No matter how I try to smile in front of the mirror, the entity behind it never smiled. One day, I took off from my flat for a sightseeing in the mall nearby, when suddenly an earthquake occurred. It was a huge one. Everyone was hysterical. They were running around in panic, looking for a shelter. I ran to cover myself under a table to avoid getting hit by anything that fell. I didn't realize something fell from above me and hit me in the head. I fell down and I groaned from the pain. As the pain slowly faded, I started looked around.
The earthquake had stopped. The mall was slightly dark. The light was out. It was messy in there. I gasped when I noticed something shiny not far from me. I turned my head and I saw a mirror. Probably from the fitting room near me. In reflexed, I crawled away as far as I could, even though my head and my legs were hurt. Right there and then, I saw my reflection in the mirror. For the first time in forever, I saw the entity behind the mirror smiling at me. A devilish smile. A sense of horror grasped me as I saw the entity waving at me from behind the mirror, as if it was saying goodbye.
I rarely sleep alone. Not that I have a choice in the matter. The night always starts and for that matter always ends the same. Knock back a few sleeping pills, take off my socks and let myself get drowsy. Couldn't tell you why I even take them still, the pills that is. I guess you could also say we're inseparable, not that I planned it that way, that's just how it is now. Every night I wait and every night her face appears.
No matter how badly I clog myself with prescription pills I can feel her arrival. Sometimes she's just a face, sometimes just a jaggedly rearranged torso. I couldn't tell you what's worse; her wide eyed contorted look of hatred or that delirious look of malignant joy spattered across it's twisted face. It paces too. Or it glides like it's on a conveyor belt back and forth. Her eyes never leaving mine.
Eyes wild with rage. The nights when the body of the thing lays itself beside me, to find us face to face with her lips agape, as if she was mimicking my horrified reaction is beyond description. My whole body becomes liquefied with fear and I bolt upright to escape but never make it past my bedroom door. My legs fail me and I'm suddenly a heap by my dresser drawer. That's when she kneels, purses her fat purple lips and utters the only words I've ever heard her say since that night. For as long as I can remember, the house at the end of the street held some mystery. Uninhabited for years, the local kids and parents all knew about its previous occupants and what happened.
A young couple moved into the place around The young wife was upstairs one day when the husband rang the doorbell for some assistance carrying some boxes inside the front door. The husband was heartbroken and never spent another night there, leaving some things behind inside the house. As with all juicy tales there were follow up stories, and this is where things got weird. It was late in the afternoon, no lights were on, and dead silence. He told the neighbor, the real recipient of the package, about what had happened and was genuinely shocked when he learned that nobody actually lived there anymore.
The neighbor said his pallor went from a natural hue to pure white terror. This just added to the legend. Around Halloween each year we would have these contests to see who could ring the doorbell, stand there for 2 minutes without getting scared or running away. Nobody ever did it, well not until Casey moved into the neighborhood. His father was in the Navy and Casey was fearless; all the kids looked up to him. When Casey celebrated hisfirst Halloween with us he accepted the challenge.
We watched from across the street. Casey walked up the house, rang the doorbell. Nothing happened, but then he reached for the doorknob and walked in, surprising all of us. Casey was now inside the weirdo house, it was dark but we could see him with his flashlight in the rooms on the second floor. After several giddy minutes spent making silly faces with my son, I sighed and held him close, and smiled. I looked at our reflections in the mirror, in awe of the perfect little cherub I was blessed with.
My reflection flickered momentarily, before an unearthly hand stretched out from the glass and plucked my son from my lap. It started off with her ignoring my texts so I tried calling her for a while before she blocked my number. As confused as I was, I tried to tell myself that there had to be a good reason for her hurtful actions.
I just really need my friend, being dead is so lonely. I'll be making a visit real soon, then we can be together forever…. First, this actually happened to me about two weeks ago and may just be a crackhead. I need to inform you that I live in a poor neighborhood, drugs and shit run rampant.
I leave for my bus at AM and this was like and other day. I turned the corner and crossed the street to the other side of the sidewalk when I saw about yards in front of me a tall outline was what looked like dancing in a circle on the sidewalk. I thought that was just a drunk guy or crackhead so I decided I would just wait for him to dance away. I stood there for a good five minutes before deciding I would wait for the friend who's home I was standing in front of came to walk to the bus stop.
I waited another minute before the shape looked at me for about thirty seconds and bolted behind a tree. As it stared at me it gave me the feeling that it was not human. From behind the tree it leaned over and stuck its head out as if it was to see if I was still there, once, twice then it bolted from behind the tree into an empty plot.
