Horror Fiction Novels & Stories

I grinned. Rina snorted. “I’m a little annoyed by people trying to turn classic literature into horror shit.” Kimi and I looked at her in surprise. “So, you prefer pure horror?” I asked. Rina rolled her eyes. “Have you met your sister? She’s all about the jump scares and psychological thrillers.” I wrinkled my nose. “So is your brother. I’m not going to lie, Blood and Chocolate and Warm Bodies were a compromise. As was Shaun of the Dead.”

hskk. “What is that sound?..” the surroundings were quiet, but I could hear a sound as if something was cracking 3:00 am At exactly 3 am, a strange black shadow suddenly appeared in the corner of her room! “Who are you? What are you doing here in my GF’s room !?” the shape of the shadow slowly formed and gave the appearance of a large hairy man. “A Kapre!!” (Kapre is a Filipino horror myth that appears like a person with a hairy body and a face of an ancient people)

In 1983 a Mrs Carson of New York was laid out in our coffin, presumed dead of hear disease. As mourners watched, she suddenly sat up, alive as you or I. Unfortunately her daughter dropped dead of fright on the spot. I don't own any of this stories. I found them in some creepy books. I'm thinking of writing my own scary stories, but not anytime soon. You can send me your short stories for a feature if you feel like it. Thanks for reading. Enjoy!I don't own any of this stories. I found them in some creepy books. I'm thinking of writing my own scary stories, but not anytime soon.

Willa sprinted into the elevator, her eyes widening with fear and her fingers clutching her bag firmly for support. As a horror writer, one would think she was accustomed to such surroundings and may have even enjoyed them, but that was far from the truth. Willa hated everything about ghosts and haunted houses, and even the sight of too much blood drove her insane. The horror genre felt like a gift; she was so good at it and had written over thirty bestselling novels, but in reality, her fears had been portrayed in every character she created. As the elevator dinged, she sighed in relief and rushed out. She quickly searched her bag for her key, but as her hand touched the doorknob, the door

Horror filled our features. Our eyes went wide as saucers. Oh sh*t! Sh*t! Sh*t!

Agatha said briskly. The reality of the situation suddenly sank in. Fear consumed Edwin and his heart threatened to explode in his chest as he rushed to join Tim behind the thick oak tree. “Are you out of your mind?” Tim hissed when his friend skidded next to him. “I think so,” Edwin panted. “I can’t believe any of this is happening. Vampires… witches… this is like some sci-fi nightmare,” Tim complained. “It was supposed to be a simple hunting trip with a few friends.”

Lady Tatya lounged about in her chambers, reading a horror novel. This was one of her favorite genres. She loved the thrills, the twists, the terrifying reality that burst through the pages. But most of all, she loved the creativity. So many ways to die, so many ways to make someone fall on their own sword. Tatya turned the page with such vigor, she almost ripped it. Yes, this was the moment in the story where the characters were cornered and trapped by the monster, the monster that had a million ways to torture them. Skinning, drowning, beheading… all wonderful ways to cause someone’s death.

So, follow the supernatural world, between changes, attacks of beasts and supernatural worlds, lives of terror and nightmares. So, come and follow your fears and mysteries in the midst of a great turnaround of events, between victims, the police and the crimes of the night, monsters and beasts of the underworld, beings of darkness that prowl the night. Between disappearances, supernatural beings, revenge of spirits, tales of death and rebirth, tracing a line from the world of darkness, the lands of rain... 22 hours at night. It was the dark New Year's Eve, the weekend night during All Saints' Day.

His wrinkled face looked like it was crawling with countless wriggling worms. I shuddered and stepped back, whispering to Silvia, "Good thing I've got you. This place is terrifying." She snorted and suddenly shoved me forward, straight toward George. With an icy laugh, she said, "This pretty boy will make a great offering. You're going to love him." Before I could react, George gestured, and several eerie puppets stepped forward to pin me down and drain my blood. A sharp bell rang out, echoing through the night.

PATHETIC DRAMATIC melted and re‑formed. SCARED CREATIVE “I made horror because I was scared,” I said. “Not because I was weak. I wrote bad things happening because bad things *were* happening, and it was the only way I could stand to look at them without going numb.” Memory flickered behind my eyes unbidden: me at thirteen, hunched over a spiral notebook while my parents argued in the next room. Me at sixteen, typing frantically after my sister had rolled her eyes at something that had gutted me. I'm hiding in horror books because at least *there is fear that had shape and rules and endings.