Literature Horror Novels & Stories

“Nora, I don’t want you to freak out over this. As of right now, there is no information I have that can properly identify whatever that thing was.” “Do you think it will come back?” My heart grew heavy in my chest with uncertainty. “I don’t know. I hope I never come across it again,” I told her lightly. “Thank you for helping me find this.” Nodding her head, Nora left me to begin reading through the book. I sat down at one of the empty tables and began skimming through the pages. Most of which were in Latin, but many of the entries came with some great illustrations. Ogres, Nymphs, Warlocks, Incupi, Magicians...Demons.

She shrugged, a little awkwardly. I smiled back, wanting to put her at ease. “Thank you, Sie. I really appreciate it.” We flicked through some new books and papers while we waited for the pizza to arrive. They were all much the same – long, winding documentation of vampire sightings from the Victorian era, many of which were clearly allegories for something else, like impudent women or the fear of industrialisation.

In dedication to Born By Power is a series of poem fixed within chapters of the book. The first was relating to Chaos And Apocalypse, which pretty much revealed a lot about the uprise of hell. This is the second and is themed on the horrific nature of Halloween and written with relativeness to hell. What does this hold to unviel? Who knows. Screams of Halloween Halloween, Halloween, Soft screams of blood chime, The period of dark, The day of ghouls, demons and imps,

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.

Maybe it all came from the lingering frustration about every little thing since my little family reunion at school. I tried not to think about it. Or anything else in particular but as you know it’s quite hard to keep your mind blank, so yeah, not much luck. I switched on the lamp beside my bed taking out my Creatures of the Moon book, I was reading something about Wendigos the last time if I could recall well. Vicious creatures, I tell you. These were the true creatures of the night. More deadly than vampires in my opinion. I sighed through the pages buying out time, as the minutes whisked away.

I darted my eyes away quickly-- "You promised," Al said all of a sudden. "What?" I paused in surprise. "No question asked," Al smirked, holding out his hand to me. I was grateful that he didn't ask into it. Night fell. So the thing about horror stories is that-- The fear kicks in only at dark nights when you are alone, not when you are at the crowded theater or on the bright street. Meaning-- I couldn't fall asleep that night. Turns out it's a bit hard to fall asleep when you don't close your eyes because you feel the need to stare at everything with alert.

"In the darkest hours of the night, when you least expect it, my presence will seep into your consciousness like a vile contagion. The specter of your wrongdoing will become a malevolent poltergeist, tearing at the fragile threads of your sanity." The room became a chamber of horrors, a stage set for a grotesque play of vengeance. Shadows danced upon the walls, whispering their secrets of torment and despair. The air turned fetid, tinged with the stench of impending doom, as my threat enveloped the very essence of Leo's being, clawing its way into the recesses of his mind.

The "Genre Shift" was a visceral, soul-shredding atmospheric pressure. As the black ink turned to liquid silver, the "Unmapped" North began to lose its vibrant, biological warmth. The violet lilies in the courtyard didn't just wilt; they turned into shards of cold, surgical steel. The "Bridge of the Remembered" unwove, the living obsidian becoming a series of grey, antiseptic tubes. The North was being "Re-Drafted" into a horror story.

I asked her curiously as I sat comfortably on her couch and the three of them sat on the big one adjacent to mine. "Well, I believe that there's nothing to be scared of. The ghosts, vampires, witches, and werewolves are just in the books. Right? Fiction. Not real." My oblivious girlfriend explained, and that made the three of us, supermarket beings, look at each other. If you just knew, Pryce. None of us here is purely human. "Uh, yeah, yeah. They're just in the books. Horror books. They are a product of one's creative minds… and to scare people." Sander agreed with her best friend. Now, I really don't know how we will tell Pryce about the whole truth.

The only light now came from the thin gap under the door—faint hallway glow that slowly dimmed as Lily turned off the lights upstairs. Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time dissolved in the black. I sat on the cold floor, back against the unyielding door, whispering her name like a prayer. My mind raced through every horror movie I’d ever seen, but none prepared me for this: the monster didn’t look like a beast. It looked like me. It sounded like me. And my daughter had believed it. I thought about the “C9” boxes—Christmas decorations, year 2009 or something trivial. Now the label felt like a mocking code. C9. The Monster In The Basement.