I stood there shocked for another minute and a half before my friend walk out the door of his home shook me and said "The fuck are you doing? We walked down the street and as I walked past the plot I looked over and saw nothing. There was no where it could've gone. To this day I have no fucking clue what that thing was. When Mum and Dad bought the house, they thought the brown scratches on the bedroom doors were from a dog. But when they spoke to the agent, he said the previous owners didn't have one. Mum and Dad replaced the doors. But after the third time, they gave up, as the dark scratches always returned by the next morning.
My parents discarded it as something to do with the quality of wood in the area. Dad said he'd order new doors from out of town come the end of the month.
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One night, I decided to stay awake and find out the truth. I put off all the lights, laid in bed with pillow end toward the door, and covered my face with a blanket --leaving a small crack. Things were quiet for the first hour after twelve. I thought about going to the bathroom just after one.
If I decided to go and scared the thing away, then I'd waste hours of sleep. I fought against my bladder and waited. At two, I heard the first noise. It sounded like something being scraped away. As if someone in the next room worked at the wall with a screwdriver. I held my breath and listened. It lasted for twenty minutes and by that time I knew something was definitely there. My heart pounded in my chest. I thought about checking on Mum and Dad.
But judging from all the other nights, no one would be hurt. Whatever made the scratches was only interested in the walls. And if I waited long enough, maybe I could catch the culprit. My patience thinned as each minute passed. My bladder throbbed, threatening to burst. I gritted my teeth and squashed my knees together. Just after three AM, the sound came again and closer. I could see a shadow moving in the darkness of the hallway. It scraped at Mum and Dad's bedroom door. Then it moved toward mine. I readied my hand for the light. The creature worked at my door, each scratch like chalk on wood.
It sounded hungry as if it devoured the grooves. My heart pounded in my chest, my ears, the back of my head. I wanted to move, but fear held me still. The dark thing shifted along my carpet, breathing in between the screeching sound of it scratching the wood. Mum and Dad scraped at my bedroom door, their eyes blank, nails rimmed with blood, and their mouths speaking soundless words. It flowed from underneath the door. I felt so comfortable that I would forget to turn it off afterwards. My husband greeted me as I walked through the door today.
He had a bouquet of roses, and dinner was waiting on the table. It would have been romantic if I hadn't just arrived home from identifying his body at the morgue. Design credit: Aakansha Pushp. We'd like to show you notifications for the latest news and updates. You can manage them any time from your browser settings. No Thanks Allow.
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Thank you for Subscribing to ScoopWhoop Notification. Life sucks, we know. Once you are 18 we promise to show you this content but not till then! Connect with. He peeked out of his eyes to see what was happening when his door swung open to reveal a murderer carrying corpses of his parents. After silently propping them up on a chair, he wrote something on the wall in the blood of the dead bodies. Like any child, he pretended that he slept through the whole thing and hadn't woken up yet. He lay still as the bodies, quietly hearing the breathes from under his bed.
He gasped when he finally read out the sentence. Blurry by Thatonecricket I got my first pair of glasses last week.
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We Didn't Question Why by Movie Man We didn't question why the small town we'd found after getting lost in the countryside wasn't on the map. We knew why. How'd you get down there? The old man had finally found something tasty enough to always reward. The Light by Theshadowsyoufear We make fun of little kids for one thing; leaving lights on everywhere.
I'm friends with the one under your bed and the one in the shadows. When you see us, you flee to you're mommy and daddy. But we're not here to hurt you. We're here to protect you. So you're safe with us For now. Closet light by Evanthenerd83 When I was a little girl, I used to read at night. But one night, it turned itself off. I proposed after we graduated from college and we planned our future together.
I still loved her, though. I nodded to the priest and signaled to the men sitting in the front row. The priest grasped the crucifix in front of her face and began the recitation. I wanted my wife back. Jacob spent an hour and a half playing with his phone. YouTube videos. Jacob sent her a text. He sent another. Where are you? No answer. Crinkling like folded tin foil. Jacob jumped and spun around. Only for thick black hair to consume his sight. I walked over and picked it up. Sarah was standing in the darkness of her room. Some mornings Betsy and I would wake up, and on each of our nightstands, we'd find a cup that hadn't been there the night before.
Mother had left them there, worried that we'd get thirsty during the night. She just wanted to take care of us. Among the house's original furnishings was an antique wooden chair, which we kept against the back wall of the living room. Whenever we were preoccupied, watching TV or playing a game, Mother would inch that chair forward, across the room, toward us. Sometimes she'd manage to move it all the way to the center of the room. We always felt sad putting it back against the wall.
