short scary stories

I Don't Have a Gay Son.

A few months ago, my oldest son, Charlie, came out to me as a homosexual.

He sat his mother and I down in the living room and confessed everything to us; about how he had always felt attraction towards men, for his entire life. He even told us that he had a boyfriend who he wanted to introduce us to. Justine and I had always had our suspicions about Charlie, but we were still shocked by our son’s revelation.

Suffice to say, Charlie is no longer a son of mine.

You see, every now and again, teenagers in our town get unnatural urges. We try to correct these impure desires early- teach kids right from wrong. If you don’t nip these thoughts in the bud while they’re still young, they’ll manifest as behaviour in adolescence. We pull offending children up and tell them, again and again, from morning worship to Sunday school.

“Your ungodly impulses are a choice” we lecture. “You can choose Heaven or you can choose Hell. Which will it be?” For many youth, the threat of damnation is enough to set them on the right path. But there are those who cling to their perversions, convincing themselves that their lifestyle choice is the correct one.

If only we had beat it out of them. Maybe that could have saved Charlie.

I’ll never understand what compels teens to commit such awful sin. Some say that it’s the media, corrupting the minds of the youth. Others think that it’s just the primal evil of humanity, inevitably seeping through. All I know for sure is that these teenagers go about defiling the Lord, and our town, remorselessly.

There are probably those out there who would call us intolerant. That’s fine by us. We believe that there are some transgressions that simply shouldn’t be tolerated, under any circumstances.

And we will never tolerate abduction, torture and murder.

No, I don’t have a gay son. I don’t have a gay son, because those twisted f*cking bastards killed him.

"Mom, Dad... I'm Adopted."

“Mom, Dad… I’m adopted.”

My parents ceased their activities. My mother, adorned in a pearl necklace and earrings to match stood upright. Upon both hands she word oven mitts and a matching apron. Her teal sundress really did bring out the blue in her eyes. She closed the oven and removed the mitts, revealing perfectly manicured nails.

My father sat his pipe on the end table and closed his book. His hair, just a touch of gray, was immaculate as ever. He wore a plaid shirt and a soft, tan cardigan. He removed his reading glasses to look me in the face.

Almost in unison they asked

“Why Dear?” “What makes you say that, son?”

Before them I stood. Pressed khaki pants, tucked in button down shirt and my matching belt and shoes. I felt both at one with, and detached from the people before me.

“I just…. know,” I tried to sound confident, but at the time, my confidence was lost to pubescence. “Don’t be ridiculous,” My father stood in the light of our perfectly lit kitchen. He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eyes, “You’re our boy, and we love you.”

I studied the lines of his face seeking no, pleading for a lie, but there was none. “Sit dear,” my mother interjected opening the stove, “Dinner is nearly ready.”

I sat at our polished wooden table and placed my napkin in my lap, an old habit from etiquette school. I felt my eyes moisten.

“Are you sure?” I was able to ask, staring at the blank place on the table where my food would soon be.

My mother placed prepared plates before my father and I. He said a brief grace for the table and began eating the roast and potatoes my mother had so delicately prepared.

“Positive,” he said, savoring his bite and wiping his lip.

My mother sat last with her plate on the other side of the table to my left and took my hand. “You’re our baby,” She said, looking me in the eye and assuring me I was her offspring, “Now, let’s talk about something else! You haven’t said hello to our guest.

My eyes and face were wet and red. I stared across the table. The woman before me was tied to her chair. Ropes ran from her throat to her feet keeping her from any free movement. Across her mouth was tightly wound duct tape and her head had slumped forward.

The only appendage not tied down was her right arm. It was not a kindness extended, but rather unneeded. Her right arm was severed below the shoulder. Blood was still actively pouring from the poor bandaging and soaking her side deep red. Her eyes had rolled back into her head in a loss of consciousness from the extreme pain she had just endured. My parents shared a laugh over it being seasoned so well.

I took all this in again and cried out in a whisper,

“Please, tell me I’m adopted.”

The Sound of Silence

After lifetime of being deaf, my best friend just received cochlear implants.  When he woke up from the surgery, we all stood around him.  His wife was the first one to say anything. He heard her voice and at once began to cry.  We all took turns speaking, letting him hear our voices and our names, and with each word we said, he became more emotional.  When we were all finished, silence hung in the room.

He looked up at me and asked what that sound was.  It took me a moment to understand what he was hearing, and when I understood, I told him he was hearing silence.

