Poems Horror Novels & Stories

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

He stopped scrolling and read the full poem, his skin growing cold with gooseflesh as he did so. Along the shore the cloud waves break, The twin suns sink behind the lake, The shadows lengthen In Carcosa. Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies, But stranger still is Lost Carcosa. Songs that the Hyades shall sing, Where flap the tatters of the King, Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead, Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in

There is a click-clack coming down a pathway that is lit in total darkness. The pitter-patter of acid rain drops onto the rugged black surface. In the far distance, there is a howl, yet more like a cry. Thunder roars to create the perfect balance for ultimate chaos and pure raw horror. If you find me walking past your room this very moment, you know that you have landed where nothing real exists anymore. The only reality shall be that of your fear, your own personal agony that you have created for yourself.

As soon as she closed her eyes, the dream continued like it was waiting for her to come back to the subconscious world. Amara shuddered with fear as if she was the part of the dream to see the vampire again. The moment his feet landed on the soil of Hamster, the birds making merry in the air of the blue sky made a preternatural chirrup flying away. The dogs howled as if a huge calamity is going to befall. The ether which appeared bright with rays of sun suddenly turned dark with loud thunders. Within a few seconds there was an outpour of rain as if the heaven was also moarning for the origin of disaster in the city.

A faint, unearthly mist creeps across the ground, like skeletal fingers reaching out to snatch the living, as if death itself was reclaiming the land. The trees, once green and vibrant, now stand as skeletal sentinels, their branches like bony fingers reaching towards the sky. The wind whispers an unsettling melody, a haunting dirge that seems to warn of impending doom. In this ominous hour, the shadows come alive, twisting and writhing like living darkness. The very fabric of reality seems to be unraveling, and the whispers of the unknown are a chilling reminder that something ancient and evil lurks just beyond the edge of perception.

Like a flower that loses its beauty; so is the present that is happening to the whole country. Darkness forces beauty to mourn, darkening the happy atmosphere without being prevented. Gloom, that's all that's left. An eclipse comes between freezing snows. However, it actually lasted longer in retaliation for the delay. They said the darkness was created by a child. Dark and terrible poems about it began to surface. The girl fell like drops of rain from above the horror. She stood like a haughty tower in the distance. She limped in a gray cloud, like dawn breathing death.

"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.

Those books were older than any of the others in his office. The bottom shelf (the one he’d been searching when he’d first heard the cats playing in the hall) held his collection of horror anthologies. The famed Whispers series, edited by Stuart David Schiff, featuring the varied works of Ramsey Campbell, Stephen King, Charles Grant and so many others. The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror from England. The Shivers series, published by Cemetery Dance. Masques, Borderlands, Shadows, Stalkers, Dark Forces, October Dreams I & II, Corpse Blossoms, Horror Library Volumes 1-5, and Prime Evil. Classic horror anthologies jammed next to paperback collections of slightly lesser repute with titles to mat

Aurora’s P.O.V Lucas's voice rose in a low, guttural chant, each word curling in the air like tendrils of dark energy, wrapping themselves around the room. Then Harmona joined him, her voice softer but no less potent. She lifted the colander high, and the thick crimson liquid sloshed within it, reflecting the dim light with an ominous sheen. The sight of my own blood swirling in that vessel sent a fresh wave of dread rolling through me, but the real horror was the sun—partially eclipsed, casting long, eerie shadows that flickered along the walls like ghosts waiting to pounce.

Just silence thick and shadows high. Then fingers cold as death’s caress Drag me down the hall—no less. My echo fades behind each scream, Where nightmare slips into twisted dreams. Damnation clings to every stone, And fear leaks out of every bone. Through seven gates I must descend, Where light and memory meet their end. Each time, a layer falls from grace— No praise remains, no soft embrace. My skin grows bare, my steps grow slow, Yet still I walk. I choose to go. Through shadow’s mouth, I drop like flame,