Mother just wanted to be near us. Years later, long after we'd moved out, I found an old newspaper article about the farmhouse's original occupant, a widow. She'd murdered her two children by giving them each a cup of poisoned milk before bed. Then she'd hanged herself. The article included a photo of the farmhouse's living room, with a woman's body hanging from a beam. Beneath her, knocked over, was that old wooden chair, placed exactly in the center of the room.
On Monday, I came up with the perfect plan. No one even knew we were friends. On Tuesday, he stole the gun from his dad. On Wednesday, we decided to make our move during the following day's pep rally. On Thursday, while the entire school was in the gym, we waited just outside the doors.
I was to use the gun on whoever walked out first. Then he would take the gun and go into the gym blasting. I walked up to Mr. Quinn the guidance counselor and shot him in the face three times.
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He fell back into the gym, dead. The shots were deafening. We heard screams in the auditorium. No one could see us yet. I handed him the gun and whispered, "your turn. I followed a moment after. He hadn't hit anyone yet. Kids were scrambling and hiding. It was mayhem. I ran up behind him and tackled him. We struggled. I wrenched the gun out of his hands, turned it on him, and killed him. I closed his mouth forever.
On Friday, I was anointed a hero. It was indeed the perfect plan. All things must have balance. Light and dark. Good and evil. Sound and silence. Without one, the other cannot exist. Of course he fights evil. I am Dartalian, one of His most Holy and Righteous angels. I roam the Earth, disposing of evil wherever I find it. I kill the monsters you don't ever want to know about.
I crush them completely so you can sleep at night. You humans have no idea how many of you live because of the work I do. Ted Bundy?
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Jack the Ripper? For balance. The ones I destroy are What's funny, is while I would wager you never have heard the name Dartalian in any relegious texts, I bet you have heard of me. Americans, for example, have their own name for me. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. There was no pearly gate. The only reason I knew I was in a cave was because I had just passed the entrance. The rock wall rose behind me with no ceiling in sight. I knew this was it, this was what religion talked about, what man feared..
I had just entered the gate to hell. I felt the presence of the cave as if it was a living, breathing creature. The stench of rotten flesh overwhelmed me. Then there was the voice, it came from inside and all around. I did know. I've lived as good as I could". The silence took over the space as my words died out.
It seemed like an hour went by before the response came. I never believed any of this", I uttered "Is that why I am here? I continued: "They say the greatest trick you ever pulled was convincing the world you don't exist""No, the greatest trick I ever pulled was convincing the world that there is an alternative""There is no God? The cave trembled with the words: "I am God. It was one a.
He hadn't moved for over an hour. The accident earlier that evening kept playing over and over in his mind. The light turned red, but he was in a hurry and accelerated. An orange blur came from his right, and in a split second there was a violent jolt, then the bicyclist rolled across his hood and fell out of sight on the pavement.
Horns blared angrily and he panicked, stepping on the gas and screeching away from the chaos into the darkness, shaken and keeping an eye on his rearview mirror until he got home. Why did you run, you idiot? He'd never committed a crime before this and punished himself by imagining years in jail, his career gone, his family gone, his future gone. Why not just go to the police right now? You can afford a lawyer. Then someone tapped on the front door and his world suddenly crumbled away beneath him. They found me. There was nothing he could do but answer it. Running would only make matters worse.
His body trembling, he got up, went to the door and opened it. A police officer stood under the porch light. He let out a defeated sigh. Let me —"I am terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I have some bad news. Your son's bike was struck by a hit and run driver this evening. He died at the scene. I'm very sorry for your loss. Have you ever walked into a room and found a vampire? No, not the sexy kind, but a foul creature with bony limbs and ashen skin? The kind that snarls as you enter, like a beast about to pounce?
The kind that roots you to the spot with its sunken, hypnotic eyes, rendering you unable to flee as you watch the hideous thing uncoil from the shadows? Has your heart started racing though your legs refuse to? Have you felt time slow as the creature crosses the room in the darkness of a blink? Have you shuddered with fear when it places one clawed hand atop your head and another under your chin so it can tilt you, exposing your neck? Have you squirmed as its rough, dry tongue slides down your cheek, over your jaw, to your throat, in a slithering search that's seeking your artery?
Have you felt its hot breath release in a hiss against your skin when it probes your pulse—the flow that leads to your brain? Has its tongue rested there, throbbing slightly as if savoring the moment? Have you then experienced a sinking, sucking blackness as you discover that not all vampires feed on blood—some feed on memories? Well, have you? Maybe not. But let me rephrase the question:Have you ever walked into a room and suddenly forgotten why you came in? The doctor pulled the stethoscope ear tips out and hung the device around his neck.
