Reading dark, scary and horror stories are the best way to get sucked into
the world of darkness. Stories which are about some horrific or scary events
are collected in here. This might include ghost stories, paranormal events,
dark dreams, death or anything with the theme of darkness in it. Some of these
stories are based on true events and some might be fully fictional. These stories
are by nature twisted and disturbing. Reading these stories may leave you in a
shocked, disturbing, bizarre, eerie state of minds. So please proceed with caution.
And If you happen to experience some scary dark events or feeling like writing a
dark story then please submit your stories with us. We will carefully review your
story and publish it on our website. This way your story will have a big exposure
and you will also get feedback from our users.
28 Sep, 2015 04:06 AM
60..59..58..57..56..It's pointless. Why should all these people live? These teenagers. Of course, I'm one too, yet I feel as though I'm much more than them. Their lives mean nothing. All they do is have sex, do drugs, drink, bully. What use are they? What use am I? It's time for someone to do something about these awful people.To get rid of them. There are others like me. Others who think they should all die. They're nothing. They should all burn in hell for their sins. If we come together, we can rid the world of them all. Everyone will see what good we've done. They'll thank us. We'll be remembered.
40..39..38..37..36..It's so exciting. Here we all are, in the gym together. And once again, our school team is losing. 8 to 0. All they do is dribble the ball and shoot. So pointless. What good will that do in this... [Read More]
, GraphicVotes: -2
27 Aug, 2015 06:27 AM
I sat on to my bed, starring up at the cracked, old, concrete ceiling and drifted in thought. I was once again trying to find a reason behind what I do, but came to the same conclusion every time. There was no reason, I just loved it. Every little second was a free-fall, so much adrenaline but no outlet, other than screaming or laughing. The best part was the last few seconds, as strange as that sounds the exact moment when you see the light and life leave there dull eyes, there last pitiful breath. I’m addicted to killing, or rather the screams and blood that comes along with it. I smiled, taking a break from my thoughts, and reached for the plastic cup sitting on the floor with shaking hands. Downing the contents of the cup, I cursed, and decided to get some more tonight.
As I walked down... [Read More]
Tags: Serial Killer
, I'm BaaackVotes: 2
01 Aug, 2015 02:52 PM
Sunshine and prairie grass–well in the foreground over grown thick and untamed.
For the background, perhaps a thousand miles away or more than half a decade removed in time. In the blue sky a meadow lark’s love song, and in the grass the boom of the prairie chicken’s wings are the only sounds that break the primeval silence, excepting the lisping of the wind which dimples the broad acres of tall grass–thousand upon thousand of acres–that stretch eastward for miles toward an old farm. To the left the prairie grass rises upon a low hill, belted with limestone and finally merges into the edge of the far horizon.
To the southward on the canvas the prairie grass is broken by the heavy green foliage above a sluggish stream that writhes and twists and turns through the prairie strong winds, which rises above the stream and meets another limestone... [Read More]
, WizardVotes: 2
12 Jul, 2015 05:20 PM
This happens quite frequently in the making of legends. In small towns
after all, who really believes that some old man’s disgruntle tales of his family home being invaded by a werewolf fifty years ago on a Halloweens night would ever come true.
By a young boy’s dead father last words before he died.
Jack and his Mother Deborah accounts to there his son, now
being an old man himself many many years later.
The belief was real in fact, the boy’s father believed it so much that there was a silver barrel shotgun with a homemade large thick wooden stock to hold its adamant size and weight by the front door remembering when he was a young boy.
In that and a water stained cardboard box of silver bullets was all that
remained to his father’s true belief carries with the shotgun as the shells rattled in his pocket... [Read More]
, WerewolfVotes: 1
09 Jun, 2015 03:24 AM
When you are told one thing for so long you believe it. I know I look good, I know I'm not evil, I know I'm not an addict, I know I'm not a mistake. But I am.
You can't grow a rose in a burning pit of tar, no matter what people say. It may look like a rose but inside, inside its a rotting weed. Tortured by its thoughts and feelings. Broken down by everything and everyone around it until it decides to break its self. Its sorry for everything its done to you, it doesn't know what it did, what it said but its sorry.