He shook his head.  “This isn’t silence,” he said slowly, hearing his own voice for the first time.  “I’ve been hearing silence all my life, and this is different.”

A sound came from just outside the hospital room, and he perked up immediately.  “Isn’t that silence?”

We all exchanged looks of trepidation around the room before I spoke.  “No,” I said slowly.  “That was the sound of someone screaming.”

Hell - (shortscarystories)

There was no pearly gate.

The only reason I knew I was in a cave was because I had just passed the entrance. The rock wall rose behind me with no ceiling in sight.

I knew this was it, this was what religion talked about, what man feared .. I had just entered the gate to hell.

I felt the presence of the cave as if it was a living, breathing creature. The stench of rotten flesh overwhelmed me.

Then there was the voice, it came from inside and all around.

“Welcome”

“Who are you?”, I asked, trying to keep my composure.

“You know”, the thing answered.

I did know.

“You are the devil”, I stuttered, quickly losing my composure. “Why me? I’ve lived as good as I could”.

The silence took over the space as my words died out. It seemed like an hour went by before the response came.

“What did you expect?”

The voice was penetrating but patient.

“I don’t know .. I never believed any of this”, I uttered “Is that why I am here?”

Silence.

I continued: “They say the greatest trick you ever pulled was convincing the world you don’t exist”

“No, the greatest trick I ever pulled was convincing the world that there is an alternative”

“There is no God?” I shivered.

The cave trembled with the words: “I am God”

The Healing Process.

My sister doesn’t even stir when he enters my room. His footsteps are silent, but the air gets so cold that I see my breath. My little sister shivers and cuddles even closer to me, wrapping her tiny arms around my waist. I hope she stays asleep.

I know he’s tall and thin, but that’s all I can see. My room is so dark that everything else about him is masked in shadows. My breathing picks up. He’s standing by my side of the bed.

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“The Catacombs”

About a year ago, I was taking photos in the Paris Catacombs for my latest project for my photography portfolio. I was pretty far down, but it was okay since I had told some friends that I would be out by 7 p.m, and that if I wasn’t, they should send help. I also had a radio and a walkie that my buddy could speak to me on from the street above, and glowsticks that I had left down the passages i’d been down so that I could find my way back easily.

It was about 6:15 and I had gone far enough so that I had used up all my glowsticks, so I knew it was time to start heading back. I decided to take a few more pictures before ending my expedition. I had taken a few snaps around the dark corridor I was standing in before a couple things happened that made me -a non-religious skeptic- pray to whatever god could hear me to get me the fuck out of there.

Yet, I don’t know which scared me more.

The fact that the glow sticks were gone,

Or the fact that the face-detect on my camera had outlined something in the pitch darkness only a few feet in front of me.

(by yours truly. story on /r/shortscarystories here!)

Thought sixpenceee might like this

Story inspired by the true story of the found footage of a man who went missing in the Paris Catacombs. You can watch the footage/documentary here.

The footage is truly terrifying, not only because the man (or his body) still hasn’t been found, but because no one knows what scared him to the point of dropping his seemingly only source of light and running possibly away from something.

Also, there’s a new horror movie coming out about the Catacombs called ’As Above, So Below’. You can watch the trailer here!

Guilty Secrets

You couldn’t lie to my sister. Not about the big stuff, anyway, the stuff that ate away at you and kept you awake at night. I don’t know if I’d call it a gift or anything, but she had an ability. She could see guilt.

I don’t mean she was good at reading expressions or picking up on body language; she could literally see manifestations of people’s guilt following them around. It started with Whiskey, our childhood cat. Mom said he’d decided to move out to the country to enjoy his old age, but Cassidy kept seeing him lying at Mom’s feet, completely still and stiff.

She asked Mom over and over why Whiskey wasn’t moving until Mom started to sob and admitted she’d had to put our kitty to sleep. She’d felt so guilty about lying and about her “betrayal” to Whiskey, her beloved companion of seventeen years, but she’d wanted to protect us from death for a little while longer.

In her grief, Mom didn’t think to ask Cassidy how she’d known the truth.

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Imagination Land
(shortscarystories)

I’ve been able to read minds since I was a child. It’s not really like how you see in the movies, though. It’s not like listening to the radio. It’s much more immersive. I experience everything as if I’m really there. It’s a thrilling experience when you read the right minds. The trouble is really with finding minds worth reading.

