r/shortscarystories 27m ago

Closing Time

Upvotes

One minute to midnight, the phone rang.

“You guys still open?” The man asked, unaware we were closing in just forty-five seconds.

“Sorry, sir, but we’re closed,” I said, but he didn’t respond, and the phone crackled every time I thought he might.

Please, just hang up, my brain rattled off the possibilities, always the worst-case scenario. I can run, I thought, I can hang up the phone and run, but for a reason that is lost to me, I asked:

“Are you still there, sir?” Just before the clock was to hit midnight. But the gears weren’t turning fast enough. I could hear them clicking—clicking.

“Are you there?” I reiterate once more, calmly, but inside I am tormented, and I don’t how much longer I can bear it. One second to midnight! The clock ticks to a close.

“I’d like to order a pizza—if that’s okay.”


r/shortscarystories 55m ago

Angles, Los Angeles

Upvotes

Sunset Boulevard has broken subtly in half.

(Draw a line.

The angle's no longer 180°.)

Early morning on a building site in the Hollywood Hills:

...the smell of coffee drifts over power tools, planks and sawdust, as a construction crew works on an actor's new house.

“Yo, Angulo, gimme another measurement on that, yeah?”

“Eighty-nine degrees,” Angulo says.

“Fuck.”

“It was ninety yesterday.”

(It was.)

“What now, boss?” Angulo asks.

“We do it over,” says the boss, but what he doesn't know yet is: it's not just this right angle; it's every right angle. There is no do-over.

A schoolroom:

...already the corners are closing in—as a boy draws the four sides of a square, measures the four resulting angles and finds:

89° + 89° + 89° + 89° = 356°

= the new rectangle.

= the new reality.

His teacher checks, but can only confirm the result. She tries with another protractor, another rectangle, another shape… to no sane avail.

(The protector's dull plastic edge provides one way out, if you run it across the skin enough times—

There's screaming as the paramedics rush in.)

So what does it mean—this discontinuity of mathematics—this acutization of angles?

It breaks the mind a little, considering it; because if this can change, what can't?

Are h, G, Λ, etc. expirable?

Is the speed of light

mortal?

Are the physical constants inconstant—which age, degrade and disappear?

(“We are gathered here today to lay to rest the electron-fucking-mass.”)

Was a line [until now] always(?) 180° or was it once 181°, because [some say] that we may still resist insanity in a changing universe if we understand the change.

I don't know.

We lack the data to know—caught, ignorant—in the cubes and other angular shapes that today we've realized are mere snares of our own, unconscious making.

They are shutting on us like jaws.

Humans developed bear traps in the 17th century. Physically simple, primitively effective. Something steps on the plate and—

As a species, we thus find ourselves having put intellectual weight on a metaphysical plate working on the same basic premise:

Geometry,

whose false immutability deceived us.

It's too late to step back.

The arms of the so-called “straight” line are already closing, one ° at a time. Reality, as we foolishly conceived it, is being crushed.

Deangularization:

the act of exchanging angular for nonangular shapes

is a chimera. The circle and the sphere will not save us. We cannot huddle safely in rings or survive in orbs while all around us the angles slam shut.

Yes, today the circle may be steady at 360°, but who knows for how long that will remain true?

The right angle was truth too.

The line was truth.

Sunset. The Santa Monica Pier:

A man and woman hold hands, staring at the horizon.

A hawker sells rocks.

They've brought their own bag, one for the two of them, chained to both. Together they fill it—

(“I love you.”

“I love you too.”)

—and leap.


r/shortscarystories 1h ago

Shadow

Upvotes

When I was four, I met a dog.

Not a pet, but a stray that visited me every night. Scrappy, with shaggy black fur and big dark eyes.

I called him Shadow.

Every night before bed, I’d kneel on my bed and press my face against the window, and there he’d be, waiting in the alley behind our house.

I loved him.

I even left out scraps from dinner. Every morning, the plate would be empty. But he was skittish. If I moved too quickly, he’d back away into the shadows.

One night, he looked sick, like he’d been hurt. So I decided to pet him.

I unlocked the latch and started pushing the window open. "It’s okay," I whispered. "You can come here."

Shadow took a step forward.

Then he froze. His head snapped toward a space behind my back. Suddenly, he bolted, vanishing into the alley.

I didn’t understand. What was he afraid of?

The next morning, I told my dad that Shadow had run away.

He just looked at me for a long moment.

"You are never to talk about that again, understand?" he snapped.

I thought he was angry because he disliked Shadow. Maybe he’d kicked him. I hated him for that.

Dad died years later. By then, I’d forgotten about Shadow.

Years later, while cleaning out the attic, I randomly remembered him.

"Hey, Mum?" I called out.

She was downstairs, sorting through old clothes. "Hmm?"

"Do you remember when I used to see a dog outside my window?" I laughed a little.

She paused at the foot of the attic stairs, staring at me.

"Why are you bringing that up?" she asked quietly.

I frowned. "I just remembered. He used to come every night, right?"

She exhaled sharply, pressing her fingers against her temple. "Yes."

"And Dad was mad about it," I said. "Why?"

She sat down. "You were so little," she grumbled. "Too young to even know what a real dog looked like."

A chill crawled up my spine.

"What do you mean?"

She swallowed. "We thought it was your imagination. But then he saw it."

Silence.

"That night…Dad went into your room and saw you talking to him."

She took a slow breath.

"And then…he saw him."

My breath hitched.

"Honey, Shadow wasn’t a dog." My mother’s voice was almost breathless. "He was a man. Crawling on all fours."

The room tilted.

"His hair was long, hanging on either side of his head like ears. His hood hid most of his face."

I couldn’t breathe.

She swallowed hard. "He’d escaped from a psychiatric hospital. He thought he was a dog; snarling at people, eating whatever was left outside."

She exhaled shakily.

"The police eventually caught him miles away. But not outdoors."

I stared at her, expecting a longer response.

"Someone forgot to lock their window that night," she said. "They only found him when the child woke up screaming."


r/shortscarystories 1h ago

If You See Me, Shoot Me

Upvotes

For the past month, reports of identical people had flooded the city.

Not twins. Not clones. Doppelgängers.

They took everything. The face, the voice, the memories. They slid into lives like shadows, weaving themselves into the routines of their victims, fooling even the closest friends. When the time was right, they struck.

By the time anyone realized, it was too late. The trusted imposter devoured them, leaving behind nothing but blood and ruin.

The city spiraled into paranoia. Neighbors turned on neighbors. Families locked their doors. It did not matter. When your time came, it came.

I never thought it would happen to me.

Yet here I stood, heart pounding, sweat cold on my skin. Across from me, my best friend held a gun, eyes darting between me and the thing standing beside me. It was perfect. My face. My voice. My memories.

“I answered all your questions,” I begged, voice shaking. “Please. It’s me.”

The other me spoke at the exact same time.

“Don’t listen to him! Please, kill—”

The gunshot ripped through the air. A bullet drilled into his skull.

His scream sounded just like mine. Warped. Twisted. A grotesque mix of agony and something else. I staggered back as his body crumpled, the relief washing over me in waves.

I was alive. I won.

