Literary Horror Novels & Stories

The chilling fear gripped her, paralyzing her body and clouding her thoughts. In the pitch-black abyss, Storm’s imagination ran wild. She could hear the faint sound of her own breath, an eerie reminder of her vulnerability. Every creak and groan of the house seemed to echo through the corridors, magnifying her dread. Was Lucy awake? Who was walking around the house? The air felt thick and heavy, as if a malevolent presence lurked just beyond her sight. As her eyes strained to adjust to the darkness, her mind played tricks on her. Shadows danced and twisted, morphing into grotesque figures that seemed to mock her fear.

That frightens me more than almost anything else on this island has. Not Girard. Girard was a specific dread, the dread of something that does not see you, the specific horror of a man who has built a thing in your shape and wants the thing. That dread has a category and the category is survival and survival I know. This does not have a category.

The foliage has begun reclaiming sidewalks and parking lots, even poking through the street’s asphalt. But not here. Nothing grows here. “I grew up reading a lot of classic horror, Stephen King, H. P. Lovecraft, especially,” Father Ward says. “Dad did, too. He was a different sort of pastor. A little more relaxed. Anyway, there’s a scrap of poetry by Lovecraft. Goes something like this . . . ” Father Ward closes his eyes and with a thoughtful expression recites: The Thing, they whisper, wears a silken mask Of yellow, whose queer folds appear to hide

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.

I apologize that this book is really short with less than 30k words in all. I plan to edit it at some point and make it better. I figured that a really long Horror book might be less interesting and would just seem drawn out. I've not read a lot of them but I watch horror movies so I wrote this like I would picture an Horror movie. I appreciate all those who stuck with me and read Reincarnation regardless. Thank you all. After saying this, I would love and appreciate your feedbacks and things to watch out for when I do edit the book. It would be really helpful and appreciated. Bonus scene ideas too would be great. Thanks once again.

I go with the second. I listened intently as the footsteps became louder. They were closer now and I would be seeing them in any second. But there was something pulling at the back of my mind; something that made me ask myself: why was the killer heading directly to me? Why wasn't he searching each and every aisle to see if someone else was in here other than me? Maybe it was that obvious that someone would be hiding at the end of the library. Nice going Fiona. I held my breath as the steps slowed down in pace. This seriously felt like a horror movie where the killer creeps around the corner slowly before killing his next victim.

Because he had just been ripped apart. I turned around slowly and stared at the “pet” who had done the ripping. He still had blood on his face, but somehow looked… innocent. “I was hungry,” he murmured. Maybe it was my imagination, but his pupils looked a little sharper than before. [Wow. Trying to slut-shame someone in a horror dungeon? He had it coming.] [Pop the champagne. Ding-dong, the jerk is dead.] [Lol the stans are out. She can sleep with monsters but nobody can call her out?]

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.”

Her mouth was stretched wide in a horrifying shriek. A wave of pure hatred rolled off her, so cold it burned the air. The chat stirred to life again. [Here we go! Classic jump scare!] [That's one of the manor's most vicious ghosts! It feeds on the players' fear!] [This newbie is toast! She won't even have time to react!] [I can already picture her getting torn to shreds...] But I didn't scream. I didn't run. Of course, my heart condition chose that exact moment to flare up. The pain was so bad I could barely stand.

“Yes, horror is the only modern genre that’s as fatalistic as classical tragedy. But one is considered by critics to be the pinnacle of fiction and the other is considered the nadir.” “You know you get the cutest little furrow in your brow when you get all serious.” “Blow me,” said Sam chucking a zippo at Jimmy’s head. “Only if you furrow your brow for me.” Jimmy took a hit from the bong and said, “You’ve thought quite a bit about this haven’t you?” “Yeah, I have. It means something y’know. The ancients used mythology as a way of exploring a lot of important, unspoken things about their lives. The closest thing we have to that is horror, it’s our way of exploring the unspoken matters in life