Frankly, reading adults is as fun as doing taxes. Kids’ minds, on the other hand, are amazing. They’re not bogged down with work and stress and dissatisfaction. The mind of a child is filled with imagination and adventure. That’s why I became a kindergarten teacher.

I sit at my desk and watch as my class colors. I smile as they doodle away with their crayons. I reach out and peek into their minds. In an instant, I take off with Carlos in a rocket ship, hurtling past swirling galaxies. I visit far-off planets full of blob-like aliens and two-headed martians. I smile and move on to Marcy. I can smell the candy canes and jelly beans as I’m pulled into a veritable candyland, complete with gumdrop castles and caramel waterfalls. She plays hopscotch with gingerbread men, giggling her musical little laugh.

I’m about to move on to Thomas when I feel a tug at my dress. I look down to see Sarah. She’s one of the most adorable little girls I’ve ever seen. Beautiful brown curls, big puppy dog eyes, and a gleaming smile.

“Miss Dupree, I made this for you!” she exclaims, handing me a paper. I take it from her and see myself in stick figure form. “I Luv Ms. Doopry” is scrawled across the top in multiple colors.

“I love it!” I exclaim and give her a great big hug.

Sarah’s only been with the class for a couple days and I have yet to have a peek at her hopes and dreams. I reach out and touch her mind. And I nearly vomit.

I choke as I’m hit with wave after wave of the hot, fetid stench of death. My mind’s eye is blinded by a darkness which seems almost alive, spilling into my brain, seeking to blot out everything it touches. In the void, I feel slimy coils roiling around me, wrapping around my legs, pressing against my face, a gigantic beast hungrily probing the darkness in search for food. And then a keening wail rises up, nearly bursting my eardrums. The screams of thousands of souls, crying out in sorrow. Crying out for death.

And then I’m back in the classroom. I let go of Sarah and compose myself, hoping she can’t see me shaking.

“That’s a lovely picture, Sarah,” I say, nearly whispering. “Now go along and get ready for snack time, alright?”

She nods happily and skips off. I watch her as she goes. The minds of children are the most wonderful thing in the universe. But whatever that thing in the blue dress is, it is no child.

The Demon - queerestqueen

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 "Are you seeing things again babe?“ My boyfriend gently ran his fingers through my hair as I vigorously nodded, staring uncomfortably at the crouched demon in the corner and trying unsuccessfully to ignore the incessant screaming at the door, mimicking my boyfriend’s voice.

"It’s so loud tonight” I whimpered, my voice trembling as the voice brought on the usual paranoia.

“Don’t worry, it’s not real. It must be your med change, that’s why”. The demon dragged itself forward and froze again.

Warily, ignoring my mock boyfriend’s screams outside the bedroom door, I shook my head.

“It’s you, one of the voices. It’s you”, my hands tightened around his.

“Don’t worry, it’s not real. I’m here. The voices, the demon in the corner, they’re all fake, baby”.

I froze.

I never mentioned the demon.

The sting still hurt.

“Stay near me, Yanny,” I said, trying my hardest to keep my voice calm. The soft echoes rebounded around the massive cavern. My scythe was poised for battle, gleaming with the blood of the demons felled. “We’re almost at the gates.”

Yanny nodded. The journey had been taxing for her; mentally, she was not a very strong girl. “Please,” she said weakly, almost whispering, “protect me.”

On cue, a massive red scorpion sprung up, stinger slamming straight into where Yanny would have been, had I not shoved her out of the way. “Run!” I shouted at her, and engaged the demon.

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The Girl in the Log

I always hated visiting my grandpa’s old cabin. That might make me seem spoiled or ungrateful. What kid doesn’t enjoy seeing her grandpa? Especially considering he was the only grandparent I had ever known. Both of my mom’s parents were killed in a car accident before I was born, and my dad’s mom walked out on him when he was very young. He still doesn’t know where she is or if she’s even alive. So that only leaves my paternal grandfather. My parents desperately wanted me to have a good relationship with him. My dad insisted that, although Grandpa was stern and quiet, he really did love me. He just didn’t know how to express it. I figured that was probably true, but it didn’t change the fact that trips to his house were filled with idle hours watching television and reading while he worked during the day, followed by awkwardly silent dinners in the evenings. I rarely saw him, and he seldom spoke in any loving way. He just kept a wary eye on me, like he was waiting for me to break something of his or talk out of line.