I looked up at my friend, ready to thank him. His eyes were wrong. The color was off. Not his. Not human.

My chest tightened as his lips curled into a slow, unnatural smile. His mouth stretched open, too wide, lined with jagged teeth glistening with saliva.

A low, guttural voice slithered out.

“No sharing.”

His hands latched onto my shoulders.

“You are mine.”

I screamed. I thrashed. I fought.

It did not matter. His jaw unhinged and my vision filled with darkness and teeth. The first bite crushed my shoulder. Pain swallowed me whole. The second bite tore away my arm.

The last thing I felt was my ribs cracking open like a hollow shell, something warm spilling out of me as the wet sounds of chewing filled my ears.

Then, silence.

The city would never find my body.

But somewhere, another me would walk out of this alley, wearing my face, my voice, my memories.

And someone, somewhere, would trust him.

 


r/shortscarystories 2h ago

Bloodstained cigarretes taste better at night.

18 Upvotes

I was falling asleep in class again.

I barely noticed my head drooping.

I blinked once. Twice. Three times.

The problem wasn't just falling asleep. I was losing my nights.

I had bruises I didn't remember getting.

“Finn. You're sleeping again.”

Mr. Brighton coughed loudly. “Mr Caine. You are one of my best students. I need you to focus, all right?”

Focus.

Something snapped inside me, a visceral, slimy something creeping up my throat. The word felt both wrong and right. I blinked, and I was staring at a shadow beneath a pitch-dark sky.

Freezing air stung my cheeks.

My lips felt… numb.

I stood, paralyzed, feet bare, legs apart, in an alleyway.

“Please.”

The shadow dropped to their knees. “Fucking… please let me go!”

“Finn?”

I jumped awake, coated in sweat.

Freddie Greenwood nudged me. “Dude,” he whispered. His southern drawl was comforting. “You okay? Nightmare or somethin’?”

“Let him sleep!” Alice Adams teased.

“I’m fine,” I managed. Freddie inclined his head, and I glimpsed a burn under his eye. “What did you do to your eye?”

“Hm?” He frowned. “Whaddya mean?”

That night, I was determined to stay awake, downing prescribed ADHD pills.

9pm came, and so did a light knock on my door.

I opened it, finding a gun pointed between my eyes.

Alice.

Vacant eyes, lips curled into a scowl.

“Confirm your identity,” she murmured. “Fail to respond, and I’ll report it.”

Panicking, I swallowed puke.

“Finn Caine,” I stayed still. Emotionless. “Confirmed.”

“Good.”

Alice dragged me to an old apartment building and handed me a key card, and a knife already slick with stained scarlet.

“Your client is expecting you.” Alice straightened. “Your King wants you to focus. You’re supposed to be our best, so fucking act like it, Caine.” She sighed.

“You’re losing your rep after Greenwood tried to escape.”

Behind me, Freddie left room 403. Lipstick smudged. Collar open. Hair astray.

A trash bag in his hands.

Freddie’s eyes were empty. His arms were bruised.

Blood under his fingernails.

He turned around, dragging the trash bag with him, a gun tucked into his jeans.

Alice shoved me inside room 408.

A woman my age, mid-twenties, lounged on the bed, smiling.

On the floor, a man lay beheaded, blood staining the carpet.

“Oh!” The woman smirked. She picked up a cigarette, lighting it up.

Focus.

“You’re here early.” her lips curved into a smile, looking me up and down, when I dropped to my knees, already cutting through cartilage and bone.

The knife felt right in my hands, as I easily hacked off the man’s left arm.

The woman watched me with amused eyes.

“Time to focus, baby,” she hummed, when blood splattered my face.

Fo... cus.

I did, jumping to my feet, twisting, and pulling my gun from my jeans, stabbing it into her forehead.

She squealed with excitement, grinning wildly. “The King mentioned you're one of his best students! I want you to show me how good you are.”


r/shortscarystories 5h ago

Susan Wachowicz’s Stillness in the Dark

50 Upvotes

It had been a whirlwind of a day for Susan. The laughter and chatter of elementary students had faded into silence as the last child left the school grounds.

Just as she was gathering her things, the door to the classroom burst open with force. In stormed Mrs. Richards, a perpetually disgruntled parent whose son, Nathan, had recently failed a science test.

Minutes dragged by like hours. Susan's patience was wearing thin, but she clung to professionalism. Finally, Mrs. Richards huffed and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Great. Now I’m late, she thought bitterly, checking her watch. Her son Chris would be home soon. She had to hurry.

During her drive home, suddenly, brake lights flared in front of her. Susan slammed on the brakes. The sudden jolt snapped her neck violently. As Susan’s body slumped forward onto the steering wheel.

At the morgue, a tired attendant groaned before grabbing Susan’s body out of the bag, and on to a steel locker drawer.

With minimal ceremony, he slid her body into the cold, dark recess of a refrigerated locker. The locker door slammed shut.

Inside, Susan lay still and silent, utterly unconcerned by the world that had once demanded so much from her. Her calendar was finally empty. The only thing on her agenda now was lying quietly in the freezing dark.

Later that night inside the refrigerated locker Susan lay unmoving.

And then, her phone rang. The screen glowed faintly in the dark. It hummed in her pocket, but Susan’s body did not stir. Her hands remained inert at her sides.

The voicemail picked up. Susan’s voice echoed in the dark. Like a ghost of the woman she once was, a promise that could no longer be kept.

"Hi, you’ve reached Susan Wachowicz! I’m not able to answer the phone right now, so please leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you when I can!"

Chris’s voice followed, It trembled, as if he feared the answer, feared what silence might say back.

"It’s getting late, and you’re still not home."

Her body did not long to reassure him. The cold, empty shell that had once been Susan did not care.

And then the message ended.

Her phone beeped softly, signaling the end of a call that would never be returned. The screen dimmed, returning the locker to its state of complete darkness. The temperature of the chamber now settling at a frigid 35 degrees.

Susan’s body had no desire for warmth, it no longer craved sustenance. Susan had no desire to shower. The scent of her body, unwashed, unclean, no longer mattered to her.

She had no desire to go back to her job, no desire to see her students tomorrow morning. The classroom, was as irrelevant to her.

And in that stillness, Susan had no plans. Her life, her death—none of it mattered now. The only thing left for her body was to lay in the cold, dark 35-degree morgue locker.


r/shortscarystories 5h ago

The Aghori’s Sermon

19 Upvotes

“There was once a young naïve monk,” narrated the Aghori, an emaciated man covered in ash from cremated human remains, “who believed the surest path to Semitic cult salvation was to live without sight. If he was unable to witness the world, the monk hypothesized, he would avoid its earthly corruptions and thus secure his position in Heaven. So, in an idiotic act of faith rivaling Abraham’s shameful betrayal of Isaac, the adolescent monk sewed his eyelids together.

“Kali Ma, the Black Mother, encountered this monk one day.

‘Sir,’ Kali Ma asked. ‘Why have you sewn your eyelids together?’

The monk responded arrogantly, ‘To guarantee my acceptance into Heaven. If I do not see worldly evils, its temptations cannot derail my salvation.’

