The loneliest man on earth decided he didn’t want to be alone anymore. So one day, he sat down and painted a girl and started talking to her. What he didn’t know was that she blinked whenever he did. And when he went to sleep, well . . .
So both my friend, Drishti, and I are huge fans of horror stories/movies which makes you dive under the blankets, curl into a foetal position and wail about how our lives have been destroyed and we will never look at cameras/fog/the sun/insert anything you want here ever again. Kind of makes you wonder why we even read or watch horror, huh?
Since our discussions occasionally centre around topics like Creepypasta and disturbing takes on kid’s stories or nursery rhymes, it was perhaps inevitable that we would start creating our own horror.
So without further ado, and with the intention of turning our readers into a paranoid mess of freaked out mental patients providing enjoyment to our readers, we present to you a compilation of all our horror!
[WARNINGS for gore and suicide (so there may be triggers. I don’t know…)]
Drishti’s two-line stories:-
BIRTHDAY: My mom called me up and wished me a happy birthday in her sweet, mellow voice. I cut the line immediately; my mom has been dead for seven years.
PICTURE: Her pretty eyes stared at me, smiling, as I held the picture of her lovingly.
Her eyes then shifted to look at something behind me.
NO GHOSTS: “There are no ghosts in the house,” I told my daughter as I opened the door of her storage room to give her assurance.
The corpse of my dead mother stared back at me.
PROM NIGHT: I really wished I could go to the prom with the guy I had a crush on.
I turned pale as I saw the corpse of my crush in a tattered tuxedo and a bouquet of withering roses in is pale hands outside my door.
DADDY: My dad always slept next to me for as long as I can remember.
My mom told me that my dad dies a few days after I was born.
(NO TITLE): As I sat sobbing softly in my living room, my wife wiped the tears of my face from behind me.
I don’t know what was scarier–the fact that she was buried the day before, or that she was in her wedding dress.
My two-liners/the mentioned disturbing takes on poems:
BIRTHDAY#2: My mother calls me every year on my birthday and she always says she’s arranging a reunion.
I cry every time because she died when I was born.
FLYING: I used to stare at the sky and wonder what it was like to fly. I finally understood just a moment before the rope snapped my neck.
PARENTS/TEACHERS WILL HATE ME:
Mary had a little lamb,
It’s fleece as white as snow.
And everywhere Mary went,
The lamb was sure to go.
It followed her to school one day,
Which was against the rules.
And so the children carved into the lamb,
And devoured the poor thing raw.
Johnny was a sweet little child,
But the love he got was mild.
Johnny was an angry little child,
And the bodies of mates he piled.
There are several great writers on the internet addicted to writing and publishing horror stories, most of which can be found on creepypasta or referred to from there. The following list has stories which I found on that site, or have been referred to by someone.
Psychosis. A brilliant portrayal of madness, and how it helps in its own way. Seriously, go read this now. [Warning: You will be tempted to lock yourself in a bare room. And then stab your eyes out with your fingers. I suggest you don’t though.]
Cave Children. This one is long, though gratifying. Teaches you to be wary of new things. [Warning: Capable of inducing hyperventilation.]
The Spirit Child. Okay, read this if you are absolutely sure that your brain will not explode. Do not take this warning lightly. That said, it is actually a Sherlock (BBC) fanfiction, though it contains no *ahem* explicit stuff. The names can be easily changed and some lines tweaked to make it an original fiction. You do not need to have prior knowledge of the show but it will probably distort your views of the characters if you decide to watch it.
No End House. Never ever EVER go on haunted house dares. At the end of this story, you will learn why. Also, you may be laughing hysterically.
And that’s the list. For now. Happy reading!
Psst: I need to know if any of you died in the middle of this post of a heart attack but are still reading this.
A/N: You can address either Drishti or me in the comments to tell us how much we may have freaked you out. Constructive criticism is highly appreciated. Compliments and/or crying over the ficlets will make me flail happily. I do not know about Drishti, but I suspect she will do some flailing of her own too.
