A collection of horror English short stories to read.
By Leaf Richards
The cold was a constant, gnawing presence, even in the deepest parts of sleep. It seeped into everything, a low, thrumming hum beneath the skin. Winter was not just a season here; it was a state of being, a shroud drawn over the city and its inhabitants, chilling bone and spirit alike. For James, every morning began not with light, but with the lingering dread of the night's abstract horrors.
By Leaf Richards
The metallic tang of fear clung to the back of my throat, a familiar flavour that had taken root in my earliest memories. Sleep offered no escape, only a deeper, more abstract terror where the world was a pulsing grid and unseen machines watched with cold, unblinking eyes. Waking was just a shift in the nightmare, from the grey of dreams to the endless, biting grey of a winter that never truly ended, inside a bunker that felt less like shelter and more like a waiting room.
By Eva Suluk
The remnants of a dream clung to me like frost, a jagged, troubling landscape that felt less like an invention of sleep and more like a premonition. The air in the room was a tangible thing, sharp and thin, pulling me back to the familiar ache of reality. It was another winter morning in a world that had forgotten the meaning of warmth.
By Tony Eetak
The chill was the first thing. Not the gentle, familiar cold of an autumn morning, but a deep, bone-aching frost that clawed at your insides. It seeped from the thin mattress, from the walls, from the very air that tasted metallic and stale. Ethan's room, a box barely larger than his bed, was a sanctuary and a prison, a place where the terrors of the night bled seamlessly into the muted anxieties of the day.
By Leaf Richards
The frost-patterned window served as a temporary scrim, separating Mandy from the manufactured joy below. Outside, Neo-London pulsed with an electric, artificial cheer, its towering structures draped in light-strands of impossible colours. Synthetic snow, churned by rooftop dispensers, drifted lazily, clinging to the grimy ledges and the cyber-trees lining the promenade. It was a spectacle designed to soothe, to distract, to make the ceaseless churn of corporate life bearable, even for a moment. But Mandy knew the true nature of the city, and the delicate balance that held it all together felt as precarious as a snowflake on a live wire.
By Leaf Richards
The morning sun, usually a balm, felt like an interrogation lamp today, highlighting every disquieting detail. A strange, almost imperceptible haze still clung to the air, a leftover from the previous night's celestial spectacle. It wasn't smoke, nor fog, but something thinner, more insidious, that seemed to cling to the edges of vision, making the world shimmer faintly, as if seen through old, rippled glass. The birds, usually raucous with the arrival of spring, offered only a few tentative chirps, their songs cut short, as if remembering a tune they no longer quite understood. Beneath the oppressive quiet, a low, persistent hum thrummed just beneath the threshold of hearing, a mechanical pulse that had become the new soundtrack to existence.
By Eva Suluk
The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, hung heavy over the city. Rust-coloured sycamores scraped against the bruised twilight sky, their skeletal branches making a brittle music against the persistent, low hum that had settled into the very foundations of the world. It was a sound that existed just beneath perception, like the thrum of blood in one's own ears, only external and omnipresent. Lamplight, the few remaining, cast long, wavering shadows across cobbled alleyways, illuminating patches of condensation that clung like cold sweat to brickwork. The usual hurried evening chatter was gone, replaced by a sporadic, disquieting quiet broken by distant, unidentifiable sounds that made the back of my neck prickle. Autumn, with its melancholic beauty, had never felt quite so… brittle.
By Tony Eetak
The old Ford Pinto droned, a persistent, metallic hum that had become the rhythmic pulse of their escape. Outside, the vast flatness of Manitoba was slowly contorting, growing teeth of rock and forest as they pushed deeper into Ontario. Spring’s damp breath coated the windows, blurring the sparse, skeletal birches that flickered past like ghostly sentinels, and an insidious chill, not just from the weather, had begun to seep into the car's threadbare upholstery.
By Eva Suluk
A biting wind, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant bonfires, whipped the last stubborn leaves into a chaotic dance across the asphalt. Pete, perched precariously atop a weathered bench, meticulously observed the disarray of the schoolyard, a place typically bustling but now eerily quiet after the bell. It was during these moments of solitude, between the cacophony of dismissal and the eventual arrival of his grandmother, that the world often revealed its most peculiar aspects.
By Jamie F. Bell
The world outside Desmond’s cracked window was a blurred canvas of white, an unending blizzard that had swallowed the small mountain town whole. Inside, the motel room hummed with the dry, recycled heat of a failing unit, smelling faintly of stale coffee and desperation.
By Jamie F. Bell
The air was thick, a metallic tang of rust and the cloying sweetness of rot. Rain had found its way through gaps in the corrugated roof, painting streaks of grime down warped plywood walls. Every groan of the decaying structure echoed, a symphony of decay in the damp, cool spring morning. Somewhere, a distorted, tinny music box tune scratched at the edge of hearing, just loud enough to be an insult.
By Jamie F. Bell
The autumn air outside Arnold's window hung heavy and damp, the last vestiges of daylight bleeding from a bruised sky. Inside, the quiet hum of the old house was broken only by the distant murmur of the television and the clink of ice in a forgotten glass. He sat, a man etched by time and solitude, observing the way the fading light played tricks on the browning leaves, a prelude to a chill that had nothing to do with the season.
By Jamie F. Bell
The crisp bite of late autumn clung to everything, a preamble to winter’s harsher embrace. Fallen leaves, ochre and burnt umber, whispered across the deserted suburban street, disturbed only by the keen wind. A sense of wrongness, subtle yet profound, began to settle over the quiet afternoon, preceding the grotesque arrival.
By Jamie F. Bell
The spring air, thick with the scent of wet earth and early blossom, hung heavy and humid around the abandoned glasshouse. Rain, a soft drizzle all morning, had just lifted, leaving the world slick and glistening. New growth, an unruly emerald tide, pushed relentlessly through cracked concrete and ancient, buckling asphalt. The sycamore trees, still sparse with infant leaves, wept condensation onto the ground, their shadows stretching long and distorted in the weak, watery light filtering through the cloud cover. It was a place where beauty and decay wrestled in a slow, suffocating embrace, and today, the decay seemed to be winning.
By Jamie F. Bell
The thing on Sam's desk pulsed with a faint, unhealthy light, like bioluminescent mould. It was a shard of obsidian, no bigger than his palm, but it seemed to drink the weak afternoon sun filtering through the grimy window of their shared office. It made the air taste like static and old pennies. Across from him, Davey was grinning, completely oblivious to the creeping dread prickling at the back of Sam's neck.
By Jamie F. Bell
On a sweltering summer afternoon in 2025, the protagonist and two companions are hunkered down in the skeletal remains of an abandoned diner along a desolate highway, evading an unseen but palpable threat that seems to feed on the pervasive societal decay. The air shimmers with heat and an unnatural static.