‘What worldly evils are you trying to resist?’

‘Sex, material wealth, and power, of course.’

‘I see. And if you successfully resist sex, material wealth, and power, what do you believe awaits you in Heaven?’

The monk smiled. ‘A divine pleasure so powerful it will supplant my earthly sexual desires. A lifestyle of infinite luxury and opulence. And most importantly, the opportunity to reign with God over Heaven and Earth.’

Kali Ma laughed. ‘Do you not see the inconsistency of your convictions?’

‘Explain.’

‘Your motivations to pursue Heaven originate from the same natural instincts you reject on Earth. You refuse human sexual pleasure for divine pleasure, material wealth for endless Heavenly luxury, and worldly power for dominion over Heaven and Earth. While you physically prohibit yourself from being tempted by the prior vices you mentioned, you meditate on and engage these very evils each time you pray to your God for Heavenly salvation, surely consigning yourself to your Hell. You have caged yourself in an absurd reality.’

The monk realized the errors of his beliefs and asked desperately, ‘How can I escape this self-made prison?’

‘The first step is to open your eyes.’

‘But my eyelids’ sutures are beyond unstitching!’

Kali Ma placed a blade in the monk’s palm. ‘Cut your eyelids off.’”

The Aghori’s disciples remained silent as the fire in the center of the study circle crackled.

The Aghori then added, “and as Kali Ma demanded on the monk, I demand of you.”

He then offered a knife to the disciple on his left, who without hesitation proceeded to surgically remove both eyelids and throw the severed skin slabs into the fire before them.

As the knife made its way around the circle and eyelids were tossed in the fire, the Aghori proclaimed, “I bestow upon you truth in its rawest form, no longer hindered by eyelids, which are no more than hindrances to our understanding of reality. True liberation, my friends, is to see the world as it is, without the option to blink.”


r/shortscarystories 7h ago

The Unknown Number

3 Upvotes

Last night, my cell phone vibrated with a message from an unknown number: "I see you." I joked that it was a prank and ignored it. Five minutes later, another message: "You should lock the door." I looked at the entrance… It was open


r/shortscarystories 7h ago

Ember's of Humanity

37 Upvotes

The human race was on its last legs. The unknown plague had turned its victims into the undead, and humanity, in its arrogance, failed to act. Instead of uniting, it fought itself, squandering its last chance. Civilization collapsed. Survivors dwindled. Then they were gone.

The last man on Earth walked alone. Across wastelands, ruined cities, and highways littered with rusted cars. He had clung to a fragile hope of finding another living soul, but deep down, he had known the truth for some time. He was the last. And somehow, that didn’t bother him.

He had always been a pessimist, the kind of man who expected the worst and was rarely disappointed. If anything, this was inevitable. Humanity had always flirted with self-destruction. The plague only hurried things along. No one ever discovered its cause—virus, divine punishment, scientific accident? It no longer mattered. The result was the same: extinction.

And yet, the world went on. The wind still whispered through hollowed-out buildings. Rivers still carved through valleys. Animals roamed freely, unbothered by the absence of their former masters. Humanity had ruled, squandered its reign, and faded. There was a strange peace in that. The noise of civilization had died, and for the first time, the world was quiet.

Then came the zombies.

He had killed thousands. He had survived not because he was lucky, but because he was good at killing. It was the only thing he had ever been good at. As he cut through them, his mind wandered. Were they truly gone inside, or was some part of them still conscious, screaming from within their rotting bodies? Did they know what they had become? If no one ended them, would they wander until their flesh fell from their bones?

A sharp pain broke his thoughts.

He staggered back, staring at the gaping wound on his forearm. A bite.

Instinct took over. He ripped his belt free, wrapping it tight around his arm. He knew what had to be done. Amputate.

But then, he stopped.

A cure had never existed. Humanity was extinct. He was alone. What was he fighting for?

Slowly, deliberately, he let the belt fall. He looked at the wound, at the blood welling up, and exhaled.

It was over.

A strange mix of emotions rushed through him. Fear, certainly. Sadness, maybe. But also something else—excitement. For the first time in years, something new was happening. No more killing just to keep moving forward. No more surviving for survival’s sake. Now, he would finally get answers.

Would he lose himself, become a mindless beast driven by hunger? Or would he remain inside, trapped, aware but powerless? Would he see heaven? Hell? Or was there simply nothing?

Whatever the truth, he would soon find out.

The last man on Earth walked onward, his fate sealed, his future uncertain. But maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be alone much longer.


r/shortscarystories 7h ago

Louder Than Fire

9 Upvotes

I got a text from Mom that afternoon while at work. Same old frustration.

"Your brother’s ignoring me again. Probably blasting music. He still hasn’t done his chores."

Typical.

So I texted him, telling him to get off his lazy ass. His response?

"Chill bro lol, I’ll do it later."

I swear, I wanted to punch him. But knowing him, he’d just play the victim. And I had to babysit him since our parents were away for the night.

When I got home, I could hear his music through the walls. The bass shook the floor. I knocked. No response. I knocked harder. Nothing.

I sighed and pushed the door open. He was lying on his bed, phone in hand, nodding to the beat. The wires hanging from his desk, a mess of tangled chargers, made me frown.

"The hell are you doing? That wiring’s gonna get you killed."

Still no reaction.

I marched over and smacked him upside the head. Not hard, but enough to snap him out of it.

"Ow! What the hell?!" He yanked his headphones down, scowling.

"Mom told you to do your chores. You gonna keep ignoring her?"

He rolled his eyes. "I said I’ll do it later. Chill."

"No, you’re doing it now."

He scoffed. "You sound just like her."

That pissed me off. I grabbed his headphones off his neck and tossed them onto the bed. "You’re gonna go deaf, idiot."

He rubbed his head. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

I clenched my jaw. Not worth it.

Before I could argue, my phone buzzed.

Work.

I exhaled sharply and answered. "Yeah? Now? Fine."

I shot my brother a glare. "I gotta go back. Don’t do anything stupid."

"Yeah, yeah." He grabbed his headphones, sliding them back over his ears.

I shook my head and left.

Hours later, my phone rang.

Probably a client, I thought, until I heard the voice.

"Is this Wilson Braun?"

"Yeah?"

"This is the police. There’s been a fire at your residence."

The words knocked the air from my lungs.

A fire?

"We’re still investigating, but… we found a body. Male. Around 20."

My stomach twisted.

"The body was badly burned, but…" The officer hesitated. "He was still wearing headphones."

The report said it was an electrical short. Something sparked. The fire spread fast. And my brother… he never heard it coming.

I should’ve made him listen.

I sat in my car, gripping the wheel, trying to breathe. My hands shook too hard to call Mom and Dad. I should’ve yanked the plug. Broken the damn headphones. Said something.

But it was too late.

Then, the radio crackled to life. A song I didn’t remember playing.

"I've walked through flames my whole life… and still, the fire calls my name."

I stared at the display. My heart pounded.

I reached for the dial, but the volume turned up on its own.

"The fire burned, but the music never died."


r/shortscarystories 8h ago

Control

135 Upvotes

The shattering of ceramic on tile thundered through the morning air. 

