You know the one.
It’s not the soft silence of a lazy Sunday morning or the stillness after fresh snow.
No—this is the heavy kind. The something’s-watching-you kind.
Late at night. Shadows bending where they shouldn’t. The walls breathing just a little too slow
That faint ticking of a clock you swear wasn’t that loud earlier. Maybe there’s a draft, but it feels like it moves with purpose.
And then someone—maybe you—cracks open a book. Or pulls out a folded, weathered piece of paper. Or just… starts talking.
Their voice is low at first, almost hesitant. Like the room might be listening. And in that moment, you realize you’re not just hearing any story.
This is a scary story to read in the dark—the kind that makes you pull the blanket tighter without even thinking.
The candle flickers. A chair creaks in the corner. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You keep listening anyway.
Because the story has already taken hold.
Why Darkness Turns a Story into a Spell?
Here’s the thing—darkness is more than the absence of light. It’s a stage.
Your brain shifts gears in the dark. Peripheral vision gets fuzzy. Sounds sharpen. That faint drip of a leaky faucet feels like a footstep. Your own breathing starts to sound suspiciously loud.
It’s the perfect setting for a scary story because you’re already halfway there—your senses are dialed up, and your imagination is on high alert.
Even a silly plot hits differently when you can’t see every corner of the room.
Scary Story to Read in The Dark
Lights off. Blanket pulled up. Every creak suddenly louder. Ready for a scary story to read in the dark?
The Door That Wasn’t There
It started on a Thursday night.
Or maybe Friday morning, if you count the time.
1:47 a.m.
That’s when I woke up. No reason. No nightmare. Just… eyes open. Heart steady.
And there it was.
Knocking.
Not loud. Not hurried.
Just a soft, deliberate tap… tap… tap… coming from the hallway.
I lay there for a while, staring into the dark.
Trying to convince myself it was the pipes. Or the neighbors. Or a branch against the siding.
Except my apartment doesn’t have siding.
And the sound wasn’t coming from outside.
It was inside.
I got up.
Not brave. Just… curious.
The hallway was black, except for a thin strip of moonlight bleeding in from the living room window.
I listened.
Nothing.
And then—
Tap… tap… tap.
Three knocks.
Rhythmic. Patient.
It was coming from halfway down the hall.
Right where the wall was.
Only there was no door there.
There never had been.
I turned on the light.
Of course, there was nothing—just the same smooth stretch of painted wall between my bedroom and the bathroom.
I ran my hand over it. Solid drywall.
I even pressed my ear against it.
No sound.
My pulse slowed.
I went back to bed, convincing myself it was one of those half-asleep moments where your brain invents noises.
The next night—same time.
Same knock.
I didn’t move this time. I just lay there, staring at the dark hallway.
It went on for a while.
Three knocks. Silence. Three knocks. Silence.
Like someone was waiting for me to answer.
On the third night, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I got up, phone in hand, flashlight on.
Walked straight to the spot.
The light caught something I swear hadn’t been there before—faint lines in the wall. Like seams.
And a brass doorknob.
Old-fashioned. Tarnished.
I froze.
I didn’t touch it.
I didn’t want to.
In the morning, it was gone.
I stared at the wall for a good ten minutes, coffee in hand, trying to figure out if I’d dreamed it.
But the weirdest part?
The carpet fibers right in front of that spot—flattened. Like someone had been standing there.
By the fourth night, I’d decided two things:
- I wasn’t crazy.
- I wasn’t opening that door.
Not even a crack.
At 1:47 a.m., it started again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I pulled the blanket over my head like I was six years old again.
Childish, maybe, but it worked.
For about thirty seconds.
Because then I heard the sound of the doorknob turning.
Slow. Deliberate.
Metal scraping metal.
I yanked the blanket down just in time to see a thin strip of yellow light spill into the hallway from… nothing.
I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
And by morning?
The wall was normal again.
I thought about telling someone.
But how do you explain that without sounding like you’ve lost it?
I tried ignoring it.
Didn’t work.
The door kept coming back. Every night, always at the same time.
Always knocking first. Always waiting.
Sometimes the light inside was yellow. Sometimes it was red.
Once—it was pitch black, and I swear I saw something moving in it.
About a week in, I made a mistake.
I spoke.
“Who’s there?”
The knocking stopped.
For a long time, there was just silence.
Then a voice—low, almost a whisper.
“Let me in.”
I backed into my room and shut the door.
I could hear my own breathing, too loud, too fast.
The voice didn’t come again.
The knocking didn’t return.
The next morning, the wall looked different.
Not like a door.
But not like it used to, either.
The paint seemed… darker.
Almost like it had absorbed something.
Two nights later, I broke.
I told myself it was a dream. I told myself I’d prove it by opening it and finding nothing.
At 1:47, right on schedule, the knocking started.
I walked to it.
Hand on the knob.
Cold.
I turned it.
The hallway beyond was gone.
Instead—stairs.
Narrow. Steep.
The air smelled like dust and something rotten.
A faint yellow light glowed somewhere far below.