The boy stared up at his mother’s face as she slowly gathered up the firewood and arranged them together. It seemed a normal thing to be doing on a camping trip, yet the ar had the atmosphere of the calm before the storm, or perhaps the mere wait in bated breath when a train wreck was in motion.
She looked up, and down again. Arranged the wood once more.
She held up a matchstick and lit the firewood. The campfire cracked and growled between them.
“My Dad . . .”
“Hm? What about him?”
“I never knew him.”
“Yes dear.” Quiet. Not wanting to say more.
The boy would not give up. “Do we have pictures?”
She looked away. “No pictures,” she said then added, “Stolen. There was a burglar . . .”
Of course. There was a burglar. Last time, there was a fire, but she seemed to have forgotten that. And before that, they were accidentally binned.
The boy wondered if his mother even knew who his father was. But she was looking away, into the forest.
Not now, then. Maybe next time, she would make a more convincing story. Maybe she would tell the truth . . .
The fire cracked and growled between them.
W/N: This little bit of writing had been written down in my notebook for quite a while, but I couldn’t bear to show it to anyone. For it’s inspired–in a very loose sense of the word–it has none of the charm and command over words thehobbler has. She uses few sentences and fewer descriptions to make scenes of life that has emotions running high. She effectively makes everything she writes reader territory and probably goes sitting in front of the screen, “Go crazy with this” or maybe that’s just my overactive imagination (seriously, who imagines flying larynxes when somebody shouts, “My throat is gone.”) but I wouldn’t know. Anyone reading my blog, go over to hers and weep your heart out over her most recent post, Writing the good, the bad and the ugly.
Also, compliments and/or crying over my story makes me flail happily and constructive criticism is highly appreciated.
W/N: It seems all I’m doing nowadays is writing about serial killers, death, angst, hallucinations and plain heart-wrenching plots. I have no idea how far it affects people since the only friend of mine who reacts properly to my stories loves lovey-dovey and gooey stuff and she keeps shouting why I don’t write fluffy stories. Also, my parents are mumbling in the background about my career choice and why I can’t study something else, so I pretty much lost the whole point of this note. Aaanyway, enjoy this little thing I’ve written. Compliments and/or crying over my story will make me flail happily and constructive criticism is highly appreciated.
I met him on the street leading to my new home outside a small café.
I guess I should add again.
Those were new streets, a new café. Thousands of new memories to be made by us but were laid out by the Fates. Yet the meeting was something familiar; something warm.
He hadn’t changed. Of course not.
Death changes only the living, not the dead.
And now he was standing before me, fifteen years after his death, and he hadn’t changed.
I looked around at the street and back at him, wanting to touch him but afraid that he was not real.
“I am not real,” he said, confirming my fears.
“Brother . . .” I started but he silenced me.
“But that doesn’t mean that I am not real to you.”
And that’s what he is to me. Real. Not some half-formed fantasy, a delusion, a hallucination. Even if he is, it didn’t matter.
Because he is real to me, and that’s what matters more.
W/N: All that blabbering over such a short read was probably unnecessary.
The night was bright, allowing us to safely avoid the sharp pebbles and dangerous obstacles in our path. My brother was telling me some jokes to fill in the silence.
“I wondered why the baseball was getting bigger,” he quoted. “Then it hit me.”
My laughter echoed throughout the empty night. An owl hooted somewhere far off, symbolising how late it was. Thankfully, our parents were not at home.
Just as we were about to turn the corner to the pathway to our house, the headlights of a car made themselves visible on the wall opposite the road. We waited, listening to the faint hum of the engine so as to let the vehicle pass. A cold breeze moved across the leaves, making them rustle. I shivered and shuffled into my brother’s arms.
The headlights disappeared from the opposite wall. Strange.
