Scary Stories Online

The old man coughed and wheezed. His bones ached as he slowly climbed out of the flea-ridden, tattered bed. He hobbled into the living room, while holding his aching back. He moaned aloud, causing his dog, a shepherd-collie mix, to tweak his ears, but nothing more. “Ya lazy mutt.” The old man griped as he made his way to the beer and cigarette stained lazy boy. The wooden skeleton of the chair bulged through the trodden cotton, allowing the old man sturdy support as he eased down. He still couldn’t believe someone would throw out a good chair like this. Sure, it had its share of burns and a few stains, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d snag his pants or scratch himself on a few unruly wires or splinters snaking out, but other than that the chair was in great condition. “Pansy wansys wantin’ somethin’ new every time they turn around,” he grumbled to no one in particular. “That’s why everyones’ in debt up to their frigholes,” he said, while glaring at the mutt. Besides food, utility bills...

"I feel the best way for me to get my story out is to write it down myself. I thought of hiring an interviewer, but felt the interviewer might not survive long enough to finish his assignment. You see I am a vampire, and any living human is fair game as you will soon understand. There is no sanctuary from the disease that flows through my veins. No cure can be found, and I have had the best doctors over the endless years try to heal me. Blood transfusions only make me stronger, though they do not satisfy my hunger. I have taken every medicine invented over the many hundreds of years I have existed. Nothing has worked. I would love to exist no longer, but I have not yet found a way to die. One might think that after hundreds of years I would grow cold and unfeeling to the pain and horror I have caused countless people. That is the true irony of this disease, for I do have feelings. I do not wish to kill, but I cannot resist the great hunger that compels me to feed. The only thi...

That door. That dreaded door in my basement to the left of the laundry room door. My dad already tells me to never go in there, to ignore it, and he gets suspiciously nervous whenever someone brings it up. There are always sounds coming from behind it, like muffled talking, groaning, and heavy breathing, and the occasional scream. ‘You don’t want to know what’s in there’ my father would say every time me or my sister would ask what’s behind the door. We would pretend to understand, but deep down, we both knew we had to open it. And that’s just what I did. It was 12:00 at night when I decided to open it. I made sure that no one was awake, and stole the keys to the door off of dads nightstand. Thank god he is a heavy sleeper, or I would have been fucked. The basement door creaked so loud that I thought the house next door could’ve heard it, but no one woke up, so I quietly descended down the stairs and met face to face with the wooded door. I put the key in the slot and twis...

When I was little, I often visited my grandma. She was a kind person, that always told me stories every time I came to her house which was only a few streets away from the house my family lived in. There’s one story I’ll never forget. It was a dark and stormy night. Me and my friends, all around the age of ten, decided to pull a dumb trick on our parents and sneak out in the middle of the night to play together. However, my grandmother caught us on the street and called us to come into her house. We all sat onto the floor into the living room. I remember her looking out of the window, terrified. She went to close the door as well as all windows. When she was finished, she went back into the living room. Looking at all of us, she asked: “Don’t you know the story of the Nightbryn?” Without waiting for an answer, she started to tell: “A long, long time ago, a dark force used to rule here where the village is standing. His rule ended when us humans came along and claimed this land for ...

“When my sister Betsy and I were kids, our family lived for awhile in a charming old farmhouse. We loved exploring its dusty corners and climbing the apple tree in the backyard. But our favorite thing was the ghost. We called her Mother, because she seemed so kind and nurturing. 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 homes’ 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 centre 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 ar...

Mikael Shadows was born during 23 B.C. in Sicyon, Greece where he was one of seven people to be sacrificed to Ares, the god of war. During the sacrifice ceremony something gone wrong during the process, and Mikael inadvertently became a demigod. There were over thirty people witnessed the transformation and with Mikael's new supernatural strength freed himself from the chains. Mikael then began slaughtering every single person and anybody that stood in his way, god or man. After he committed a heinous massacre with blood all over him went home to find his entire family slaughtered by Ares. It was in retaliation against him becoming a demigod and not playing by his rules. Mikael then took a forever oath to not only get revenge for his family but also seek out justice for those that are not able too. His will for justice will never come to an end because his mother, Melite always taught him to fight for those that aren't able to defend for themselves. While his father, ...

I have visited my Grandmothers house several times when she was alive, but when she passed last spring, it hasn't been the same. She was a painter, and painted beautiful works of art. I remember every year for our birthdays, she would gift me and my cousins beautiful paintings. She had an artistic eye, and would see the world differently. A simple coffee pot would be a spaceship, or a water bottle could be a racecar. She got along well with us as kids, but when we grew older, we all had work to do, new anxieties every day, and more of a grasp on reality. Her house smelled always of fresh paint, and her clothes were always tattered in splotches of paint. My parents thought she was too irresponsible, and never took care of herself, but let me tell you. If we were all in a zombie apocalypse, she would be the last to survive. She saved me from drowning in a lake once on family vacation. Her quick reflexes, despite her age, saved me. After her passing, we cleared out her house. Her ...

The day after I arrived, I awoke to a grey morning, drizzly rain outside. I pulled back the heavy drapes in the main room, a cavernous space, and looked again at my new abode. The room was sparsely furnished with old heavy furniture. This must have been the living room — looked like the set of the interior of the home in Long Day's Journey into Night. I had studied O'Neill's play while taking a theater class and could visualize the man and his two grown sons sitting around the table in the middle of this room. I imagined a bottle of whiskey on the table and the chink of three glasses. As the men drank into the night, they talked, doing their best to break each other's hearts, while a doped-up Mom roamed about upstairs. I also had a father who had two sons as had his father. In a small chamber off the living room, I came across a kneeler. It was wooden with a red cushion for the knees. Something I would expect to see in a church rather than a private home. In the light...

It was a singularly sharp night, and clear as the heart of a diamond. Clear nights have a trick of being keen. In darkness you may be cold and not know it; when you see, you suffer. This night was bright enough to bite like a serpent. The moon was moving mysteriously along behind the giant pines crowning the South Mountain, striking a cold sparkle from the crusted snow, and bringing out against the black west and ghostly outlines of the Coast Range, beyond which lay the invisible Pacific. The snow had piled itself, in the open spaces along the bottom of the gulch, into long ridges that seemed to heave, and into hills that appeared to toss and scatter spray. The spray was sunlight, twice reflected: dashed once from the moon, once from the snow.      In this snow many of the shanties of the abandoned mining camp were obliterated (a sailor might have said they had gone down), and at irregular intervals it had overtopped the tall trestles which had once supported a...