I took one step down.
The door slammed shut behind me.
I spun around.
No knob.
No seams.
Just a wall.
I don’t know how long I stood there before moving.
The stairs seemed to go on forever.
The light never got closer.
My phone had no signal.
Eventually, I sat down, exhausted.
That’s when I heard it.
Behind me.
Footsteps.
Slow. Heavy.
Getting closer.
I ran.
I don’t remember the details—just the pounding in my chest and the taste of blood in my mouth.
I never saw what was following me.
I think that’s worse.
I woke up in my bed.
No idea how I got there.
The hallway looked normal.
But now, every time I pass that spot, I feel it.
The air is colder there.
And at night—
Sometimes—
I still hear knocking.
Only now, it’s coming from inside.
Whispers in the Static
It started with the radio.
Not music. Not news.
Just static.
I’d fallen asleep on the couch again, TV still on mute, my old tabletop radio sitting on the shelf across the room.
It wasn’t even plugged in.
But around 2 a.m., it came to life.
A slow hiss. Soft at first.
Like when you bring a seashell to your ear and hear the ocean—except sharper, colder.
The kind of sound that makes the hairs on your arms stand up before your brain can even process it.
I sat up, blinking at the dark.
Maybe I’d left it connected somehow? No. The cord dangled loose, swaying slightly like it had just been moved.
And yet…
The static swelled.
Then, under it—something else.
A voice.
It wasn’t clear.
Like someone speaking through layers of cloth.
Or from the bottom of a swimming pool.
“…help…”
One word.
And then nothing.
The hiss just kept going, like it was waiting.
I reached over and turned the dial. Click.
Off.
The sound didn’t stop.
That’s when I realized the hiss wasn’t coming from the radio anymore.
It was in the air.
A sound without a source.
I stood in my apartment, holding my breath.
For a moment—nothing.
Then—
“…can you hear me?”
It was quiet, almost gentle.
Too gentle.
Like a hand brushing your hair back when you didn’t know anyone was behind you.
I didn’t answer. Something deep in my gut told me not to.
The hiss faded after that, slow and reluctant, like it didn’t want to let go.
The next day was normal.
Well—mostly.
Every now and then, I thought I heard a faint hum when the fridge kicked on.
Or a low crackle in the silence between songs.
I told myself I was imagining it.
But the next night, it came back.
Not at two this time. One forty-eight.
Same hiss.
Same voice.
“…please… I’m still here… cold… so cold…”
I couldn’t tell if it was a woman or a child.
But it sounded weak. Sad.
My hand hovered near the radio, even though it wasn’t the one making the sound.
And then I did something stupid.
I whispered back.
“Who are you?”
The static popped.
Like something had just moved closer.
And then—
“You can see me.”
That wasn’t a question.
It was a fact.
I didn’t sleep that night.
By the third night, the static wasn’t waiting for darkness.
It came during the day, too.
Through my phone speaker when I called my sister.
Through my laptop while I worked.
Even through my toaster once—just a faint hiss that shouldn’t have been there.
And always—always—the voice beneath it.
“…almost there…”
I stopped answering.
Didn’t matter.
It got bolder.
It started using my name.
One night, I woke up to find my bedroom clock blinking 3:00 a.m.—and my radio, the unplugged one, sitting on my bedside table.
I hadn’t moved it there.
It was on.
The static was deafening.
Underneath—ragged breathing.
And then—
“I’m at your door.”
I didn’t want to look.
But I did.
The hallway beyond was pitch black, except for a faint shimmer, like light bouncing off something wet.
The sound of fingers brushing the wood followed.
Slow. Deliberate.
I stayed in bed until the sun came up.
When I finally checked, the hallway was empty.
But the outside of my door—
Four long scratches.
That day, I left the apartment. Went to a coffee shop, then wandered the city for hours.
It followed me.
Streetlamps buzzed when I passed under them.
My earbuds hissed even with no music playing.
And once, when I stopped at a crosswalk, I heard it clear as day—
“Behind you.”
I spun around.
No one there.
Just a row of empty storefronts.
But one of the windows…
It looked like someone had pressed their face against the glass, leaving a faint smear.
The more I tried to avoid it, the worse it got.
The static began to come in waves, rising and falling like breathing.
Sometimes it was so loud I couldn’t think.
Sometimes it was faint—just enough to let me know it was still there.
And then came the dreams.
I’d wake up drenched in sweat, remembering only fragments.
A figure standing in the corner of my room.
A whisper too close to my ear.
A cold hand brushing my arm.
Once, I woke up with my phone in my hand, recording nothing but hiss.
I started digging.
Old radio frequencies. Signal interference. Paranormal accounts.
That’s when I found it—
A thread on an obscure forum about “the voice in the static.”
Dozens of posts.
People hearing whispers in white noise.
Names being called.
Objects moved.
Almost all the stories ended the same way.
The person disappeared.
It’s been three weeks now.
I don’t bother turning devices off anymore—it’s pointless.
Sometimes the static is in the hum of the refrigerator.
Sometimes in the flicker of a lightbulb.