Weatherby, all of your tests have come back negative and my examination shows nothing abnormal. A psychologist can help I need answers. They seem to have a life all their own. I can't hold a job. I'm under investigation for assault. I almost killed my neighbor. This can't go on. I'll try anything at this point. He was convinced that despite what the doctors said, it was not a psychological problem.
That night, a frustrated and angry Adam sat in a chair and drank bourbon. Drunk and hopeless, he stumbled to the garage and started the table saw, then slowly lowered his wrists toward the screaming blade. Detective Armstrong entered the garage where several uniformed officers stood over the blood-soaked body. He apparently chopped off his hands with the table saw and bled to death.
I don't know why I looked up, but when I did I saw him there. He stood against my window. His forehead rested against the glass, and his eyes were still and light and he smiled a lipstick-red, cartoonish grin.
And he just stood there in the window. My wife was upstairs sleeping, my son was in his crib and I couldn't move I froze and watched him looking past me through the glass. Oh, please no. His smile never moved but he put a hand up and slid it down the glass, watching me. With matted hair and yellow skin and face through the window. I couldn't do anything. I just stayed there, frozen, feet still in the bushes I was pruning, looking into my home. People started falling from the sky by the close of the decade. They were never clothed, always naked, always a petrifying grin on their faces.
It had been just a few at first, but then hundreds and thousands would fall at a time, destroying cars, homes, blocking off highways. Strange discoveries were made upon research; they were human, but lacked any blood, intestines, even a heart. No one could explain the hideous grins they had, or even where they came from.
It was a woman in Costa Rica who made the latest and most disturbing discovery. She recognized one of the fallen bodies as a long dead relative, one who died back when she had been a teenager. Then more and more identifications were made. Soon people were picking out their long dead loved ones amongst the video feeds, cadaver piles, and crematoriums. No one could explain why they were coming back, falling from the sky. Even more distressing, after disposing of the bodies, it wouldn't be long until that same body came plummeting from the sky again.
You could not get rid of them, no matter what. People were getting killed by the higher volume of falling bodies, and soon after burial, they too, began to fall. My mother was killed when a body landed on her car, crushing her. The next week, the news reported on a body that had gotten lodged in an airplane windshield. They say when hell is full; the dead shall walk the earth. What about heaven? I watched as my soon to be father-in-law held his daughter's hand as he walked down the aisle. Tears streamed down his face as the wedding march that played in the background reminded him that, in a few minutes, he would be watching me hold his daughter's hand and slipping on her ring.
He walked up to the altar and I took hold of her hand, grinning from ear to ear. It was the happiest day of my life. My bride's father got down on his knees and started begging. Just please give my daughter back. Panicked, I run through the abandoned farm. I can't find her. Not in the old house. Not in the barn. I run into the empty field, heart racing.
150+ Short Two-Sentence Horror Stories To Freak You Out
As I scan the area, I run into a mound of dirt and trip, sprawling to the ground. Getting up, it hits me. Abandoned farm. I tripped over freshly tilled earth.
Crouching down, I start frantically clawing with my hands. Scooping handfuls of dirt, I hit something hard. I hear muffled cries. I start digging again, but realize it's taking too long.
Looking around, I see a garden shed. I sprint to it, ripping the door open. I see a shovel, still caked in dirt. Probably the same one that bastard buried her with. I grab it. Running back, I started digging with purpose. Soon the wooden box is exposed. I toss the shovel, and rip open the crate. She stares back at me, eyes wide. But alive. I sigh with relief. Thank God. I reach into my bag, pulling out my rag and chloroform. I crouch down, placing it over her face.
She struggles, faints. I toss her over my shoulder. You almost had me though! My turn. Where did you put her? Drowning's an issue though. I smile, watching him go. I love adult Hide and Seek. Look, I'll be the first to admit I'm a complete bastard. I'm also lazy. I'm only here to find the idiot, because there's almost always an idiot. This support group is pretty typical. We connected online, decided on a quiet place, and now we're all sitting cross-legged in a circle. Real Kumbaya crap.
Jerome takes the lead, pouring everyone a cup of tea as he starts talking. You can drink your tea, but only after explaining why you're here. I'll start. I can see why—the guy's ugly as sin. He sips his tea while the mousy chick speaks next. Gotta admire Miyu. She's probably not the idiot. Next to talk are a legless veteran, a broke businessman, a needle-tracked junkie, and a diseased old crone.