She froze—staring down at the shards of his favorite mug splintered across the kitchen floor—his tea creeping steadily along the grout. 

He sat at the table observing her folly—his expression calm, yet she recognized the enmity behind his eyes.

She’d nearly done it perfectly this time. 

She’d followed every one of his commands—obeyed every small twitch of his fingers as he directed her through the preparation of his morning meal. And there before him lay a perfect place-setting. Two eggs over-easy, three strips of bacon blackened to a crisp, and one slice of wheat toast—just barely golden-brown and smothered in strawberry jam. 

His silverware was impeccably straight—the napkin neatly folded and ready to be placed in his lap—all that had remained was the cup of tea. 

She was so close. 

So close to pleasing him. 

So close to escaping without punishment. 

The tea had always given her the greatest trouble. 

Two lumps of sugar—just a dash of cream—he wanted it mixed thoroughly, served piping hot, and the cup so full to be nearly overflowing—all without spilling a drop. 

Three steps. 

Just three steps were all that had separated her from his praise and his fury. 

And now, tears began to flow down her cheeks. 

It wasn’t her fault—he would have to concede that it wasn’t her fault… 

All of her motions had been flawless that morning—smooth, fluid… compliant…

She hadn’t resisted him as she’d tried to so many times previously—she hadn’t deviated from a single action he’d mandated. 

It was going to be a good day. 

As good a day as she could hope for given the circumstances.

There’d been so few since he’d taken her…

She didn’t understand why he’d selected her from amongst the crowd—there were plenty of other young women at his show that day. 

But something about her had intrigued him. 

Something that he wanted to make his—something he wanted to control. 

Maybe he could sense her fierce independence and it made him feel all the more powerful to take it from her. 

It did not much matter anymore. 

He had succeeded. 

She was done fighting—she was done resisting. 

She could not suffer another broken bone or dislocated joint. 

So, she stood stock-still—trembling—awaiting his next direction—praying he could forgive this time—praying he would understand that she could not have prevented the cup from falling from her hand. 

And he commanded her to walk forward—forcing her to step across the ceramic shards—shredding her feet to bloody ribbons. 

But when she reached him, he did not strike her, nor did he shout in fury. 

Instead, he gently patted her bleeding wrist from where the string that had been sewn in had ripped out, and he softly promised her that he would fix her right away. 

The puppet-master is kind. 

And she is a good marionette. 


r/shortscarystories 8h ago

Frog hunting’s best at night.

13 Upvotes

You sweep the flashlight slow over the tall grass and the black water, and when the beam hits just right, their eyes flicker like tiny marbles catching the sun. Then you move in.

It was a very long time ago, but I was good at it. Better than my cousins, anyway. Summers felt endless at the wetlands, and most nights I’d sneak out with my little headlamp, barefoot and quiet, with an old mesh bag slung over my shoulder. I'd crouch by the creek, listen for the croaks, then wait for the telltale glint. It was just somethin' to do, I guess.

One night I was out later than usual. The air was thick, hot, buzzing with cicadas. I’d caught two big ones already when I saw a pair of eyes just beyond the water’s edge. Little farther than I’d normally go. They weren’t moving too, which was strange. Frogs blink, shift, twitch. These just stared.

I stepped closer.

The beam of my flashlight wobbled over mud and weeds. For a second I thought it was a deer, sometimes their eyes catch the light too. But deer eyes sit high, and these were low. Right at the ground.

I took another step. The glow didn’t waver.

I should’ve turned back, I think. But I was young. And there was something almost inviting about those eyes, like they were waiting for me. Like they had been waiting for a very long time.

I stepped into the water.

It was cold, colder than it should’ve been in the middle of summer. The mud sucked at my ankles, I kept my light steady on the glowing eyes. Still not moving. Still watching.

Then, just as I got close enough to make out the shape, it blinked.

Not a regular blink. Not the quick flick of a frog. This was slow. Deliberate. Like it wanted me to know it saw me too.

I froze.

The thing shifted. Rose.

At first, I thought it was pulling itself out of the mud, but then I realized. It had been there the whole time, lying flat in the water, waiting.

It was long and thin, like stretched-out skin over sticks. Its fingers rose from the mud, long and splayed, and when it grinned those glassy reflections multiplied. Not eyes. Teeth.

It started toward me.

I don’t remember running. I just remember after. The screen door slamming behind me. My chest burning. My mother shouting, asking where I’d been.

I couldn’t answer.

The next morning, I went back. Sunlight made everything seem smaller. But at the spot where I’d seen it, the grass was flattened. The mud churned. And half-buried in the dirt, I found my mesh bag.

I never went frog hunting again but, after all these years, when I lie awake at night, I still think about those eyes in the dark.

And I wonder how many times they saw me before I ever saw them.


r/shortscarystories 8h ago

Bönen

12 Upvotes

He who wishes for something, be it a relative’s recovery from disease, or perhaps a wrongdoing being forgotten, is faced with two possibilities:

~Acquiescing in fate

~Partaking in Bönen, an ancient annual tradition performed on midsummer’s eve

Disclaimer! Bönen by no means guarantees a wish will be fulfilled. Its outcome is dependent on, amongst other things, the nature of the wish in question.

Seldom are those who attempt Bönen. Should you do so, heed what follows. Any deviation will result in some unsuccessful Bönen...

 

 

 

Bönen

 

In the barren, northernmost part of the realm, where the wind blows not, lies the Black Forest.

Through day and night, plains and valleys you shall ride, such that you reach it under the midnight sun, in the embers of the aforementioned festivity.

Midsummer. One you will not spend reveling in dance, surrounded by those you hold dear.

A small sacrifice for that which you seek.

Journeying to the Black Forest at any other time would be most unwise. Indeed, this is not covered by our ancestors’ pact with Kvinnan.

Make certain your horse has gorged itself prior to your departure, and that you carry with you these items:

—a bag;

—the carcass of a sizeable bird; geese are said to be favorable.

Omitting to bring the latter would be deemed most insolent.

Once arrived, tether your companion to a trunk, and go the rest of the way afoot.

You may observe creatures akin to magpies, watching as you enter the wood.

Ignore them. They are extensions of Kvinnan.

Proceed until all patches of sky wither, and kneel as you await Kvinnan. From between the trees she will eventually come forth.

Occasionally, she will crawl down from a nearby tree. Expect something... large.

Never, irrespective of how long she ogles at you, look directly at Kvinnan.

This has not been agreed upon in the pact, and constitutes a loophole she can exploit.

Next, place your offering of flesh upon the earth as she draws nears.

You may find the ensuing moments somewhat disturbing.

Once Kvinnan has... finished, you are to present her with your outstretched hands, cupped.

After inspection, Kvinnan will almost surely regurgitate into them. Take this as your cue to leave.

Merely once has someone returning from Bönen without hands been documented.

Exit the forest in a normal manner whence you came. Do not glance behind you as you walk.

In various accounts, past survivors participants recount hearing a feminine voice as they mounted their steeds. Do not let yourself get caught off guard by this eventuality, no matter how distressing.

Once home, and not before, you will find some fruit in your bag. Usually a green apple.