Still, my parents insisted on sending me to spend a week with him every summer since I was ten- old enough to look after myself for the day. I had visited his isolated cabin in the woods several times before with my parents, but this would be the first time I stayed overnight by myself.

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A Memo to Disney Cast Members

A Disney Cast Members’ top priority is the comfort and safety of our guests. For this reason, all Disney World employees must follow these rules. Failure to do so will result in disciplinary action.


Ask to examine the photos our guests have taken. Be friendly. Check for abnormalities. If any are found, call for security. Guests may be distracted with free merchandise.


Every seventh photograph taken on the Dinosaur attraction must be deleted. If questioned, explain that it was a technical error and offer Fast Passes.


The rumors of sharks and crocodiles in the Lagoon are false. However, there is no swimming outside of designated swimming pools on Disney property.


Dead alligators are common around the Lagoon. Simply evacuate the area, call security, then take note of how much has been eaten.


There is only one Mickey out at once. If you find a second Mickey having an autograph session, check for eye holes. All Disney costumes have eye holes. If you don’t find eye holes, allow the session to continue, but disallow photos. Call security immediately after the session concludes.


If you spot a second Mickey off to the side, lure him into the tunnels. That’s what the ducks are there for. Leave immediately afterwards, and do not look back.


The Disney World security unit does not wear specially marked clothing. If you see someone wearing a shirt that says “Disney Security”, shut down that section of the park immediately.


Following these rules will help ensure a safe and pleasurable trip to the happiest place on Earth. So stay knowledgeable, and stay safe.

Wait, something's not right.

A sound wakes you up, sounded like a knock on your front door. It’s way past midnight, you’re lying on the sofa with the TV on static. The house is dark, the lights are off. You’re all alone. You look out the window, see there’s a full moon, shining its light through the glass pane.

You get up and head towards the front door. You look through the peephole. No one outside. You open the door. Find no one. You check around the porch. Still no one. Maybe kids were playing tricks on you.

Annoyed, you shut the door, turn off the TV, close the window, and head upstairs to your bedroom for the night.

This is a short “scary story” attempt by me at 9 years old and I’m just amazed how much it reads like a “HORNY SINGLES IN YOUR AREA” advertisement

A dream from the coma

When I was 12 years old, I was in a car crash with my father and uncle. I went into a coma, and was unresponsive for a week. I don’t remember much from that time, but there’s one thing that I remember clearly as if it had happened yesterday. It was a dream (I hope so), but I can’t remember exactly when I had it (I guess it makes sense, since my body was destroyed and I was busy fighting not to die and shit).

The dream starts with me waking up in a ditch, in the middle of nowhere (I searched Google Images for a reference, and the place seemed like the image above, minus the wind turbines). It was kind of dark, like the afternoon of a cloudy day - the light had a strange grey-quality to it, and there was no sound anywhere.

I looked up and saw some guys crouching and looking at me. They didn’t frighten me, but something in them was definitely off, I can’t explain how or why. They were in silence, looking at me and smiling - it was more of a sneer, actually, as if they were thinking “what a sad fuck”.

Then one of them leaned a little towards me and said:

“You were expecting heaven, weren’t you?”.

I didn’t answer, so he spoke again:

“Stupid kid”.

I heard some of the guys laughing, but couldn’t tell which one of them. Actually, it seemed like it was coming from the sky, like the laugh track of a TV show, but with less laughter.

I looked up again and noticed that some of the guys were missing their heads - the kind of glitch you sometimes have in dreams, you know (I try to be very rational about the whole thing now, but I remember feeling so scared at the time I thought I’d pee).

Then the first guy spoke again:

“Go back to the dirt. Dance while you can”.

I didn’t slip out of my coma right after that, but I remembered this dream some time later. I never told my parents, nor anybody really, because it’s very grim, and it still haunts me.

The Disappearing Pets

No one noticed when the strays started to go missing. It was just a cat here, another there, nothing too unusual for feral animals. Even as a kid, I was used to them coming and going of their own accord and sometimes wouldn’t see them for months. It was just how things worked in a small country town.

But then Sassafrass disappeared. She was the Binders’ beloved Siamese cat, an elderly girl with only one good eye and less teeth. She would sunbathe in a basket filled with blankets from dawn until dusk and then go in to sleep between them on the couch while they watched their evening programs. She rarely left her basket and never left her yard.

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