Scary Stories Online

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...

By Washington Irving Found among the papers of the late Diedrech Knickerbocker. A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky. Castle of Indolence. In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to i...