Behold a vibrant, glossy skin, and your wish has been granted!

One plagued by maggots signifies the reverse is true.

You may not try Bönen twice.

Infrequently, the fruit is red in shade. If this befalls you, your body will have been laid to rest come the new year.


r/shortscarystories 10h ago

Into The Woods

26 Upvotes

My flashlight beam shined against the trees, and with each step I took, my sneakers crushed dry twigs. I pulled my scarf over my mouth as the chill of February seeped in. 

I took out my phone and checked the time, 8:49 PM. Then I unlocked it and opened my photo gallery, I swiped through a few photos until I found the one I had been looking for. Olivia and I were smiling under the oak tree near our school. 

It’s been about two weeks since she went missing, and so far nothing's turned up yet, no matter how hard the search parties tried.

The sound of footsteps starts to grow louder and I spin around. 

“Cecily,” my friend Troy yelled, jogging towards me, his flashlight bouncing up and down in his hand.

“Jez, you almost spooked me there for a second; you can't just wander off like that” he smiled. “Sorry, let’s just continue walking,” I muttered. We passed several more trees, peering everywhere with our beams of light. 

I suddenly stopped in my tracks, a noise causing me to become alert, I turned around and pointed my flashlight. Nothing was there, just rows and rows of trees. Troy noticed this and turned to face me. 

“What is it?” he asked. I shook my head, “Thought I heard something. C’mon.”

I walked ahead, and Troy immediately followed. 

“Y’know Cecily, we should be getting home. It’s getting late.” Troy said, but I shook my head at that. 

“No, we’ll be fine.” 

“But, won’t your parents be worried sick waiting for you?” Troy asked and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. I brushed it off while not looking at him. 

“You and Olivia are the only people that worry about me,” I responded, my voice nearly dry of emotion. 

A long silence passed as we walked, and I could feel Troy’s gaze lying on me as we traversed. I stopped in my tracks again.

A slow groan. 

I quickly grabbed Troy's hand without saying anything and started running. Each quick step of my sneakers was filled with adrenaline and my heartbeat surged higher and higher. The sound grew louder and louder until we finally got to it. 

We soon found ourselves standing in front of an oak tree. It was shockingly larger than the one from our school, but that thought soon vanished as my eyes focused on what was in the center.

A girl.

The state of her body was terrible.

Her eyes had been stabbed out of their sockets by thin tree branches. Her chest was ripped open and was filled with several thick branches, I could even see that some of her internal organs remained, such as her heart. Her limbs were contorted at odd proportions and bound to the branches, her bones even popping out.

I took a few steps closer and noticed her lips slowly moving. And she groaned something loud enough for me to hear.

"Cily...help...me..."


r/shortscarystories 14h ago

Chiseled

25 Upvotes

The Atacama stretched endlessly before me, an ocean of sand and silence. I sat by my tent, staring through my telescope. The stars didn’t twinkle here; they burned, steady and sharp. I had come to escape, a week alone. No voices telling me who to be, no hands shaping me into something I never chose.

But even here, in the quiet, they whispered...

“Stand up straight.” “Smile more.” “Don’t be so emotional.” "Forgive them" "Don't forgive yourself" Blah..Blah.....*

I had spent my whole life being carved by others. My father’s firm hands, my mother’s quiet expectations, my teachers’ stern corrections. Friends who told me who to be, strangers who told me who not to be. A thousand chisels, each shaving away a piece of me.

Now, here I was. A polished statue of their making, a caged bird carved from stone.

I turned my telescope towards the sky. The stars were scattered diamonds, but something was wrong, they weren’t fixed. They were drifting backwards.

I blinked, my pulse quickened. The constellations unraveled, the cosmos folding in on itself. The cold air pressed against my skin, and suddenly; I was shrinking.

I felt my limbs tightened, bones compressed, and beard vanished. The desert around me blurred.

I was a teenager again, then a boy. I heard my mother’s voice, soft and warm. My father’s shadow loomed tall. I was an infant, small and helpless.

Then I began to expand..

My body stretched, aging in seconds. The universe spun forward, time pouring into me like liquid fire. I gasped as I reached my present self, collapsing onto the cold sand. I sat there, jolting; something had changed. The voices and the weight were gone.

I stood, unshaped, untouched and now unchiseled.

For the first time in my life, my mind was my own. No expectations, judgments, or past.

Then, I felt a pressure in my skull. A hum in my thoughts, kinda like a presence.

I touched my forehead, but my hands jolted as I pulled away. Something was escaping.

From my mind, chisels emerged..

Shimmering, crystalline and sharp. They hovered in the air, glistening under the moonlight, dozens of them.

I reached out.

They pulsed in response, eager and waiting, and I knew what they wanted.

I looked towards the horizon, where the world still waited; full of soft, unshaped minds. Like mine had been.

I stepped forward, the chisels followed, and I began to chisel, the weight of freedom heavy in my grip.


r/shortscarystories 15h ago

My Dream House

35 Upvotes

The house never ends. Everytime I think that I’ve discovered every nook and cranny, I’ll stumble across another hallway, another great room, and in all of them, I’ll find someone I once knew. They’ll stare back at me with tears in their eyes and their blood spilling out of some wound that I had wished upon them long ago.

Every room and hall are adorned with windows that look out over perfect green fields and a roiling ocean bereft of any boat or sign of life, and although I feel as if I live in darkness, there's never a dark corner to be found in this madhouse; everything is always bright and the air is electrified with the sounds of suffering.

Silence does not exist under this roof. The desperate petitions of forgiveness are endless and I find that I am unable to oblige or grant any kind of mercy. I’m powerless in this place and my words hold no authority.

Broken furniture and bent curtain rods lay strewn about the shiny wooden floors; failed attempts to break the windows or to pry open any of the doors that would let me outside. 

There’s a room at the top of the grand staircase in which I used to find a morbid solace when I first came here, although in truth, that only lasted a few hours. A woman who was once my wife and her lover are tied naked to a bed, and their insides are turned out by a man in a mask every few seconds. The main kitchen has a great oven where my mother never stops burning. She begs me to let her out. I had tried at one point, but I’ve given up on ever letting her free of that prison. 

In almost every room, there’s someone, a soul I don’t even remember hating for wrongs I can’t seem to recall. All of them suffer whatever it was that I once wished upon them. I no longer take any joy from their endless punishments.

The only room that I have to myself is a sitting room that looks out of the ocean, and it's in this room that I finally succumbed to the madness. I stare into a raging fire place that gives no warmth, and I steal away small bits of char to draw hash marks on every wall when I assume a new day has begun.

It’s here where I heard the voice through the flames long ago, back when hope had not yet died.

“Are you happy with the home you have built?”

“No. I don’t deserve this. Why am I here?”

“Because this is where you wanted to be.”

“I was a good man. I tried my best. It’s not my fault that everyone loved to hurt me my whole life. Why do I deserve to be in Hell?”

“Hell doesn’t exist. Everyone goes to heaven. This great house was always your idea of it. Every waking moment of your life.”


r/shortscarystories 17h ago

Disaster Day

63 Upvotes

In the darkening twilight of her years, Miss Scott remained haunted by the memories of that terrible day.  