It cries itself to sleep because it doesn't understand why it doesn't belong. It gets high and drunk to finally love itself, to finally feel some peace. Only to be screamed at, tossed around and disgarded like trash because it can't get love... [Read More]
, HelpVotes: 4
18 Jun, 2015 09:13 PM
“I hate the moon — I am afraid of it — for when it shines on certain scenes familiar and loved it sometimes makes them unfamiliar and hideous.”
— H.P. Lovecraft, What The Moon Brings.
Studying plant-life had long since taken hold of my attention, so I resolved to earn a degree in botany. Although I was still considered an amateur, I had my fair share of academic accomplishments; my manuscript on the characteristics of non-native plants had been the object of scholarly inquiry for months after a scientific journal had agreed to print my work. I sought more knowledge, — and more specimens as my expertise and credentials grew. Eventually, my endeavors lead me to a secluded part of land located in the French countryside. My colleagues had boasted that many rare specimens flourished in this part of the world, many undiscovered or scarcely examined. The cottage I stayed... [Read More]
, DarkVotes: 0
22 Mar, 2015 12:19 PM
Alice was panting frantically. Her right leg was bleeding and something was dug deep in her shoulder, she started realizing that as she moved, she went no where. Then she saw that her left hand was caught inside a net. She wildly pulled her hand free and slowly stood up, clutching her right leg.
"Zane.....Zane! Zane! Answer me!Where are you! Zane, Please! ZANE!"
She moved away from the crash and sat on the dry, cold grass. Still shocked burying her hands in her face, sobbing.
"don't leave me"
It was the year 0. After the destruction of the world when the virus broke out. It practically made everyone turn into a Dracula combined with zombies. Well, whatever they were, they are now called 'the viculas'. The people who are still living in this world have lived long enough to know their weaknesses. They have missing bones in their neck to... [Read More]
, No Hope
, GraphicVotes: 2
26 Jan, 2015 10:59 AM
“Today was exceedingly slow. First off, waking up at 6:30, ‘who even fucking scheduled that!?’ anyways, waking up seemed to take forever. I must have slept wonderfully last night because drool was EVERYWHERE! UGH! It was like a hound dog that kept his mouth wide open all night long. Breakfast was good, though I ran out of fucking corn flakes. The cat would not shut up either. However, the rest of the time at home went pretty smooth; got dressed, left for work…blah, blah.
The ride to work was GOD awful! So much traffic and ASSHOLE drivers!! This butt-head decided that he wanted to turn in front of me. Casually, I sped up in hopes of ramming the bastard. My conscience was telling me that I should go follow this guy for a little "chit chat". Well I did. We must have driven for an hour or so. I had... [Read More]
, GraphicVotes: 3
10 Dec, 2014 07:07 AM
Years ago, in Ireland, there was a young girl named Mary Culhane. Her family was very poor and they lived in a white-washed cottage, down a country lane. She had six younger brothers and sisters and spent a lot of her time taking care of them. Her father worked as a grave digger in the local cemetery, next to the Catholic church. It was the only job he could get because he had been born with a bad leg.
One day, when her father came home, he sat down sighed. He was extremely tired after working all day.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I left my blackthorn walking stick back at the graveyard. If I don’t go back for it, someone will steal it. It was the last thing my poor departed father gave me before he died. I can barely walk without it.”
Mary Culhane was always a... [Read More]
, Dark Creature
, GraveVotes: 0
03 Dec, 2014 08:17 PM
It was a cold and rather bleak afternoon. The sun wasn't present nor was its’ warmth and all that you could see in the sky was clouds. I remember the school bus stopping three houses down from mine and the bus doors opening with a slight creek like that of an old wooden door in a rather aged home. I had gotten up out of my seat and grabbed my back pack with both hands which caused me to wobble a bit as I walked through the aisle of the bus toward the exit. I noticed the faces of the fellow passengers and for a second admired the differences of each individual and the unique expressions each one possessed. I usually don’t talk like that to people though for people think I over analyze or take simple things to a much further level than things ever should be brought down... [Read More]
, SadnessVotes: 2