Then it's my turn. Everyone hates me. Afterwards, we're all sitting quietly when Jerome keels over. Then Miyu's eyes roll back and she slumps forward. Only the fat kid reacts. No one wants to die alone, kid. I love it! These suicide meetups are a sadist's dream, and I never have to lift a finger. Little Emily vanished last year. Now they're pouring new sidewalks in my neighborhood, and I've found her name in the wet cement, written in remembrance.
But it was written in reverse. And from below. I bought a new house in the small town of Winthrop. The house was cheap, but the most important part was that I needed to get away from the city. A few months ago, I had a run-in with a stalker. While I had managed to get him arrested, I couldn't shake the feeling of eyes just constantly watching me.
I felt like there were eyes everywhere, at home and on the street, so I decided to move out into the country to somewhere with less people, just for peace of mind. The house itself was big and somewhat old, but otherwise very welcoming. The agent who introduced me to the house had been required to mention that a serial killer had lived here in the past, which was why the house was so cheap.
However, he, and later, my next door neighbor Sarah, both told me to pay the thought no mind. Four other owners had lived in the house since then, and all of them were very happy with it. I loved the house. Its interior furnishings were beautiful and very comfortable. The people of Winthrop were friendly, often bringing over freshly baked pastries or inviting me over for dinner. I tried to ignore it, but soon I started losing sleep.
Giant bags grew under my eyes and I began yawning almost as much as I breathed. Sarah was kind enough to let me stay in her house for a few nights. It was during this time that I heard the legend of Forrest Carter, the serial killer who had lived in my house. While no one knows his exact kill count, Carter, also known as the Winthrop Peacock, was a man with extremely severe case of narcissism.
Legends say that he couldn't fall asleep if he didn't feel like he was being watched. He was finally arrested for putting up a scarecrow to watch him during the night. Only it wasn't a scarecrow. Carter had murdered a 17 year old girl, just so her corpse could stare at him. The story gave me shivers, and after I went home, I felt like there were hundreds of pairs of eyes just watching me no matter how I turned. Today, however, was the first day that I acted out. I was cooking breakfast, when I felt the eyes.
Instinctively, out of fear, I threw my kitchen knife, which lodged itself into the wall. As I pulled it out, I found myself staring at a pair of eyes, pickling in formaldehyde. I've been watching the police peel away the drywall of my house for hours now. So far, they've found pairs of eyes in little glass jars. The scariest thing is, each and every one was staring at me. Cradling my four-year-old daughter in my arms, all I could do was listen as the screaming outside the house got louder and louder, interspersed with sounds of violence and horrible, horrible wet thuds and the unmistakable echo of muscle and sinew resisting the force that was slowly tearing them apart.
It started just three days ago. Something happened, out there in the world, and before we even get news of what's going on, seemingly half of the world is gone. Police and military were unable to stop it, providing such a short frame of resistance it's hard to know whether it was real or just a fluke. There was no centralised target, no way to use our most powerful weapons, not without incinerating ourselves in the process. They poured forth across the world, from wherever it was that it started.
I hear banging on the door downstairs, and the screams of people being slaughtered, unable to mount a proper resistance against such a force. It doesn't take long before the pounding gives way to splintering and the sound of shattering wood. They're in the house. No more than a moment or two passes before the door to the bedroom starts shuddering. The things I piled against it are holding, for now, but I know, realistically, that they're going to manage to come through. I keep rocking my little girl, humming a lullaby in her ear to calm her as she cries.
The pounding grows in force and volume, the frame starting to crack. I put my little girl on my lap, her back to my chest, and I stroke her head with both hands, from the top of her scalp, down across her ears, just as I've done ever since she was a baby. Just the way she loves it. The effect is instantaneous. Her desperate crying calms to a series of sobs and hiccoughs, her small body shuddering against mine in fear.
I keep humming to her, soothing her hair, acting for all the world as if nothing is out of place, not a single thing amiss. Agonisingly slowly, in a reverse cadence of the sound of splintering wood, she calms down. I can feel it when she stops tensing, as I keep stroking her down the sides of her head. A final hiccough of a sob, and she falls quiet, her body relaxed. She doesn't even have time to realise what's happening as I twist her neck with a violent jerk, accompanied by a dry snap of a sound.
She's dead before she can even slump down into my lap. The door is giving way, the furniture pushed back. I may be torn limb from limb while I scream, but at least my baby angel's safe from harm. I pointed the gun at the sick bastard who killed my wife.
He sobbed as he feared for what was to come.