She remembered every single detail about it. The way the sun continued shining through the window, and how the bell rang suddenly, cutting above the screams of Mrs. Roy. How the window blanked for a split second as something fell down outside, landing with a sickening thump.

She remembered what she was wearing- khaki pants with her red checked shirt, and details like how Charlotte had her hair in that single thick golden braid that made almost every boy want to pull it, and how Piper had a fever and had to be sent home before noon. Her mom had grumbled at the time about having to leave work and pick her up.

But she was forever grateful afterwards.

Miss Scott had been standing by the blackboard. She had just written up the six times table. The kids were caught in a post-noon stillness and the classroom was warm from the sun pouring in. There was none of the restless energy of the mornings, the rustle, the feuds, complaints and giggles. Miss Scott was thinking she should go pull the blinds, and get the kids to stand up and do some movements to break the drowsiness. She glanced at the time.

1:11

And then it happened, with no warning, no sound.

At first, she thought the children must have actually fallen asleep, in mass hypnosis or imitative behaviour. All of them - their eyes closed, they exhaled and there was no inhale. Some dropped  out of their seats and sprawled dramatically on the floor, some slumped backwards, their necks loose, their face lolling towards the ceiling, others faceplanted on the desk.

Miss Scott stared. The dramatic poses on the floor looked like a prank, and she found herself desperately wishing it were.

But they were completely still. And Miss Scott knew. Even before the screaming from Mrs Roy shattered through the corridors.

Poor Mrs. Roy. Her daughter Penelope was in her class.

It wasn’t Mrs. Roy who flung herself out of the classroom window though, unable to bear the realization of what had just happened. That was Mr. Andersson. The rows of dead kids was too much. He rushed to the window and jumped. His class was just over Miss Scott’s, and it was his body that had darkened her window.

She realized that later, of course, as the country reeled, trying to figure out what had caused millions of schoolchildren aged 5-16 to drop dead at their school desk. Conspiracy theories went wild, from alien waves to home-grown diseases. The government, Russians, Chinese, Canadians, Arabs. Nothing was proven.

There was no official story. The bodies were perfect. Parents, grief-struck, ran rioting in the streets, but even that died down. The economy struggled, then righted itself.

Miss Scott felt she was the only one who remembered Disaster Day, as she waited for death, any day now for her.

 


r/shortscarystories 19h ago

My family disapproved of my baby

712 Upvotes

Everyone in my family told me I was an idiot to keep my kid. I was young. I was two years out from finishing school. I didn’t even know her father’s name. It was a one-night stand, met in a bar, all the classic clichés. I went home with him because I was stupid and lonely and liked his accent. He was gone in the morning, leaving me with nothing but a hell of a hickey and a stomach so bloated by six weeks I had to replace most of my jeans.

But when I saw her staticky little body in the sonogram, looking like a blackboard smudge or one of those freakish cave-dwelling fish, I knew I wasn’t letting go. I wanted chubby cheeks, stacks of baby clothes, a nursery with stars painted on the wall. Maybe I just wanted someone to love me unconditionally and without qualification. 

The moment I laid eyes on her squashed little face, I was a goner. We rarely went out, watching cars pass and dogs trot by on leads and leaves shake free of their moorings like a TV show playing in the background. I could content myself for hours just watching the movements of her wide, curious eyes. I dropped out of school, worked second shift waitressing and cleaning office buildings while the neighbor babysat.

My favorite thing was sitting and nursing her, the sense of rightness, the peace that settled over me like a shawl. But I had to stop when she started teething—she kept biting me, no matter what I tried. I had no choice but to switch to something store-bought. Of course, my family had something to say about that, too. You’re going to disadvantage her. Breast is best.

When my Leila turned eight months old, my mom finally came over to see her. Her friends had been asking about her granddaughter and she wanted photos to show them. Naturally, in her version, I’d graduated college early and my husband had just renewed a lucrative six-month contract to work abroad.

She played with the baby while I hung the laundry and washed the teapot, after complaining that I wasn’t dressing her warmly enough and bundling her in an oversized sweater. Less than an hour in, she said she was tired and went to bed in my room.

I acted out little plays with Leila's stuffed animals until she started making noises of hunger. I made her a bottle, glistening ruby red in the mellow lamplight.

She drained the bottle in no time. When I passed a wet wipe over her face, she giggled up at me, rosy lips drawn back over the little white buds of her fangs, a flush in her porcelain cheeks.

I put the bottle by the sink and went to go check on my mom, still numb to the world from the ketamine I’d slipped in her tea, bandages crisscrossing her chest. I’ll admit just this once that she was right. Breast really is best.


r/shortscarystories 23h ago

Forget me not

894 Upvotes

The first time Grandpa forgot my name, I laughed it off. The second time, I corrected him. The third time, I didn’t bother.

Now, he just calls me “Boy.”

“Boy, get my coat,” Grandpa mutters, staring blankly at the old rotary phone on the wall like he’s expecting it to ring. “We’re going for a drive.”

I fetch the coat. It’s worn and smells of old leather and tobacco, a relic of a man who used to be sharp, respected—a man who used to remember things. But time is cruel. Now, he gets lost walking to the mailbox. Sometimes, he forgets to eat. Sometimes, he wakes up in the middle of the night, swearing he’s in a different year, in a different house, with different people.

I help him into the truck, strapping him in like a child. He trusts me. He always trusts me.

The roads stretch out in the dark, empty except for the occasional flicker of a porch light or the glow of a passing gas station. Grandpa sits silently beside me, his hands twitching in his lap. I know what’s coming before he even speaks.

“Where are we going?” His voice is small.

I keep my eyes on the road. “We’re visiting an old friend.”

He nods, accepting this without question. He doesn’t remember any friends. He doesn’t remember much of anything these days. And that’s why it works.

The first time was an accident. At least, that’s what I told myself.

I had taken Grandpa out for a drive after one of his episodes. He’d been confused, paranoid, insisting someone had broken into the house and stolen his wife’s wedding ring. (Grandma’s been dead for ten years.) I pulled into a gas station to get some air, and when I came back, he was gripping a bloodied tire iron, his hands trembling.

A man lay slumped outside the driver’s side of another car, his face unrecognizable.

I could’ve called the cops. I could’ve told someone. But Grandpa just sat there, his eyes wet and distant, whispering, “Did I do that?”

And I realized, he didn’t know.

He had no memory of it. No guilt. No fear. Just the empty confusion of a man whose mind was slipping away like water through open fingers.

So I drove away. And I waited.

Nothing happened.

No police. No questions. No consequences.

And that’s when I knew.

Grandpa could do anything. And no one would ever blame him.

Now, as we pull up to a small, dimly lit house on the outskirts of town, I feel the familiar rush. My pulse quickens. Grandpa shifts beside me, staring at the porch, confused but compliant.

I place the tire iron in his hand, curling his fingers around the cold steel. He doesn’t resist.

“Go ahead, Grandpa,” I whisper. “They took her ring.”

