCREAM” “BURN IT DOWN.” “HE'LL NEVER SAVE YOU.”

He lifted a hand towards me, but it fell right down beside him. As I continued backing from him, I found myself in a strange environment. Worse, Clinton was nowhere to be found. The environment was scary and eerily quiet, and I would have assumed I was in a cemetery if not for the fact that I didn't see any graves. Instead, I saw creepy creatures crawling out of holes that I couldn't see until they were all out. They were disgusting to look at, and I felt bile rise in my throat. I wrapped my arms around me as I stared warily at them. One of them, which looked like it was heading towards where I stood, suddenly paused, and I got the feeling that it was watching me.

"I think we could go back to civilization before it starts to get weird. You seem to be thinking too much, and I don't know if it's because you regret it, or because you're afraid that I'll throw you out of the ravine.” "It's already more than strange, Flynn," I spoke with a giggle, as I stood up. "Now I will need to invent more interesting dialogues and a less macabre mood when writing about it in my novel, because no one will find it funny that the sex scene ends with the couple watching the moon the same way they did in the beginning. It's going to sound kind of repetitive and even a little unreal. And I can't keep writing fantasies anymore, or my readers will kill me.”

It infuriated Cassy more—with the night that’s the homecoming of the ghosts and horrors. A wicked laugh itched to be out, instead, she scrutinized the height. The distance between her and the ground did not harrow her. It amazed her at how different she’s lurking around where the normal people might not even stare without a wave of nausea washing over them. An urge to smoke-filled her; she fetched a pack from the inside pocket of her dark blue jacket; ignited the flame, mumbling, “Every legendary story is a pent-up frustration of human beings to invoke fear in the minds of those whom they hate. Several against one or one against many.”

Emma willed her legs to move as she felt around for a wall. She hadn’t been able to see much of anything when she had first entered the crypt, and now that she was sealed in, she was surrounded by a stygian darkness. She bumped into something solid and stone-like, and immediately crouched down on the floor in a fetal position. Her body shook, her lips trembled and her mind conjured creepy-crawlies, fantastic monsters, and demons of all shapes and sizes. And they came, one and all in full force, to crawl over her skin, to nip and paw at her, and to literally pull her to pieces.

He wrote about them based on the myths that he had heard, read, and gathered while continuing his daily life. "Van, open the door!" He groaned and got up from his seat. "What do you want? I’m writing." Van answered with no soul in his voice. He never let go of his passion for writing. Unfortunately, there was barely anyone wanting to buy any of his recent books. His patrons who used to buy his work say that his recent ones are too scary to be read as a children’s tale and too alarming to be enjoyed by adults. Still, he continued to write about those creatures unknown to men, lurking in the dark and waiting for the perfect victim.

A sense of unease permeated the air as if the very stones themselves whispered of long-lost secrets and ancient curses. Polished ebony coffins lined the walls, each adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes of darkness and death. Gargoyles leered down from their perches high above, their stone eyes seemingly tracking every movement with an eerie intensity. Sinister whispers reverberated through the dark corridors, and the cold touch of fear lingered in the air, warning all who dared to intrude upon this unholy sanctuary.

“That’s why this feels right even when it’s wrong. The guilt makes it hotter somehow. Forbidden.” Back at the cabin by late afternoon, the tension simmered again. “I’m still blocked on my writing,” Betty admitted, staring at her laptop. “The words won’t come.” I smiled, an idea sparking. “Then let me help. Pose for me. Nude. Let me photograph you, and you can write from the inspiration. Trust me?” She hesitated, then nodded, cheeks flushing. “Only for you, big sister.” In the bedroom with soft afternoon light, she undressed slowly. I captured every curve with my camera, whispering encouragement. “You’re stunning, Betty. Look at those breasts, that soft skin. My perfect step sister.”