Shrugging it off, we moved into the lane. The car was nowhere in sight. Maybe it had entered some house. But there were only three houses in this lane. Who would take out their car only to take it back in again?
We had reached the gates of the second house on the left of the lane, when a car came from the side of the road which was a dead-end, and blinded us both with its lights. It moved quickly and passed us.
I watched—mesmerised—as the green eyes against the stark darkness of the inside of the car at the window of the driver’s side stared at me and then from the backseat, until the car vanished, leaving a pair of disembodied eyes hovering in the air, holding my gaze until, that too, disappeared.
Freed, I looked up at my brother’s face—at his wide eyes and open mouth and the paleness that he sported now.
Hurrying home that night, our hearts hammering in our chests, I closed and locked all the windows and doors while my brother pulled the bed to the centre of the room and poured salt on the floor encircling the bed.
We held each other tight, three blankets over our heads, coming out for air only when we started suffocating. A sense of calmness had settled in and I laughed a nervous laugh.
“Imagination,” I muttered sleepily. “Delusion.” My brother made a slow ‘hmm’ sound, clearly not believing me. I wanted to tell him otherwise, but my eyes were getting heavy and I couldn’t be sure if the man with the kind face smiling down at me with a pair of disembodied green eyes over his shoulder was real or not.
“I wish the salt line had worked,” I heard my brother whisper near my ear, making me realise that I wasn’t delusional.
So I haven’t had time to write anything for a few months now, so just to keep me from being depressed that my blog is dead and finally jumping into the depths of the abyss after searching for it long and hard update my blog, here’s a draft of a story I wrote a while back:
The wound in her stomach bled more as she tried to speak but was choking with the blood pouring out of her mouth. Her life seeped into the ground, soaking her clothes and his.
They arrived to find him holding her limp, lifeless body in his arms. His tears fell on her face, so that it seemed like she was crying too.
He wouldn’t let go of her. They had to pry him of her, to stop him from kissing her bloodied lips; and then to stop him from screaming his heart out. Her body was carried far away from that place–her place of murder. But the earth and the trees still maintained her last image; the winds still carried his agonised screams of despair.
That’s pretty much it. I don’t think I can edit it anymore. Suggestions for improving this is appreciated.
Also, you have any story after this that popped into your mind?
NOTE: Introduction of one of my characters from my yet unpublished book. EDIT: I do not know what I was doing with this.
It was a lovely morning. With the heat and the humid weather, everything stuck to everything else. The sun came out quickly and brightly.
And I was dying.
No, not literally.
You could say I was figuratively dying. And oh yes. It was a sarcastically lovely morning.
And so, when I was figuratively dying, the Wind decided to have mercy and relieve us humans of the constricting humidity.
I was delighted and was quick to get out of my house and enjoy the weather.
We lived in a flat so, as you can imagine, the compound wasn’t very big. I mean the individual compound for each of the three buildings in our colony, you could say. I could venture out farther front, but I felt exposed. It put me in the gaze of any residents who happened to be looking out the window hoping someone would come by and trip and fall just to entertain them.
Since I had poor hand-eye coordination, I did not wish to be that person.
On the side of my building was a wall, lined with deodar trees. I headed towards them.
That’s when I saw him. He had his eyes closed and his head tilted towards the sky. He was partly hidden by the row of trees. I never would have noticed him had I not seen his shadow sticking out of . . . well . . . the shadows.
I squinted at him. And then–as if he sensed my presence–he slightly inclined his face towards me and frowned, looking annoyed and extremely pissed.
He looked like he wanted to mutiny.
I tucked tail and ran.
I had never seen him before in this locality and I wondered who he was. On round of my building and I reached the deodar trees again. This time, he was looking at me. We appraised each other for a long time.
I went towards him, slightly uncomfortable, but not really sure why I was walking towards him.
He looked hostile. And wary. But at the same time, he seemed to be considering; considering whether it was worth talking to me.
