Literature Horror Novels & Stories

This shadow, this darkness with fangs, it had the power to stipulate how they dreamed and that made him crazy with need to blow the creature’s head off. “This is a local legend about nightmares, a satanic sorcerer, and black magic. It is titled as Shadows and Blood, and is 50 years old. Folklore, through songs and words and this guy had recorded it down, a little and a lot of his own story.” She looked at the book, biting her lips, forehead crinkling in concentration. “Sound gory and ancient and I have never heard of this.” Art said as he struggled to open his tired eyes. It burned from the lack of sleep. Aurora looked tired as well, but she was dogged to finish the book, to find anything mo

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.

“Let’s go! Let’s watch it!” Sidney placed the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table then sat on the couch with Adam and Cameron. She gathered the remotes and navigated to the movie. Cameron practically vibrated on the cushion as she pressed Play. Sidney smiled to herself, drawing her laptop onto her knees. As the opening credits reflected in Cameron’s wide eyes, she brought her fingertips to the keys. The Horror of Real Life Life is like standing on a frozen steam. It may seem solid, but there is always something flowing and threatening underneath. Horror is that current under it all.

“No, you didn’t. I remember, and I appreciate that. But… you must know that with the lights on, even this small lamp, you’ll be able to see how hideous I truly am.” She’s shaking her head as if she can’t believe it, so I feel compelled to describe myself. “Have you ever read those children’s books, meant to horrify young people not to go into the woods at night, that talk about werewolves?” “Yes.” She sits up straight in her chair, leaning in.

Damon joked "And a pointy hat" I laughed "That too, yes" Damon nodded I flew to the library the following day to return 'kidnapped' I decided I wanted another book, this time I chose a different author and a different genre, I chose horror, which wasnt far from thriller, like the first book, but horror was my favourite, I loved how ghosts were scary, and there were demons, and scary witches that cursed you, it made me laugh, for some reason this had always made me laugh, even before I knew I was a witch, now I knew why.

Bethany suggested, eagerly. “Exactly. We are in the optimum position to acquire information about our Herring, because it’s our job—especially as English teachers—to find out what things inspire him. Taking your idea, we can give out an assignment early in October to pick a piece of horror literature—modern, Gothic, poetry, whatever each student wants—and from that we can learn more about him.

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

“Come in, then. But be quiet.” So she went in. The library felt less like an oasis of knowledge and culture and more like the setting for a low-budget horror flick. The reading room was dim, the air thick with the musty smell. A streak of light spilled from a distant doorway, whispering, “The murderous cult meeting is this way, please.” Linda pushed open the door and stepped into a larger room illuminated by a single orange-shaded lamp hanging low over a round oak table. The place was crawling with people dressed head-to-toe in black, all looking like extras from a Goth fashion show.

I steeled myself and opened the door. The hallway was awash in red. Smears and spatters of bright and dark blood covered the walls, the floor, and my door. My head reeled. What the hell happened? Why was there so much blood outside my door? Hadn't the guy in 603 seen it through his peephole? I couldn't help looking toward apartment 603. To my surprise, the door stood half-open, and it was dead quiet inside. I picked my way past the bloodstains and made my way to apartment 603.

"Reading novels seems better!" A profound silence reigned in the downstairs room where Miranda stayed, broken only by the rhythmic cadence of her breathing as she sat on the wide bed, propped up against soft pillows, a famous horror novel open in her hands. The words danced before her eyes under the warm glow of the golden bedside lamp, drawing her deeper and deeper into their dark worlds, until it seemed as if she were slipping into her haunted depths.