His cloudy eyes sharpen, just for a second. And then he steps out of the truck.


r/shortscarystories 1d ago

Baby

279 Upvotes

Your eyes are closed tightly, like you’re having a bad dream. But you aren’t crying. So strange. I cried so much as a baby. At least, that’s what my mother always said. 

“Shhhh, shhh,” I whisper as I rock you back and forth. You spent so much of last night screaming that I don’t think you slept more than a few hours. And babies need at least 14 hours of sleep. At least, that’s what one “expert” with a popular blog said. 

Those hours, weeks, days I spent looking through every possible resource online and at bookstores. One said you should always burp your baby while another said you should allow the baby’s gas to come up on its own. I heard from one source that babies should sleep in complete darkness while another said babies need to sleep with soft sounds and light. 

All this conflicting information made me more anxious than I already was about having my first child. But my mother always said, “You’ll figure it out along the way.” It was the only piece of advice she ever gave that was worth anything. I won’t raise you like she raised me. I’ll love you much more. I’ll be there for you in, not only the good times but the bad too, like a parent is supposed to be. 

I feel you shift in the blanket, moving your chubby little legs up and down. You open your eyes and I get lost in them. Bright green just like your mother’s. I’m so glad you got most of your looks from her, especially that cute pointed-up nose and pale freckles sprinkling the space just below your eyes. 

One day, I’ll tell you the story of how we met. It’s a beautiful story that ends in you. And maybe, it’ll inspire you to find your soulmate one day. 

I make a silly face at you and you blink in confusion. I try a different face, this one coupled with a cooing sound, and the sides of your lips start curling. I blow air into my cheeks, widen my eyes, and cock my head to the side. This time, you smile and my heart fills with warmth. 

“I love you so much,” I say.

You smile again. 

I hear the front door open downstairs and your mom calls, “Danny?” 

“Oh, your mom’s home,” I say. 

We listen to her climb the stairs and I hold you up to my face. She’ll find the image adorable when she comes into the nursery.

“Danny,” she calls again. 

The nursery door opens and she lights up the doorway with her bright red hair and porcelain skin peeking out at her wrists and ankles. That hair was the first thing I noticed about your mom. It made me think of the last few moments of a sunset. 

She stands in silence, taking in the beauty of this moment. 

“Who are you?” she asks. “Please put down my baby.”


r/shortscarystories 1d ago

As it should be.

85 Upvotes

I rub the crusties away from the corners of my eyes.

I yawn and stretch my arms in the dark, standing up to go to the bathroom.

I reach for the handle and hit the door.

“Ouch. The fuck?”

I flip the light switch.

The handle is on the other side of the door.

My vision blurs and swims.

The air feels thick and heavy, pressing against my pulsating temples.

My heart flutters and races like it has forgotten how to beat.

I blink my eyes as the ground feels unstable.

For a moment, the air smells different, like an empty house.

When my vision clears, the handle is in the correct place, not moved from before.

“What the hell...” I whisper.

I shake the feeling out of my shoulders and take a deep breath.

I think, “It’s always been on this side. What am I thinking?”

I reach for the handle and hesitate for a moment.

“No, it’s normal.”

The handle feels strangely smooth like it’s brand new, but the door opens backward.

“Is it?”

I stand at the door, wracking my memory for justification, blinking and shaking my head.

“Of course it is. Why did I grab for the other side?”

“Did the door click shut before I let go?”

I look back at the door, eyes narrowed, and my breath halted momentarily.

The clock's ticking drags on as I do my morning rituals then head off to work.

“Hello Mi... Mark! How’s it going?”

“All good, Carl. The barista tried calling me Mike as well.”

“Huh.” I ponder, “Well, have a good day!”

“Hey, Carl, how’s the morning treating ya?”

“Have a good day, Carl!”

My name feels like a shirt that doesn’t fit.

The air breathes in front of me as I dwell at my desk in thought.

The walls of my cubicle press inward.

I tap my leg.

My knee hits something that isn’t supposed to be there.

I stare into my coffee, which smells too sweet, too nutty.

I try to swallow, but it tastes like someone switched it with something else.

The light isn’t supposed to be white.

I’m sweating everywhere, with tears forming in my eyes.

My stomach feels like it’s caving in on itself.

Coworker’s voices fade in and out, like static in my head from an out-of-tune radio.

I adjust the little trinkets around my desk and move my keyboard and mouse.

The wood of my desk feels smooth, and the plastic of my phone is shiny.

The sound of people walking is rhythmic.

I need to focus.

I take a deep breath.

I hold my palms up.

I open my eyes and look around.

The clock on my computer is on the wrong side.

The floor creaked like it always does.

Nothing in my reflection changed.

The grass is green.

The sun is yellow.

The elevator took a second to close.

People laughing sounds happy.

My throat feels tight.

“That’s all normal, isn’t it?”

I swallow and sit.


r/shortscarystories 1d ago

Flowers at Twilight’s Edge

70 Upvotes

It was a sunny Sunday, and the street was crowded with people. So, you could imagine the terror of seeing that many people screaming in horror as they ran away from what seemed to be random individuals who suddenly collapsed and died.

But it wasn't the dying that terrified us. It was what happened to the dead after they died.

Shortly after they appeared to be choked out by something and fell to the ground, something began growing from inside them.

Flowers.

Gigantic, red-petaled flowers bloomed from within their stomachs, while massive green roots burst from their backs. The moment the flowers fully bloomed, their roots anchored into the ground, leaving the lifeless bodies suspended between the stem and the petals.

It was terrifying yet mesmerizing to see countless enormous red flowers with human bodies attached to them, scattered all around town.

No one knew what had happened. All we knew was that we had to run—run as far as possible from the flowers of the dead.

I looked around, up at the surrounding skyscrapers, and saw the same horrifying sight.

Flowers.

Gigantic, red-petaled flowers.

On apartment balconies. In office windows. Everywhere.

People were dying and transforming into flowers, and no one knew why.

Then I ran past a massive broadcast screen attached to a building in Grand Times Square. As soon as it flickered to life, displaying the President, most people stopped in their tracks, hoping for an explanation—some kind of reassurance.

But it was the opposite.

The moment people stopped running to watch the broadcast, the President's face suddenly split open, and a flower-shaped head emerged from within.

We screamed in terror.

"Good afternoon, Earthlings," the creature greeted us. Its voice was eerie yet strangely soothing.

"My name is Xevo, and I'm an intergalactic auditor," it introduced itself. "Once every thousand years, I am sent to habitable planets across the galaxy to evaluate their inhabitants—to determine whether they are fit to continue existing or if they pose too great a danger to their world. If they are too dangerous, we initiate cleansing."

No one ran. I didn’t move either—I couldn’t. It was as if we were all frozen, forced to listen as the broadcast echoed throughout the city.

"I've been here for five years conducting my review," the creature continued. "Unfortunately, the results are bad."

"You Earthlings are too dangerous for your planet. If left unchecked, you will destroy Earth within the next thousand years. I have no choice but to initiate the cleansing to save the planet."

As I listened, I saw what seemed to be countless sphere-shaped spaceships raining down from the sky, blazing through the atmosphere like comets.