As I had that thought, I snapped out of it. He was about ten inches shorter than me and he seemed to be considering if I was worth talking to? Okay, maybe not that short, but still.
“New tenant?” I asked him.
A slow smile lit up his face. I was like a miniature sun, right there in the middle of all the shadows.
“Hi,” he said. “Fai. I’m Fai.”
I cocked my head at the unusual name. Japanese. Or I think it was Chinese.
I shook my head and introduced myself to Fai.
He motioned–smiling–towards deeper shade. I obliged. I didn’t even occur to me that he hadn’t answered my question. I just naturally took him as the son of a new tenant or something.
After talking for a while, I started to like him. He seemed nice enough. And quite companionable. But why were my instinct telling run?
I blinked. Insane. You are completely insane, I thought to myself. I could see Fai grinning.
He asked about my family. I asked about his. Of course, the talk eventually turned to our sisters.
“A younger sister!” I said. “Oh that is so–”
“Please.” Fai snorted. “She’s annoying–”
“Younger sisters are born to be annoying,” I said, condescendingly. “I should know. I am an younger sister.”
“Then why . . . ” he paused. Tilted his head. “The cherry blossoms are pretty aren’t they?”
Whaaat? I thought my insanity has affected him too.
Then I looked up. Instead of the deodars, there was a row of cherry blossoms.
I was surprised only later.
“Yeah,” I said, slightly dazed. “Yeah, they are.”
“Fai,” a voice called out. We looked over our shoulders. A beautiful girl was standing behind us. A leaf flitted across her face and settled snugly on her shoulder.
“Come on!” she said, her voice urgent. “We need to go NOW!”
Fai turned towards me, smiling, and said that he hoped to meet me again. I smiled back. I said I hoped to meet him too. He jogged towards the girl. I looked up at the deodars.
Started, I looked towards the path which Fai took when he left. No one was there.
I stood alone in the dark for a long time.
Sometimes, I wonder what it was all about. Was he just a figment of my imagination. Did I call myself insane so much, I really became insane? Sometimes, I wondered if I am really so bad at handling the iron, or I burn myself thinking about him?
I really couldn’t find any answers.
I thought about him for a long time: five days. And then I forgot everything about that small encounter up until now. Because my memory is that good.
After touring the world, the walk to the grocery store was hardly an adventure.
She sighed a thousand times during the ten minute walk.
It was boring. It was cold. It was excruciatingly painful.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” the man behind the counter said, flashing his perfect white teeth.
“World travel. Haven’t you heard?” she snapped at him. He looked hurt.
“I was just making small talk,” he muttered.
“Of course,” she said; her voice poisonous. “Small talk. Nobody in this town can go about without knowing anything, can they?”
The man remained silent, as he counted the items.
His name was Finnian, she vaguely recalled.
She was quick to pay the cashier and almost run out of the shop. But as she did, a drop of rain fell on her nose.
Great, she thought. To go home in the rain.
It wasn’t irony. She loved the rain.
She twiled and skipped almost halfway to her home, when she was interrupted in her moment of solitary joy.
“Whoa girl! What the hell are you doing?”
She tuned towards the voice. A familiar face was looking at her; under the hood of a raincoat. Her heart gave a jolt.
“You’re going to catch a cold,” he said, in that same matter-of-fact tone in his voice.
“Cold?” she asked, mirroring their first conversation.
“Yeah. Cold. Like that infectious viral disease of the upper respiratory tract. It affects mainly the nose and–”
“I know what cold means,” said she.
“Really?” he asked quizzically.
They stood silently, surveying each other.
“Come on.” he flicked his head over to the park. “I need to show you something.”
She followed him as he led them to the lake.
Weeping willows, she thought. They were astoundingly beautiful. Each willow bent over the lake, their leaves dropping moisture.