Sometimes… right in my ear.
And always—
Before the voice comes—
The air goes cold.
Last night, I almost answered again.
I was lying in bed, half-asleep, when it came.
Soft.
Lonely.
“Please. Just once more.”
And I thought—
Maybe it’s not here to hurt me.
Maybe it’s just… lost.
But then—
Another voice.
Lower. Harsher.
“Don’t.”
I sat up so fast I nearly fell out of bed.
The room was empty.
Both voices were gone.
I don’t know what happens if I answer again.
But the static is here now.
Always here.
And every night, it waits.
The Reflection That Stayed
The first time I noticed it, I thought I was just tired.
It was late. Past midnight.
I’d been brushing my teeth, half-asleep, when I saw something odd in the bathroom mirror.
Not something. Someone.
Me.
But not… me.
You know how reflections move with you? Same time. Same speed.
This one didn’t.
When I lowered my toothbrush, it lagged—just for a second.
Barely noticeable.
Except it was noticeable.
I stared for a while.
Tilted my head left. It followed, but slower.
Raised my hand. Same delay.
And the whole time—its eyes never blinked.
I laughed. Shook my head.
Must’ve been my imagination.
Sleep deprivation makes you see things. Makes you feel things.
I shut off the bathroom light and went to bed.
But the next morning, it happened again.
Only this time… longer.
I leaned in toward the mirror.
And my reflection leaned in too far.
Closer than I’d moved.
My breath caught.
I stepped back.
It didn’t.
I slammed the light off and left the room.
Told myself it was just a trick of the eyes.
But that night, brushing my teeth again, I tried something different.
I didn’t move.
I just stared.
And after a few seconds—
It smiled.
I didn’t.
The smile faded when I dropped my toothbrush into the sink.
And then it did something I’ll never forget—
It tapped the glass.
From the other side.
I didn’t sleep that night.
Over the next week, things got worse.
I avoided mirrors as much as I could.
Covered the bathroom one with a towel.
Kept my phone screen dim so I couldn’t see my own face clearly.
But reflections aren’t just in mirrors.
They’re in windows. Puddles. Shopfront glass.
And every time I caught a glimpse—
It was there.
Sometimes it was normal.
Sometimes it wasn’t.
Once, I passed a store window and saw myself standing still while I kept walking.
Another time, my reflection’s mouth moved even though I wasn’t speaking.
I couldn’t hear it, but it looked like it was saying my name.
Then, two weeks in, it stopped trying to mimic me at all.
It just… watched.
Followed me with its eyes.
Like it was waiting for something.
The dreams started next.
In one, I was standing in front of a mirror, and the reflection reached through the glass.
Its hands were ice cold.
It pulled me forward until my face was against the surface, breath fogging the glass.
And then—swap.
I was on the other side.
I woke up gasping, clawing at my bedsheets.
And for a split second—I swear the mirror across the room had me in it.
Still sleeping.
By the third week, I’d stopped going out at night.
Windows at night are the worst—black glass with just enough reflection to see something standing behind you.
And my reflection had started… changing.
Not just delayed. Not just watching.
But different.
Hair slightly longer. Skin paler.
Eyes darker.
And it had started smiling again.
Not a nice smile.
Too many teeth.
One night, the bathroom light flickered while I was washing my hands.
I looked up—just for a second.
And my reflection’s hands were covered in blood.
Mine were clean.
I stumbled back. The light steadied.
The reflection looked normal again.
But I couldn’t shake the thought—
What if that was me in a week? A month?
I started researching.
Old folklore about mirrors as portals.
Stories about “mirror folk” waiting to replace their originals.
Accounts of people who swore their reflections moved wrong before they vanished.
Most of the endings weren’t happy.
I tried smashing the mirror.
It worked—kind of.
The glass shattered, but in every shard, the reflection was still there.
And in the largest piece, it was closer.
That night, I covered every reflective surface in my apartment.
Blankets, cardboard, tape.
Even the shiny handles on my dresser.
It didn’t help.
The first sign it could move without the glass came at 3:14 a.m.
I woke to the sound of tapping.
Not on a window.
On the inside of my closet door.
Three taps. Pause. Three taps.
I stayed frozen, heart in my throat.
Then I heard it.
My own voice.
Whispering.
“Let me in.”
By morning, the closet door was slightly ajar.
I didn’t look inside.
The next few days blurred together.
Every sound felt wrong.
Every shadow seemed longer.
Every time I blinked, I half-expected to open my eyes and be staring from the other side of the glass.
And then came the night it finally stepped out.
I was in the kitchen, lights dim, pouring water.
The glass in my cabinet door reflected me—except it didn’t.
The reflection was behind me.
Closer.
Its hand rested on my shoulder in the glass.
I felt nothing—at first.
Then—cold.
So cold it burned.
I dropped the cup.
Water splashed across the floor.
When I turned, the kitchen was empty.
But the reflection in the glass stayed.
It wasn’t smiling anymore.
It looked… disappointed.
Like I’d ruined something.
The tapping hasn’t stopped since.