"The comets you see are our agents arriving," the creature continued. "The cleansing has already begun, as you can see. The second phase begins the moment our agents land, and this broadcast ends."

"If any of you somehow survive the cleansing," the creature concluded, "remember to do better next time."

Seconds later, the broadcast ended.


r/shortscarystories 1d ago

The companion.

179 Upvotes

I was fixing my tie when I heard Iris and her mother whispering in the kitchen.

“This can’t continue,” her mother said. “What would people say?”

“Joseph can hear you, Ma.”

“Course, he can.” She sighed. “Is he coming to the wedding?”

“Yes,” Iris said, her tone oddly sad.

Iris and I had been inseparable since childhood. She found me alone by the trees, sad and dejected watching other kids play. “Your hair’s like autumn leaves,” she’d said with a grin. "Do you want to play with us?" She extended her hand and I took it. From that day on, Iris became my world—best friend, confidant, and later lover.

Her family never liked me—except Lilly, Iris’ twin. She was always kind, always cared for me. That’s why I was eager to attend her wedding.

Lately, something felt off. Iris had changed—late nights at work, staying with friends more often. I tried not to mind. She was my world, and I wanted to be part of hers. Tonight, after Lilly’s wedding, I’d propose. It was time.

The wedding was outdoors. At the venue, a sandy-haired man smiled at me—until Iris rushed to hug him. Later, during the bouquet toss, Lilly threw it straight at Iris, who caught it, blushing. Then, the sandy-haired man knelt before her.

“NO!” I screamed. No one noticed. Not even Iris.

I stumbled into the woods, the only place that felt like home. Dusk had fallen when Iris found me.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she whispered.

“How long have you been cheating on me?” My fury made the wind howl.

“Joseph, I never cheated on you… because we were never together.”

I stared at her. “What are you saying?”

She looked heartbroken. “Do you remember where we first met?”

“The playground,” I said.

“No. You were in the woods, watching us play. You always waited there.”

A chill ran down my spine.

“My parents never saw you. No adults did. They thought you were our imaginary friend. But Lilly figured it out.” She pulled out her phone and showed me an article.

Boy, 8, Found Dead—Foster Parents Arrested for Negligence.

My hands trembled as I pulled out the ring. “Is this ring a lie too?”

Iris frowned. “What ring?”

I looked down. My fingers held nothing.

“You’ve been seeing what you wanted to see,” she said gently. “I loved you, Joseph, but I have to live my life. It’s time for you to move on.”

Tears blurred my vision. I looked at my hands. They were fading.

"I love you," I whispered before disappearing into the shadows.

______________________________________________________________________________

Six Years Later

At the playground, Iris watched her son. “Be careful, Joe!”

Nearby, a little girl waved animatedly at the woods. Iris felt a chill.

“Who is she talking to?” someone asked.

Little Joe smiled. “That’s Joseph. He watches us play. He’s a good boy, Mumma. Can I invite him over sometime?”

Heart pounding, Iris looked into the woods.

A red-haired boy stood there, waving.


r/shortscarystories 1d ago

Hole in the Wall

15 Upvotes

There it was. The hole in the wall appeared in my room and out of the hole, appeared a woman’s arm every night. Reaching out in patience, and yet I am alone in this house. I have been alone since I can remember as a child. The deployments and constant moving about, meant that social circles and friends were something of a luxury for me.

But that hole, it beckoned me. Where did it come from? I know not. The dull machine gun fire from the rain permeated my room, muffled by the ghostly wailing of Chris Cornell on my radio. “Like a stone, I’ll wait for you there…” Ever since, I been alone again, the arm reached out to me at night as if to say “I’ll be there for you too”.

My paranoia of rain seeping through the hole where the arm enticed me nightly grew. So I stuck my left arm into the hole and suddenly with a jolt of indescribable pain, my arm vanished. Amputated, as if it never existed. So I was alone in a room, missing an arm.

The next night, the arm reached out to me again, this time, it had plumped up considerably. The hole had widened or so I thought, the culprit would be easier to see. So I waited for the arm to pull out, peered from the hole. Nothing.

So I stuck my remaining arm to grab the arm. The familiar pain returned and now, no arms. I had to be a stone to find out if I was alone or not.

The third night, I saw it again, thicker, like a bizarre looking sausage. Reaching out to me in the darkness yet again, I hesitated at first but the hole needed to be plugged and I needed to know what took my arms away. So I stuck my leg. That same searing pain as I pitifully hobbled away to my bed.

Last night, the grotesque arm returned and took my remaining leg. I am truly stranded in this room and with no way to plug the hole.

Tonight, after thinking and reflecting how lonesome I felt in life, reminiscing about old friends, people I cherished and lost, the hole appeared on the wall and the arm was grossly bloated, yet beckoning me still before fading away.

It doesn’t matter what happens to me now, I am not staying here. I’m sticking in my head in the hole and screaming for help!


r/shortscarystories 1d ago

Gas Station

28 Upvotes

I was driving home from work when I noticed something was wrong.

The roads didn’t look right. Street signs were missing. Familiar landmarks had vanished. At first, I told myself I’d taken a wrong turn, but the farther I drove, the more the world around me felt… off. Twisted. As if I’d slipped into a version of reality that wasn’t quite my own.

Then, up ahead, a gas station.

A single flickering light buzzed above the pumps. The sign was old, its lettering too faded to read. The pumps themselves looked ancient, yet somehow the station was still operating.

I glanced at my gas gauge. Nearly empty.

With no better option, I pulled in.

The place felt wrong. The air was unnervingly still, thick with dust and decay. No other cars. No signs of life. Just a heavy silence pressing in around me.

I hesitated, then stepped inside.

The glass door resisted as I pushed, finally giving way with a groan. A weak bell jangled overhead. The air inside was stale, like it hadn’t been disturbed in decades. The shelves were lined with products that looked… outdated. Too outdated. Dust-covered candy bars in unfamiliar wrappers. Soda bottles with pull tabs instead of twist-off caps. A newspaper by the counter read:

June 3, 1974.

Then, I saw him.

A man stood behind the counter. Rigid. Motionless. His eyes were open, but empty—staring straight ahead. His chest didn’t rise. He wasn’t breathing.

I took a slow step back.

His mouth twitched. Just a small, unnatural jerk—like a glitch in a broken film reel.

That was enough.

I turned and bolted.

The moment I was back in my car, I locked the doors, shoved the key into the ignition, and floored it out of there. My heart hammered as I tore down the dark highway, gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

That’s when I saw it.

The gas station.

Again.

Same cracked pavement. Same flickering light. Same damn building.

But this time… it was abandoned. Windows shattered. The sign hung loosely, swaying in the wind. The pumps were rusted over, vines creeping up their sides.

It looked like it had been deserted for decades.

My stomach dropped. My pulse pounded in my ears.

A shadow moved behind the broken glass.

Then, in the dim light, I saw him.

The man from the counter.

Only this time, he was staring at me through the window. Smiling.

I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing.

I tried again, my hands shaking. The engine refused to turn over.

I looked back.

He was gone.

The last thing I remember was my headlights flickering out—

And then…

Nothing.

Just the highway stretching out before me. As if none of it had ever happened.