He clasped her hand and pulled her along towards one of them. She smiled. She had missed this. When they had reached their favourite willow–favourite because the leaves hid them from view–he pushed her gently against the trunk. He pulled back his hood.
“I have been hearing rumours,” she said softly.
“They say you left, and because one of . . . them.”
He didn’t respond, so she gave a nervous laugh. She didn’t know how to proceed.
“Do you believe in these rumours?” He asked, putting his arms around her waist, like he didn’t want to let go.
“No. I have had tons of encounters with them–” His eyes widened. “–And I don’t think . . you could pass their interview,” she said, reusing an old joke. He laughed and she laughed with him. But both their voices had an edge to it.
He suddenly leaned forward, their noses almost touching. The grocery bad slipped from her fingers.
“Do you . . . trust me?” He cleared his throat. “Even though . . . nobody else does?” his voice cracked. She nodded. The wind picked up, and the leaves of the weeping willow lashed all around them.
He stepped closer, his body touching hers. They were both breathing heavily. She thought she saw a strange hunger in his eyes–one which she had never noticed before–but she ignored it.
She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. The wind howled and it started to rain hail. The first of the sudden lightening came.
The warmth of the kiss spread throughout her, and she felt her toes tingle. his arms around her tightened, and she wanted to say him to loosen up, loosen up and let her breath. But she couldn’t breath, and she wanted to gasp for air, but he had her lips doing something else.
He pressed closer and flattened her across the bark and she felt constricted. She wanted to tell him to let go, but she couldn’t breath, and now he was pressing her neck.
And when he did let go, she was already fading.
They found her the next morning under a willow tree, missing her blood and her lips.
“An attack again,” the Chief said, and sighed. “Poor girl.”
It was terrifying: the walk. Each nerve and muscle and sinew inside him was shaking with dread. But he didn’t show it. Of course not. Instead he gathered every last remaining dignity he had after being stripped of his reputation. ‘Stormbringer’, he was called. ‘The Hurricane’. ‘Pandemonium King’. He was invincible, so fearless, and so powerful. And yet all of it was lost in a single announcement. Now he had a new name: ‘The Little Genius’. Students of his age snickered at him and at his perfect marks. Others termed him as a ‘Crammer’, not a very appreciative term in his school. Now as he walked on the ‘red carpet’, parents clapped, the principal gloated, the chief guest smiled, the chairman rubbed his belly. But the worst was his team: the Guns (Crime Masters). After the results were out, he was disowned of his post as the team leader. There was no debate: he was not fit to be a leader. He should be kicked out. That was it. He gulped. He was getting closer to the stage. His life lived until this moment flashed before his eyes. The stage was getting closer and closer. He heard some snorts. And then . . . well, he fainted—to the amazement of all the people present.
The slight threads of consciousness wove into his brain the moment he heard ‘Pandemonium King’. His eyes fluttered and a moan escaped his lips. All human sounds ceased. And then he heard a voice whisper, “Hey leader. Maybe you should try sleeping for a year or so to recover from your heart-breaking collapse near the stage.” He heard the sound of a kick and a small ‘Ow’. He opened his eyes using every bit of his willpower and stared up with a bewildered look. He recognized all of them but couldn’t really process why half of the people were there. There was his sister present, of course, his friends, peers, his former team-mates and one beloved teacher—though he would never admit it. They were all smiling. One of classmates spoke up, “They got the name wrong leader. It wasn’t you who got perfect marks. It was one of the permanent crammers. You barely passed, except in handwriting where you got perfect marks. And we don’t blame you for that really. Good handwriting is needed to pass as a solid citizen of the society outside the underworld, even if that is not the case. So I guess you are the most suitable candidate to become our leader.” Everybody looked cheerful. But their leader groaned, saying, “I suffered ‘the walk’ to see THIS? I’ll die like this . . .”
NOTE: Written some years ago, this story may contain the glimmers of the innocence of the younger me. What was that? I was as evil a human being then as I am now? Why you . . .