I hear it from under the bed.
From behind the bathroom mirror.
From the dark TV screen when it’s off.
And sometimes—when I’m not looking—things in the reflection move on their own.
I don’t know how long I have.
Maybe until the next time I see it too close.
Maybe until I finally blink too long.
But I can feel it now.
Not just watching.
Waiting.
It wants out.
And one night soon—
It’s going to take my place.
Under the Bed
The first sound was small.
Barely there.
A faint creak, like the sound an old house makes when it exhales.
But I woke instantly.
I don’t know why.
Maybe it was the kind of noise that doesn’t just hit your ears—it hits your spine.
It was 2:17 a.m.
The house was quiet, except for that creak.
And then…
“Mom?”
Soft.
Uncertain.
From down the hall.
I was already halfway out of bed before I realized something was wrong.
Not the voice. The way it sounded.
Breathy. Close to the floor.
“Mom…?”
Again.
This time sharper, more urgent.
I moved fast, bare feet whispering over the carpet.
The nightlight in the hallway threw long, crooked shadows.
Our house was old. Drafty. Every step seemed to echo.
My son’s room was at the end of the hall.
The door was open just a crack.
Through it, I could see his bed.
The covers were pulled up to his chin.
His eyes were wide.
Relief, for a second.
Until I noticed something else.
He wasn’t looking at me.
He was looking… over me.
Past me.
I stepped inside.
“Hey, bud. Bad dream?”
His mouth opened. Closed.
He shook his head.
And then—barely a whisper—
“Mom… there’s someone on top.”
I frowned. “On top?”
His eyes darted upward, toward the ceiling.
No. Not the ceiling. The bed.
“On top of the bed?” I asked.
His breathing was fast now.
“No. On top pretending to be me.”
Every hair on my arms rose.
I turned slowly, eyes flicking to the bed.
And that’s when I saw it.
The shape under the blanket was perfect.
Perfectly still.
Perfectly shaped like my son.
Lying exactly where he always did.
Except… my son was under the bed.
I froze.
My mind scrambled for something—anything—logical.
Pillows. A trick of the light. My tired brain making things up.
But pillows don’t breathe.
The rise and fall was slow. Too slow.
Deliberate.
Like whoever—or whatever—was under that blanket wanted me to notice.
My son’s small hand gripped my ankle.
“Don’t let it see me,” he whispered.
The shape shifted.
Not much—just enough for the blanket to pull tight against its face.
That’s when I realized the mouth was open.
Too wide.
And the smile wasn’t my son’s.
“Hey…”
The voice was wrong.
It sounded like my son, but… off.
Like someone remembering the idea of how his voice should sound.
“Come here, Mom.”
I stepped back.
My heel pressed into the floorboard just above my son’s head under the bed.
He squeezed my ankle hard.
“Don’t talk to it,” he whispered.
The shape sat up.
Slowly.
Every vertebra seemed to pop beneath the blanket.
It tilted its head.
And even with the fabric in the way, I could tell—
It was still smiling.
I forced myself to stay calm.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The thing didn’t answer.
It just… shifted.
One leg slid over the side of the bed.
Then the other.
Its feet hit the floor with a dull thunk.
It stood.
The blanket slid off.
And there it was.
My son.
Exactly my son.
Same hair. Same pajamas.
Same small scar on the chin from where he fell off his bike.
But the eyes…
The eyes were too dark.
“Mom…”
The real one whimpered under the bed.
The fake one smiled wider.
I backed toward the door, pulling my real son with me by the wrist.
The fake one didn’t move at first.
It just watched.
Like it was deciding something.
And then—it stepped forward.
The movement was wrong.
Like its knees bent just a little too far.
Like its feet didn’t make enough sound.
I yanked my son into the hallway and slammed the door.
A second later, the doorknob turned.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
I shoved a chair under the handle.
The knob rattled once.
Then again.
And then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three times.
Pausing between each.
“Mom.”
The voice was sweeter now.
“Let me out. Please. It’s me.”
My son clung to me, shaking his head so hard I thought his neck would snap.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
We stayed like that for hours.
Eventually, the knocking stopped.
The voice stopped.
The house went quiet again.
When I finally opened the door the next morning, the room was empty.
The blanket was neatly folded at the foot of the bed.
And on the pillow—
A single dark hair that wasn’t my son’s.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
Neither did he.
We kept every light in the house on.
And I shoved towels under every bed.
Because now…
I know there’s more than one way for something to come into your house.
And sometimes—
It’s already here.
The Last Passenger
It was the last run of the night.
Almost midnight.
The city had that weird, hollow quiet it gets after a long rain.
The streets looked empty but not… safe-empty.
More like every shadow had a heartbeat.
The bus rattled and hummed beneath me, the familiar vibrations running up through the seat into my spine.
I’d been driving this route for twelve years.
Seen everything.
Drunks. Lost tourists. Kids trying to ride without paying.
But nights like this?
Nights where the streetlamps seemed farther apart than they should be?
They still got under my skin.
The wipers squealed across the glass.
Smearing the mist more than clearing it.
The road ahead looked thin, almost two-dimensional, like a photo someone forgot to finish developing.
I was counting stops in my head.
Three more and I’d be back at the depot.
Hot shower. Cheap beer. Collapse.
That was the plan.
That’s when I saw him.
Just a flicker in the rearview mirror at first.
Back row.
A man—broad-shouldered, head slightly turned toward the window.
I frowned.
I didn’t remember anyone getting on at the last stop.
But sometimes they slip in without you noticing.
Especially at night.
I took my eyes off the mirror.
Kept them on the road.
The streetlights buzzed past like lazy fireflies.
Two stops later, I glanced again.
He hadn’t moved.
Same exact posture.
“Last stop’s in a few minutes,” I called back.
Nothing.
Not a grunt.
Not even a shift of weight.
The kind of stillness that isn’t normal.
Like he wasn’t listening.
Or wasn’t… really there.
My throat felt dry.
I drove on, but the mirror kept tugging at my eyes.
It’s like when you hear something behind you on an empty street—your brain won’t let it go.
I checked again.
Gone.
A chill slid down my back.
I didn’t hear him move.
Didn’t feel the bus rock from footsteps.
I looked down the aisle.
Empty.
Just rows of cracked blue vinyl seats, dark stains from years of raincoats and spilled coffee.
I let out a slow breath.
“Long shift,” I muttered.
When I looked back at the road, the traffic light ahead turned red.
The bus eased to a stop.
The rain had picked up again, steady but soft—like fingertips drumming on the roof.
Then I checked the mirror one more time.
He was there again.
Back row.
Exactly the same position as before.
My skin went tight.
Like the air inside the bus had turned sharp.
“Sir,” I said, louder now, “back seats are closed after eleven. You’ll need to move forward.”
No reaction.
No blink.
No nothing.
I gripped the wheel until my wrists hurt.
We hit a pothole.
The bus jolted hard.
And in the mirror, I saw his head turn toward me.
Not fast.
Not natural.
Just… wrong.
Like something learning how humans move.
And his face—
It didn’t have one.
No eyes.
No nose.
No mouth.
Just smooth, pale skin stretched too tight over bone.
I slammed the brakes.
The bus hissed and groaned to a stop.
I whipped around in my seat.
Empty.
The last row was just vinyl and graffiti scratches.
No one there.
I stared for too long.
Long enough for the traffic light to change twice.
Finally, I shifted back into gear.
“Get it together,” I whispered.
The rain drummed harder on the roof now.
A rhythm I didn’t recognize.
Like someone tapping deliberately.
Then I heard breathing.
Slow. Deep.
Coming from the back.
I didn’t turn.
Couldn’t.
Instead, I checked the mirror.
He was closer now.
Two rows nearer.
Same blank face turned in my direction.
I felt my stomach knot.
Every instinct screamed don’t look away.
“Almost at the end of the line,” I said, my voice cracking just a little.
Still no answer.
I passed the second-to-last stop without slowing.
No one was getting on this bus tonight.
The depot lights came into view, dim and yellow through the rain.
A final safe place.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
One last glance in the mirror.
He was standing now.
In the aisle.
His head tilted at that strange angle again.
Like he was listening to something I couldn’t hear.
I pushed the bus faster.
Too fast for wet streets.
Didn’t care.
We pulled into the depot.
I didn’t bother parking straight.
Engine off.
Keys out.
I turned around.
Empty.
I laughed once—short, breathless.
Told myself it was nothing.
Fatigue. Shadows. Bad lighting.
Then I stepped off the bus.
The rain was cold and heavy.
It soaked me instantly.
That’s when I saw them.
Wet footprints.
On the pavement under the rear exit.
Bare. Human-shaped.
Leading away into the dark.
And the rain…
Wasn’t washing them away.
I followed them with my eyes until they disappeared into the shadows at the edge of the lot.
The air felt heavier there.
Like it was waiting.
I didn’t follow.
But I knew—deep down—that if I’d kept driving past the depot…
He wouldn’t have stopped moving forward.
And eventually,
He would’ve reached me.
The Phone Call
It was one of those nights where the silence feels too big.
No TV. No music. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of pipes in the walls.
Emma sat curled on the couch, blanket wrapped around her, a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table.
Rain traced lazy paths down the windows, distorting the city lights into smudges of yellow and white.
She liked nights like this.
Most of the time.
The kind where you could hear yourself think.
Her phone buzzed.
Face down on the table, screen lighting up the room for a second.
She didn’t bother looking at first—probably spam.
Then it buzzed again.
And again.
She reached over lazily, picked it up, and froze.
Incoming Call: Her Own Number.
At first, her brain tried to find a normal answer.
A glitch.
A scammer spoofing her caller ID.
Weird, but not supernatural-weird.
Still… something about seeing her own number glowing in the dark living room felt wrong.
Like catching your reflection blink when you haven’t.
She hesitated.
Then answered.
At first, nothing.
Just a faint hiss of static.
Then—
A scream.
Sharp. Raw.
Not the kind of scream people make as a joke.
It was full of panic, pain, something primal.
Her stomach clenched.
Because she knew that voice.
It was hers.
“Hello?” she whispered.
The screaming stopped.
Breathing took its place.
Slow. Shaky.
Like someone was trying not to cry.
“Who is this?” she demanded, her voice breaking just a little.
The breathing sped up.
Then, in a voice so low she barely caught it—
“Get out.”
The call ended.
Emma sat there, phone still to her ear, pulse pounding in her throat.
Get out.
She looked around her apartment.
Everything was exactly where it should be.
The locked front door.
The shadows on the walls, familiar from years of living here.
She told herself it was a prank.
Someone using a voice clip.
But she didn’t remember ever recording herself screaming.
She set the phone down.
Pulled the blanket tighter.
Tried to shake it off.
Then the phone buzzed again.
Same number.
Her number.
This time she didn’t want to answer.
Her thumb hovered over Decline.
It stopped ringing before she made a choice.
Almost instantly, it buzzed again.
Emma’s breath came shallow now.
The rain outside had picked up, harder, more insistent, like it was trying to get in.
She answered.
More static.
Then… silence.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
She was about to hang up when she heard something faint.
A voice.
Muffled.
Like it was coming from far away—or through walls.
It was her again.
Her own voice.
“Emma…”
It was shaky.
Terrified.
She swallowed.
“Who are you?”
The voice didn’t answer.
Instead, she heard a door creak.
Not through the phone—
Behind her.
She whipped around.
The apartment was empty.
Or… it looked empty.
The phone slipped in her hand as her palms went slick.
She didn’t even remember moving, but now she was standing.
The call ended again.
She stood there in the middle of the living room, listening.
The rain.
The fridge.
Her own breathing.
Then her phone buzzed one more time.
She almost dropped it.
Her number again.
Her thumb shook as she hit Answer.
This time, the voice was urgent.
“Don’t go to the bedroom.”
Her skin prickled.
She glanced toward the hallway.
Dark.
Silent.
“Why?” she whispered.
On the other end, she heard her own voice… crying.
“Because I’m still in there.”
The line went dead.
Her heart hammered.
She stared at the hallway for a long time.
She wasn’t sure what was worse—going to check, or staying right here and waiting.
Then she saw it.
At the end of the hall.
A shape.
Standing in the dark.
Her shape.
It didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Just stood there.
The phone slipped from her hand.
When it hit the floor, the screen lit up one last time.
Incoming Call: Emma.
Emma didn’t pick it up.
She couldn’t.
The phone kept buzzing on the floor, the glow from the screen casting a faint, sickly light up her bare feet.
The shape in the hallway still hadn’t moved.
Neither had she.
The buzzing stopped.
The shape tilted its head—just slightly, like it was listening to something Emma couldn’t hear.
Then her phone rang again.
She glanced down.
The screen still said: Incoming Call: Emma.
Slowly… her shape began walking toward her.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just steady.
She backed up until her calves hit the couch.
The phone kept ringing.
By the time she thought to move, to run, to do something, the figure was only a few steps away.
It stopped in the middle of the living room.
Close enough now that she could see its face.
Her face.
Except… wrong.
The skin was pale—too pale—like paper left in the sun too long.
The eyes were wide, unblinking.
The lips didn’t move, but her voice still came through.
“Pick it up.”
Emma’s pulse roared in her ears.
Her knees felt like they might give out.
But her body moved on its own.
She crouched, grabbed the phone, and lifted it to her ear.
This time, there was no static.
No muffled breathing.
Just her voice.
“I told you not to go to the bedroom,” the voice said.
Emma swallowed.
Her double just stared.
“What do you want?” Emma whispered.
“You let it in.”
Her stomach dropped.
“What?”
“That’s not me.”
Emma’s eyes flicked between the figure and the phone.
The voice on the line trembled.
“I’m still in the bedroom. You need to lock it out. Now.”
The figure’s mouth curled into something too close to a smile.
It started moving again.
Emma bolted.
She dropped the phone and sprinted to the hallway, slammed the bedroom door shut, and twisted the lock.
Her breathing was ragged, shallow.
Through the wood, she heard… nothing.
Not footsteps.
Not breathing.
Just silence.
Then—
A knock.
Soft.
Gentle.
Almost polite.
She stepped back, pressing herself against the far wall.
Another knock.
Then her own voice, from the other side of the door:
“Emma. Let me in. Please.”
She didn’t move.
Didn’t answer.
The voice kept talking, calm and patient.
“You know I’m you. You know I belong in here.”
Her chest tightened.
She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until her lungs burned.
Then the knocking stopped.
And another sound took its place.
Her phone ringing.
From inside the bedroom.
The Smiling Man at the Window
The Smiling Man at the Window
It started the way these things always seem to.
Ordinary night. Ordinary city.
Nothing that should have been special.
Daniel had been up too late again. He told himself it was insomnia, but truth was… he liked it. The quiet hours. The stillness that came after most of the city had shut down.
The streets five floors below looked empty. No pedestrians. No street vendors shouting at nobody. No delivery guys weaving through traffic.
Just still.
The air in his apartment felt heavy. Stale. His fan was busted, so the only breeze was the one sneaking in through the tiny crack in his old window frame.
He sat there on the couch, beer in hand, looking out at the building across the street.
It was a game he’d played before—
Spot the night owls.
See who’s up. What they’re doing. That window glowing with kitchen light—maybe making tea. That one flickering blue—probably some movie.
He’d always liked this game. Felt harmless.
Then he saw him.
The man was standing at his window, fifth floor.
Perfectly aligned with Daniel’s.
Tall. Thin. Short dark hair. But that wasn’t what stuck.
It was the smile.
Too wide.
Too still.
Like a photograph someone had glued onto his face.
Daniel stared. Waiting for him to move. To blink.
Nothing.
He thought about waving. Just to break the weirdness. But something about that frozen grin kept him still.
The man didn’t blink. Didn’t shift his weight. Didn’t… do anything.
Daniel told himself he was overthinking. Maybe the guy was zoning out. Maybe he didn’t even see him.
And then—
The hand came up.
A wave.
Slow.
Like each motion was thought about. Measured.
Daniel’s stomach tightened.
He didn’t wave back.
They stayed like that for maybe a full minute. The man’s arm suspended mid-air. The smile unchanged.
Then his head tilted back.
Not sideways. Straight back—like someone had hooked their fingers under his chin and was pulling.
The movement was smooth, wrong.
Daniel’s breath hitched.
The guy’s face seemed… sharper now. Closer. Which made no sense. They were separated by fifty feet of empty air and brick.
Something in Daniel’s gut told him to shut the blinds. Get up. Walk away.
But he didn’t.
He leaned in instead.
Closer to the glass.
The man leaned in too.
Daniel jerked back, his beer sloshing over his hand.
Nope. Not possible. No way.
His phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
“Nice place you have.”
Daniel’s pulse thudded in his ears.
He looked up—
The man was gone.
The window across the street was just… empty.
He laughed nervously. Tried to play it off. Spam text. Creepy coincidence. Maybe the guy had moved away from the glass.
He reached to grab the remote, turn the TV on.
Tap.
He froze.
Another tap.
The sound was coming from behind him.
From the window.
Daniel turned his head slowly.
The smiling man was there.
On the outside of Daniel’s fifth-floor window.
His face pressed against the glass. Teeth bared in that same unnatural grin. His breath fogged the pane in quick bursts, too quick—like he was… excited.
Daniel stumbled backward, tripping over the coffee table. Beer bottle shattering.
The man didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
Daniel’s phone buzzed again.
Another text from the same number.
“Let me in.”
He bolted to the kitchen, yanking open drawers. Nothing useful. No weapon. His hands were shaking so badly he nearly dropped his phone.
Another buzz.
“It’s cold out here.”
He forced himself to look back.
The man was gone.
Daniel ran to the window, fumbling with the blinds, yanking them shut. He stepped away, chest heaving.
Okay. Okay. He could call someone. Cops. Building security.
His phone buzzed again.
“Behind you.”
Daniel spun around—
Empty.
He laughed. But it wasn’t a normal laugh. More like a gasp wrapped in a chuckle. The kind of sound you make when your brain is scrambling for any explanation but the one in front of you.
He locked the front door. Bolted it. Checked the chain.
Then checked again.
For a while, nothing happened.
No tapping. No buzzing. Just the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his head.
He told himself to sleep. Crawl into bed. Forget it happened.
And eventually, he did lie down.
Sometime in the night, he woke up to the sound of his phone vibrating.
The screen lit up the dark room.
Unknown number. Calling.
He answered without thinking.
The sound on the other end was faint. Breath.
And then—
“Look outside.”
Daniel sat up slowly. His bedroom window faced the same building.
Through the thin gap in the blinds, he could see it.
That smile.
But this time, the man was inside Daniel’s apartment.
He dropped the phone. Scrambled backward until his shoulders hit the wall.
The man didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept smiling.
And then—he waved.
Slow.
Measured.
The next thing Daniel remembered was the sun coming through his blinds.
The man was gone.
The window was locked.
His phone sat on the floor, screen cracked. No missed calls. No messages.
But on the glass of the window—
A single handprint.
Too big to be his.
My First Time Was a Basement
I was twelve. My cousin’s idea, not mine. “Let’s read a ghost story in the basement,” he said.
Like that was normal.
The “basement” was really a half-finished cellar with concrete floors, peeling paint, and a single dangling bulb. We lit two candles and sat cross-legged on an old blanket.
Halfway through the story—some old haunted house thing—we heard scratching. Just faint, like fingernails against drywall.
We froze.
I remember feeling my chest go tight, my ears straining so hard it hurt. My cousin’s eyes darted toward the shadows.
It was a branch, brushing against the outside wall. I know that now. But in that moment? It was real.
That was the first time I understood—stories and darkness are co-conspirators.
This Isn’t Just a Kid Thing
Let’s drop the idea that horror is for teenagers at camp or sleepovers.
I’ve sat at tables with CEOs, nurses, retired cops, and watched them lean in like wide-eyed kids when someone starts a spooky tale.
Because fear isn’t childish—it’s primal.
The unknown? That’s baked into our DNA. It’s the same thing that kept ancient humans alive when they heard something moving in the dark outside their caves.
We never grow out of it. We just get better at pretending.
The Setup Matters More Than You Think
If you’re going to read a scary story to read in the dark, don’t just… do it.
Set the scene.
- Lighting: No bright lamps. Go with a candle, flashlight, or camp lantern. Bonus points if it flickers.
- Seating: The closer, the better. Big empty rooms kill the tension. Huddled together means every jump or gasp is shared.
- Sound: No background TV. No playlist unless it’s subtle ambient sound. Silence is your friend.
- Props: If you’re extra, toss in a creaky rocking chair, a ticking clock, or an old blanket that smells faintly of cedar.
How You Read Changes Everything
Flat, fast reading will kill a scary story faster than a bad ending.
Draw it out. Let your voice drop to almost a whisper in the tense moments. Pause mid-sentence like you heard something. Draw out a single word just long enough to make people uncomfortable.
And for the love of all things eerie—make eye contact now and then. Even if you’re reading from a page. Especially then.
Why We Like Being Scared… But Safely
It’s weird, right? We avoid real danger, but we pay for haunted houses, horror movies, and creepy books.
That’s because in fiction, fear is controlled. Your heart races, your palms sweat—but deep down, you know you can walk away.
It’s a thrill without the threat. A rollercoaster for the mind.
Reading a scary story to read in the dark gives you that rush while wrapped in a blanket or surrounded by friends. And that contrast—the comfort and the fear—makes the scare even sweeter.
Light vs. Darkness
Take the same story. Read it in a café at 1 p.m. while sipping an iced latte.
Fun, maybe even chilling.
Now read it in a cabin at midnight. A single candle flickering. Wind rattling the window. The floor creaks in the next room.
You’ll notice details you missed before.
The words will feel sharper.
The silence between them will feel heavier.
That’s the power of context.
Fear Loves Company
Alone scares are good. But with a group? Magic.
Because fear spreads.
One person gasps, and now everyone’s on edge.
Someone laughs nervously, and it’s almost worse than screaming.
And if anyone swears they saw “something” in the corner? Game over.
I’ve seen grown men pull their knees up like kids because a story’s tension snowballed. And once that happens, even the sound of a spoon clinking in the sink feels sinister.
Paper Over Pixels
Yes, you can read on a phone. But… the glow ruins it.
A screen lights your face, makes you feel safe.
Paper? That’s different. The shadows stay intact. Your flashlight or candle only illuminates the words, leaving the rest of the room waiting.
And there’s something about the soft shhhh of turning a page that fits the mood perfectly.
What Happens After the Story Ends?
Here’s the part people forget—your body doesn’t know the story is over.
You close the book… and now you’re just sitting in the dark.
Your brain starts scanning.
That sound—what was it?
That shadow—has it always been shaped like that?
And why do you suddenly feel like you’re not alone?
A really good scare lingers. It doesn’t ask permission.
Timing Is a Weapon
You wouldn’t read a slow-burn ghost story in the middle of a party. And you probably wouldn’t read a gory shocker right before trying to sleep in a tent miles from anywhere.
Pick your moment. Midnight in a quiet house is perfect for subtle, eerie tales. Early evening by the fire might be better for high-drama horrors that get people shouting.
The Ones That Stay With You
The best scary stories don’t fade when you close the book. They creep back in when you least expect it.
You’re walking to your car alone at night.
You’re in the shower and think you hear the door open.
You wake at 3:17 AM for no reason.
And suddenly, that one scene you read in the dark is back, sharp and clear as if you’re still there.
My Five Golden Rules for Maximum Scare
- Pick the right story. Atmosphere matters more than shock value.
- Go slow. Let tension breathe. Silence is part of the story.
- Control the light. Darkness is half the effect.
- Watch your audience. If they’re leaning in, you’re winning.
- End with impact. No weak fade-outs—land the last line like a punch.
Fear as a Bond
Scary stories in the dark are more than entertainment. They’re a shared adrenaline rush.
A bonding moment disguised as a ghost tale.
When everyone jumps at the same time, when the silence after the last sentence feels heavy, when you all glance at each other like “Did that just…?”—that’s a memory that sticks.
We tell these stories for the same reason humans have told them for centuries around campfires and hearths—because fear, in small doses, brings us closer.
The Final Truth
A scary story to read in the dark isn’t just about the story.
It’s about the dark.
The people you’re with.
The air in the room.
The way your voice drops or your eyes flicker toward the corner like you just noticed something.
It’s about letting your audience’s imagination fill in the gaps. And trust me—what they imagine will always be worse than what’s on the page.
Because when the lights are off, and the last sentence hangs in the air, and nobody moves for a long, long second… that’s when the real story starts.
