Scary Stories Written Novels & Stories

“Oh? Well, get some rest. I won’t disturb you.” He raised a brow. “Did I say you were disturbing me? “ “Why no, but...” “I said you can talk to me as long as you want. So, talk about whatever you want until you get sleepy. I’m all ears.” I smiled. “I appreciate that.” He leaned back in his chair. “How long have you been afraid of c thunderstorms?” “Pretty much all my life. Hell, I don’t even like to drive in them. I’ll pull over on the side of the road and wait it out.”

He was lying face down, and face up, all at once. I live in that house now. I am the village "fixer." And every night, I listen to the scratching beneath the floorboards. I don't fear the ones that crawl. I fear the ones that wait. Because now I know that the most terrifying thing in the world isn't death—it’s a corpse that refuses to close its eyes.

By now, we’ve all had more than a few drinks, and we’re halfway between tipsy and passed out. “Let’s tell scary stories,” Laura, one of my friends, suggests. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Kara asks. “These woods are spooky at night. I have to be able to sleep, you know.” “Maybe we should call one of those hunky forest rangers for you,” I suggest with a laugh. “He’d better bring a friend,” Laura says. “Or twelve,” Diana, another friend of mine, adds. We all laugh, and Laura starts in on the first story about night walkers, ghostly figures who march through the forest.

The Taboo Chronicles is a curated collection of dark, twisted, and unapologetically erotic stories designed to push the boundaries of conventional desire. From the sacred halls of a silent church to the high-stakes shadows of obsessive power plays, these stories explore the raw, unyielding side of human hunger. Whether it’s the thrill of a secret shared in the dark or the surrender of a soul to a dominant force, nothing is off-limits.

Thalia's POV. My eyes widened in horror the moment I heard that. Death? I knew I was going to die someday, but I never for once thought that I'd die by the hands of a criminal. That would be too much of a disgrace. I struggled to breath, my hands now clawing his big arm but Rocco didn't let go. His grin never faltered, even as he finger-fucked me. The sounds of his finger pushing back and forth echoing through the room, a reminder of how shameless I grew.

Anyway, he kept saying that there are horrible creatures that lurk in the darkness here… While growing up he told me the story of the time when he was ten years old, his dog ran out of his family home—this townhome, the home I’m just about my home until my dad gets out of jail and the social worker says I can go back. He goes on and says that he watched his dog die that night being eaten alive by a wolf-like humanoid that he himself barely made it back home to safety. Then there were these stories of the locals being blood-sucking vampires and all the BS surrounding that subject. Oh and the witches of the forest and the great lake—supposedly they lure pregnant women to their deaths and drown

I’m sure everyone knows somethings going on between us but I’m starting not to care. “It’s time to tell ghost stories!!” Becca announces. Anybody got a good one? Everyone looks around but no one volunteers. “Oh shit! What about that night we watched the Gremlins.” Michael says I know exactly what he’s talking about. One of the scariest nights of our lives. “Oh man that was scary tell it Becca!” Christopher yells and everyone’s intrigued. “Rosalie tells it best she remembers the details better because she’s older.” Becca says

Before there were doors between worlds, there were stories. They whispered from hearth to hearth and ship to ship— of wolves that ran like midnight wind, of foxes with nine tails and nine more tricks beyond that, of fae who looked like carved moonlight and smiled like knives. Humans loved those stories—as long as they stayed in books and bedtime. The moment a story breathed, the moment a pair of eyes glinted from a tree line or a shadow stepped out of the corner of a room, humans did what humans do best when they’re afraid.

he whispered, his lips brushing her forehead, “was merely the first page of our story.” Their story ended there, with Cora wrapped in the arms of a demon, her body sated, her soul promised, and her future a terrifying, exhilarating blaze of unknown passion. She had gotten everything she had ever fantasized about, and she had never been more perfectly, completely damned.

It was late autumn when they arrived — the trees skeletal, the air thick with a kind of oppressive stillness that seemed to hum beneath the surface of the world. Emily Carter, a graduate student in folklore and urban legends, had heard the whispers about WildWood all her life. She had grown up just a few towns over and had spent years gathering the old stories: tales of the “vanishing patients,” the “howling trees,” and the “night doctors” said to stalk the forest paths. Determined to separate fact from myth, Emily organized an expedition for her thesis, enlisting a few brave companions: