There’s something fun about a little shiver—just enough to make you sit up in bed and listen closer to the creaks in your room. Short scary stories do that: they’re quick, punchy, and leave plenty to your imagination. Perfect for bedtime when you want one last thrill, for a sleepover when the lights go out, or for snuggling under a blanket with your tablet or phone.
In this article, you’ll find a handful of brand-new spooky tales written just for kids—and you can read every one of them online for free. You might tiptoe through a moonlit backyard, peek into an empty attic, or follow strange footprints down a dark hallway. Each story is just long enough to give you goosebumps, but short enough that you can finish it before your eyelids get too heavy.
Ready to feel a playful fright? Grab your favorite blanket, maybe turn on a small lamp or your flashlight, and dive into these tales—if you dare!
Short Scary Stories for Kids to Read Online Free
Looking for a fun little scare that won’t keep you up all night? These short, spooky stories are perfect for kids who love a quick thrill—and the best part? You can read them all online for free, anytime you’re feeling brave!
1. The Shadow in the Locker
No one used locker 117.
It sat at the very end of the hallway near the janitor’s closet, where the lights always flickered and the floor smelled faintly of old mop water. It was the only locker that looked different—dented on one side, the metal scratched like something had tried to claw its way out. And it was always locked.
Always.
Ella had walked past it a hundred times since starting fifth grade at Lincoln Elementary. Her friend Jake once dared her to knock on it. She did. Three slow knocks. Nothing happened… but the air around her hand felt cold for a second. She’d laughed it off, but the truth was, she never forgot that feeling.
Then one rainy Tuesday, everything changed.
Ella got to school early after missing the bus and had to walk in soaked shoes. She headed to her locker, number 114, dragging her backpack behind her. As she passed 117, she stopped.
The lock was gone.
She blinked. Locker 117 had been sealed with a heavy combo lock for years. Now it hung slightly open, the door just a crack ajar. Ella looked around—no one else in the hallway.
Something told her to keep walking. But something else—the same something that made her read scary books and stay up for thunderstorms—whispered, Look inside.
She reached out.
The cold hit first—like touching the inside of a freezer. She pulled the door open slowly. There was nothing inside. Just shadows and an odd smell, like old paper and dust.
And then… a sound.
It came from inside the locker. A soft whisper, so faint she almost thought she imagined it.
“Ella.”
She jerked back. “Who’s there?”
Silence.
She slammed the locker shut and ran to class.
The rest of the day was a blur. Math felt like it took years. At lunch, her fries tasted like cardboard. She didn’t tell anyone what happened. Who would believe her? A locker whispered her name?
By the time the final bell rang, she’d almost convinced herself she made it up.
Until she went back to grab her backpack.
There was a note sticking out of the edge of her locker. Just a small scrap of paper, folded in half.
Her name was written in shaky pencil on the front.
She unfolded it.
You opened it. Now I’m not alone anymore.
Her stomach flipped. Her hands trembled.
She looked toward 117. Still slightly open. Still dark.
That night, she had trouble sleeping. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the darkness behind that locker door.
In the morning, she didn’t want to go to school. But her mom had already packed her lunch and kissed her on the forehead. So she went.
She didn’t go near 117. She avoided it all day.
But the notes didn’t stop.
She found one in her backpack:
I can hear your thoughts.
Another slipped into her pencil case:
You’re the first to hear me in a long, long time.
One was taped inside her math book:
Thank you for waking me up.
Ella started feeling dizzy at school. Tired. Cold.
She tried to tell Jake.
“There’s something wrong with locker 117,” she whispered at recess.
Jake squinted at her. “The haunted one?”
“It’s not haunted,” she said quickly. “It’s… something else. I think I let something out.”
Jake gave her a look, the same one he gave when someone said they saw Bigfoot behind the library. “You okay, Ella?”
She wanted to say yes.
But then she saw the shadow.
It moved along the lockers like spilled ink—sliding low and slow. Not cast by a person. Not cast by anything at all. She blinked, and it was gone.
On Friday, she stayed after school. She didn’t know why. Something inside her told her it was time to go back.
The halls were quiet. The sky outside had gone gray, and thunder rolled in the distance.
Locker 117 was wide open now.
Not a crack. All the way open.
Inside was still dark, but not empty. There was something there.
It looked like a shape, made of shadow, curled small and still. As if it had been trapped a long time and hadn’t finished waking up.
She stepped closer.
The thing inside lifted its head.
It had no face, no eyes—but she felt it looking at her.
“Why me?” she whispered.
The answer came not in words, but a feeling.
You heard me.
It reached out, its arm long and thin like smoke. She stumbled back, but it didn’t follow.
“I don’t want this!” she said.
The shadow paused, and then a low whisper filled the hall.
Then lock the door.
She understood.
Shaking, she picked up the lock that lay on the floor nearby. Her hands fumbled as she clipped it back through the latch on 117. She spun the numbers.
Click.
Silence.
The cold disappeared.
The hallway lights flickered… and then stayed steady.
Ella stood there for a moment, breathing hard. Then she walked away. The locker didn’t move. No notes followed her home.
That was three months ago.
Locker 117 is locked again.
Ella passes it every day, and now she keeps walking. She doesn’t knock. She doesn’t peek.
But every now and then, she feels that chill again. Just for a second.
And once, in her backpack, she found a scrap of paper.
Thank you for listening.
2. The Whispering Tree
In the center of Maple Park stood a tall, twisted oak tree. Its branches curled like reaching fingers, and its bark was darker than any other tree in the park. People called it “the Whispering Tree,” but no one really knew why.
Well, no one except maybe the kids who had dared to stand beneath it at sunset.
They said if you did, the tree would whisper your name.
Most thought it was just a story—something older kids made up to scare the little ones. But Mason wanted to find out for himself. He wasn’t afraid of stories. He liked finding out the truth.
And this summer, he had nothing better to do.
It started one lazy afternoon. Mason rode his bike to Maple Park, his backpack full of snacks and comics. He didn’t think about the tree until he rode past it.
It looked different today. Almost… taller. The wind blew through its branches even though the air was still. The leaves rustled like someone softly sighing.
He stopped.
Maybe the rumors were true.
He waited until evening. The sun dipped low in the sky, painting everything orange and gold. The park emptied, kids went home for dinner, and shadows stretched long across the grass.
Mason stood at the base of the tree.
Nothing happened.
He almost laughed. He was about to leave when he heard it.
A soft sound, like someone breathing through a straw.
And then—clear as anything—he heard it:
“Mason.”
He froze. His name had come from inside the tree.
“Who’s there?” he said quickly, spinning around.
No one.
The wind didn’t blow. The air didn’t move.
But the tree whispered again.
“Mason… help… me…”
His heart pounded. His feet itched to run. But curiosity rooted him in place.
“Help you how?” he asked, his voice a little shaky.
There was no answer. Just a single leaf that floated down and landed in front of him. It was deep red, like it had changed seasons early, and on it were small, faint letters:
“Follow the roots.”
Mason came back the next day with a flashlight and gloves. He waited until the park cleared out again. Then he stood beneath the tree and looked for roots.
They were easy to find—thick, knotted things that poked out of the earth like crooked bones. One was especially wide, and it stretched behind the tree toward the woods.
He followed it.
The root led to a hollow spot behind a line of bushes. There, in the dirt, he found something strange.
A tiny wooden door.
It was no bigger than a notebook. Hinges rusted, wood worn and carved with swirls that looked like vines. A tiny handle stuck out from the side.
He looked around.
Then he opened it.
Inside was darkness. And then…
A whisper.
“You found it…”
Mason leaned closer. “Who are you?”
No reply.
Only a cold wind blew out from the door and across his face. It smelled like damp leaves and something else—like an old attic, forgotten and full of secrets.
He shut the door and backed away.
That night, Mason couldn’t sleep. The whispers stayed in his head.
So he did something he rarely did: he told someone.
His cousin Lily.
She was visiting for the weekend, and Mason trusted her. She loved ghost stories and mysteries almost as much as he did.
He told her everything. About the whispers. The red leaf. The tiny door.
She didn’t laugh.
“Sounds like the tree is haunted,” she said. “Or trapped.”
“Trapped?” he asked.
Lily nodded. “Trees can be magical in old stories. Maybe someone’s spirit is stuck in it.”
Mason hadn’t thought of that.
That night, they both went back.
It was just past sunset. The park was nearly empty. The tree stood dark against the sky.
“Say something,” Lily whispered.
Mason stepped close. “We’re here. What do you want?”
For a moment, nothing.
Then, both of them heard it.
“The door… open it again…”
They followed the root. Back to the tiny wooden door.
Mason opened it.
A swirl of cold air rushed out—and something floated up.
A small object, no bigger than a toy: an old silver locket on a thin chain.
Lily picked it up and gasped.
Inside was a picture of a girl. Maybe twelve years old. Black and white. Smiling with wide eyes. On the other side, a name was scratched faintly in cursive:
Clara – 1912
Mason blinked. “That’s over a hundred years ago.”
Lily held the locket tight. “She’s the one in the tree.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
The next day, they went to the local library. In the history room, they found an old newspaper from 1912.
The headline:
“Local Girl Disappears in Maple Park—Search Ends After 3 Days.”
The girl’s name? Clara Morton.
She had gone to the park one evening and never came home.
Her photo in the article matched the one in the locket.
Mason’s heart thudded. “She never left the park…”
“She’s still here,” Lily whispered.
That night, they returned one last time.
Mason stood under the tree, holding the locket.
“We found you,” he said. “We know your name.”
The wind picked up. The tree leaves rustled louder.
Lily stepped beside him. “You’re not alone anymore.”
A sudden gust of wind burst through the branches—and then silence.
The cold disappeared.
The tree stood still.
In Mason’s hand, the locket felt warm.
They buried it beneath the tree. Gently, under the biggest root, with a note that simply read:
“Clara – You are remembered.”
The tree never whispered again.
But every fall, its leaves turned red before any other tree in the park.
And if you stood close enough…
You might still feel a breath of wind brush your ear.
Not a whisper.
Just a thank you.
3. Room 3B Doesn’t Exist
Everyone at Jefferson Middle knew the hallway upstairs only had three classrooms: 3A, 3C, and the science lab.
There was no Room 3B.
Teachers never talked about it. The room numbers skipped from A to C like B had been erased from time itself. A few kids joked that it had vanished. Others whispered that something bad had happened in 3B, and that’s why they sealed it off.
No one really believed it. It was just a weird part of the school layout.
Until one rainy afternoon, Ava saw something strange.
She had forgotten her hoodie in the music room. By the time she ran upstairs to grab it, the halls were empty, and the janitor’s floor buffer echoed somewhere in the distance. As she turned the corner, she passed the space between rooms 3A and 3C.
That’s when she saw it.
A door.
Right between them, where there had only been a blank wall before.
It wasn’t a normal door—it was narrow, old-looking, with peeling paint and a cloudy glass window with a faded sign that read: Room 3B.
Ava blinked. She took a step back, then forward again. Yep. Still there.
The hallway light above it flickered.
She reached out.
The door creaked open with a groan.
It was dark inside. The smell hit first—dust, mold, something old and forgotten. A single desk sat in the center of the room, and on it, a notebook. The walls were bare. The windows were covered by heavy, moth-eaten curtains.
Ava stepped inside.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Just the soft tick of a clock she couldn’t see.
She picked up the notebook.
Inside were words written in shaky pencil.
“If you find this, don’t stay long. It’s watching.”
Ava slammed the notebook shut and ran.
The next morning, she told her best friend Leo.
“There’s no 3B,” he said, chewing on his cereal bar. “There never has been.”
“I saw it,” Ava insisted. “I walked in. There was a desk and a notebook and everything.”
Leo raised an eyebrow. “We’ve walked that hallway a hundred times. There’s just a wall.”
“Come after school. I’ll show you.”
At 3:15, they ran up the stairs together.
Room 3A.
Blank wall.
Room 3C.
Leo gave her a look.
“It was here!” Ava cried. “Right between them!”
“Maybe you dreamed it.”
“I didn’t.”
Ava leaned close to the wall. Tapped it.
Solid.
But then—something flickered.
For a second, she saw the door again. The cloudy glass. The faded “3B.”
Leo gasped. “Did you see that?”
And then it was gone.
Just a wall again.
Ava stared. “I told you…”
That night, Ava couldn’t sleep.
She kept thinking about the notebook. About what it said.
It’s watching.
What was “it”?
She didn’t want to go back. But something in her said she had to. Like the room was calling her. Like it needed to be found.
The next day, she and Leo went back with flashlights.
“I saw something in the library,” Leo whispered as they walked. “Old yearbooks. There used to be a Room 3B. Like, years ago.”
“How far back?”
“1974.”
They reached the hallway. The door was there.
They didn’t hesitate.
Ava opened it. The same musty smell filled the air.
This time, more desks had appeared—lined in crooked rows, like an abandoned classroom. Faded papers covered the floor. The chalkboard was smeared with something that looked like words, erased over and over again.
And in the corner, a coat rack.
A jacket still hung on it.
Too new to be from 1974.
Leo’s flashlight flickered. “What kind of room changes every time you come back?”
“A haunted one,” Ava muttered.
She spotted the notebook again—now on a different desk.
She flipped it open.
“You’ve seen too much. It knows you now.”
Suddenly, a thump echoed behind them.
They spun around.
The door was gone.
Vanished.
Just a wall now, where they had entered.
Panic shot through her chest.
“We’re trapped,” Ava whispered.
Leo banged on the wall. “Hey! Someone!”
No reply. Just silence. And the tick of that same hidden clock.
Then a new sound.
Footsteps.
Slow. Creaking.
Coming from the front of the room—where no one stood before.
The air went cold. Their breaths came out in tiny white clouds.
From the far end of the classroom, a figure began to form.
It looked like a teacher—but wrong. Too tall. Face blurred. No eyes. Just shadows where eyes should be.
It raised a long arm and pointed at them.
A voice, not spoken but felt, filled the room.
“Class is not dismissed.”
Ava grabbed Leo’s hand. “Run!”
They dove between desks, toward the chalkboard. The walls rippled, like heatwaves in the summer. The room groaned.
“Where’s the door?” Leo cried.
The notebook flew off the desk, landing open beside Ava.
She read:
“Find the answer. Speak it. That’s the key.”
She looked at the chalkboard.
Faint words were smeared across it. She rubbed away the dust.
One question was still readable:
“What room never opens unless forgotten?”
Ava whispered, “Room 3B.”
The shadow figure paused.
The lights flickered wildly.
She stepped forward and said it again. Louder.
“Room 3B.”
The walls began to twist and spin. The desks blurred. The air whirled around them in a whirlwind of dust and paper and shadow.
And then—
A blinding white flash.
Ava gasped.
She was lying on the hallway floor. Leo beside her.
Room 3A.
Blank wall.
Room 3C.
No sign of a door.
They stood up, shaken.
Leo checked his watch. “It’s only been two minutes.”
“It felt like an hour,” Ava breathed.
They looked at the wall.
Still blank.
Still quiet.
But neither of them ever forgot.
From that day on, Ava noticed something strange.
Every once in a while, when she passed that hallway alone, she’d feel it—that sense of being watched.
And one morning, tucked into her math notebook, was a piece of paper she hadn’t written.
In familiar pencil, it said:
“Room 3B is never gone. Only hidden. Until someone remembers.”
4. The Doll on the Shelf
It started the day Mia moved into her new room.
Her family had just bought an old house on Maple Street, with creaky floors and twisty hallways. Her parents said it had “character.” Mia said it was weird.
The weirdest thing? The shelf.
It was a narrow wooden shelf bolted into the wall above her closet. Too high to reach, too old to move. And sitting right in the middle of it… was a doll.
Not a cute one.
She was stiff, made of porcelain, with pale cheeks and tiny lips that curled into a smile that didn’t look kind. Her eyes were bright blue. Too bright. And she wore a faded red dress and black shoes.
Mia had never seen her before.
“Where’d this come from?” she asked her mom.
Her mom peeked in. “Huh. Maybe the previous owners left it.”
“Can I throw it away?”
“I mean… it’s kind of antique-looking. Just leave it alone for now.”
Mia frowned. She didn’t like the doll. Every time she looked up, it felt like the doll was watching her.
And every night, no matter how she turned her pillow, she could feel those tiny glass eyes staring down.
On the third night, she heard the whisper.
It came just after midnight.
A soft, scratchy voice near her closet: “Play with me…”
Mia sat up fast. Her heart pounded. She stared at the shelf.
The doll hadn’t moved.
But she didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
The next morning, she told her older brother, Noah.
He laughed. “It’s probably in your head.”
“No, it’s not! It whispered to me. I swear.”
“Then get rid of it.”
Mia crossed her arms. “It’s too high. I can’t reach it.”
“I’ll help,” he said.
After school, Noah brought a chair and climbed up to the shelf.
“Creepy little thing,” he muttered. “Okay, say goodbye, freaky doll.”
He reached out—
—and the chair tipped.
Noah fell hard, landing on his back. The doll stayed perfectly still on the shelf.
“Ow,” he groaned. “I didn’t even touch it…”
Mia helped him up, eyes wide.
They looked up.
The doll was now turned slightly… facing directly toward Mia’s bed.
That night, Mia buried herself under the covers.
She told herself it was just a toy. Just porcelain and cloth.
Until 1:13 a.m.
She opened her eyes—and saw the doll.
Not on the shelf.
On her desk.
Sitting neatly, hands folded, head tilted.
Mia screamed.
Her parents rushed in. But by the time they turned on the light, the doll was gone.
Back on the shelf.
“Sweetie,” her mom said, “maybe you were dreaming.”
“I WASN’T!” Mia yelled.
Her dad inspected the shelf. “It’s bolted in. No way it moved.”
But Mia knew. She knew.
Something was wrong with that doll.
The next day, Mia made a plan.
She brought a shoebox and stood on a chair.
Hands shaking, she carefully reached up, grabbed the doll, and shoved it in the box.
She ran outside and dropped it into the trash bin at the curb.
“Good riddance,” she muttered.
That night, she slept peacefully.
Until the next morning.
She opened her eyes and gasped.
The doll was back.
On the shelf.
Wearing the same red dress. Staring straight at her.
“Nope,” Mia said. “Nope, nope, nope.”
She marched outside, checked the trash. Empty.
Garbage had already been collected.
She hadn’t imagined it.
The doll had returned.
That afternoon, she told her grandmother, who was visiting for dinner.
Her grandmother frowned.
“Did the doll say anything to you?” she asked.
Mia nodded. “It whispered, ‘Play with me.’”
Her grandmother’s face went pale.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small necklace with a silver charm.
“Keep this with you,” she said. “It’s a protection charm. Old stories say dolls can be… vessels. Especially when they’re left behind.”
“Vessels?”
“Things can live in them. Sometimes lonely things. Sad things. Sometimes worse.”
Mia didn’t want to ask what worse meant.
That night, she wore the necklace to bed.
1:13 a.m.
A faint creak.
Mia sat up.
The doll was not on the shelf.
She heard something scuttle across the floor.
She grabbed her flashlight.
There—near her closet.
Tiny porcelain feet.
Then the whisper: “Why won’t you play with me?”
The doll turned its head.
Its smile had widened.
Mia shouted, “NO!”
She held up the charm.
The doll shrieked—not loud, but like the sound of glass cracking.
It scrambled toward the wall—and vanished.
The next morning, the shelf was empty.
Totally empty.
The doll never came back.
Mia kept the charm by her bed.
Just in case.
But sometimes, late at night, when the wind rustled the trees outside, she could swear she still heard it…
A tiny voice in the shadows, asking softly—
“Play with me…”
5. The Light Under the Lake
Every summer, Silverpine Lake was the place to be. Kids splashed in the cool water, families picnicked on the shore, and the sun painted the ripples gold. But Leo never swam. He was more curious than brave, and that summer, he noticed something no one else did.
It started the day he turned twelve.
Leo’s parents had rented a small cabin by the lake. On the first morning, Leo paddled a little inflatable raft out from shore, just far enough to feel the water sway beneath him. He leaned over the side, peered into the clear depths… and saw a soft blue glow.
He jerked back as if stung. The light vanished.
Shrugging it off, Leo swam back to shore. He told no one about it. Who would believe a light flickering underwater? His friends only cared about diving contests and racing boats.
That night, Leo lay on his back in the tall grass, staring at the stars. The lake was a dark mirror, blending into the sky. A gentle breeze rippled the surface.
Just then—plop—a dart of light beneath him. He sat up.
The water pulsed again, like someone tapping on the bottom of his raft. Too bright to be a firefly. Too deep to be a fish.
Leo shivered. His heart thumped. He leaned closer and whispered, “Hello?”
The light blinked twice.
Leo scrambled back onto his raft, paddled hard to shore, and didn’t sleep a wink.
The next day, he told his cousin Ava, who was staying with them for the week.
“I saw a light under the lake last night,” he said, poking at the sand.
Ava tossed him a pebble. “Sure you’re not imagining things?”
“I’m not.” He had a plan. “Meet me tonight.”
Ava rolled her eyes but agreed. She was a bit braver than Leo—at least when she had someone to watch her back.
At dusk, they met by the old dock. Rain clouds drifted in, turning the sky slate gray. The other kids had gone home for dinner; the deserted shore was quiet.
Leo pulled the raft into the water. Ava climbed in, flashlight in hand.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked, voice low.
“As sure as I can be.”
They drifted to where Leo saw the light. He held the flashlight near the water but kept it off. They waited.
Minutes passed. The lake lay still.
Then—blip—a faint glow pulse, deep below.
“There it is,” Leo whispered. He lifted the paddle and dipped it into the water, stroking toward the light.
Ava’s flashlight swept the surface. Nothing but dark waves.
They drifted closer. Leo held his breath.
Suddenly, a shape emerged beneath the raft—a swirl of blue, like a lantern turned upside down. It floated upward slowly, illuminating faces beneath them.
It was a creature.
Not a fish. Not a rock. It had a body like a jellyfish but with spindly arms that waved. In the center glowed a round, soft core—like an eye.
Ava gasped. “Leo…”
The creature drifted to the surface and hovered just below the raft. The light brightened, and Leo felt a tingle in his fingertips, as if the lake itself was calling him.
He leaned over, curious.
Ava grabbed his arm. “Don’t!”
But it was too late.
The creature’s glow flared. Water sloshed over the raft’s edge. Leo felt himself slipping.
He grabbed at the side and yelled, “Ava!”
The next thing he knew, he was coughing on the shore, wrapped in a towel. Ava sat beside him, her flashlight dropped in the grass.
“You okay?” she asked.
Leo sat up, water dripping from his hair. “Yeah.”
He looked at the lake. The surface was smooth again. No glow, no creature.
Ava helped him to his feet. “That was… weird.”
Leo shivered. “I want to know what it was.”
“I want breakfast,” Ava said firmly. “Come on.”
Over waffles and syrup, they searched the internet on Leo’s phone. “Glowing lake creature” turned up nothing. “Blue light under water” only gave stories about bioluminescent algae in tropical seas—nothing like Silverpine.
Leo felt frustrated. If no one had heard of it, did it even exist?
That night, he dreamed of the creature. It spoke without words, filling his mind like warm water. Find me. Then a single word: Cove.
He woke with a start.
He hadn’t explored the far side of the lake, where trees grew thick and the shore curved into a hidden inlet—Cove.
At dawn, he and Ava packed sandwiches and flashlights. They hiked around to the cove’s mouth, branches scratching their arms. The water here was darker, colder. Fewer people came.
Leo’s heart thumped as they waded in.
“This is it,” he whispered, pointing to a half-submerged rock. The water around it glowed faintly blue.
Ava squinted. “Looks like the same light.”
They paddled out on the raft, matching the rock’s edge. Leo peered down into the deep.
“Hello?” he called softly.
The glow pulsed in response. Then the creature emerged again, its arms waving. It drifted toward them.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” Leo said, voice trembling. “I want to help.”
The glow brightened. The creature moved closer, almost touching the raft’s bottom.
Leo leaned over the side, heart pounding. “What do you need?”
The water rippled. In the creature’s glow, he saw something glinting on the lakebed—a small box, crusted with algae and weeds.
The creature pointed with a thin arm, then drifted back.
Ava peered down. “Is that a trunk?”
Leo nodded. He tied the raft to a tree root, slipped on goggles, and dove in.
Underwater was colder than he expected. He held his breath and swam toward the box. The glow from above guided him. He reached out and grabbed the corner—heavy.
He kicked back toward the surface. When he broke through, he gasped for air, box clutched tightly.
Ava pulled him onto the raft. “What is it?”
Leo pried open the lid. Inside was a tarnished silver locket shaped like a drop of water. Engraved on the front: Forever Ours—M & L, 1925.
He opened it. Inside was a faded photograph of two children—one girl, one boy—standing by the same lake, smiling. A tiny inscription on the back read: Promise kept.
The creature glowed brightly, then drifted down and vanished into the depths.
Leo held the locket up. “Promise kept,” he whispered.
They walked back to shore and showed the locket to Leo’s parents. His mom gasped.
“This belonged to my grandparents,” she said. “Their initials were M and L—Marjorie and Leonard. They were childhood sweethearts who promised to meet here one day. But war came, and Leonard never returned. Marjorie kept this locket and visited the lake every summer, hoping he’d come back.”
She swallowed hard. “She… passed away last fall.”
Leo’s eyes filled. “Do you think the creature was their promise?”
His mom nodded. “Maybe it was their love, or the spirit of the lake, finally honoring the promise.”
That night, Leo slipped the locket around the creature’s favorite rock in the cove, burying it gently under stones.
He never saw the blue glow again.
But every summer, when the sun set at Silverpine Lake, he could have sworn he heard a soft, happy whistle drifting across the water.
6. The Midnight Knock
They said never to open the door after midnight.
It was one of the first things the neighbors told Noah’s family when they moved into the old house on Elmwood Street.
“Strange things happen in this neighborhood sometimes,” Mr. Grady from next door had warned. “If you hear a knock on the door past midnight, don’t answer it. No matter what.”
Noah had laughed about it later with his older sister, Lily. “People always make stuff up about old houses.”
Still, that night, Noah made sure the front door was locked. Just in case.
first knock came three nights later.
Tap-tap-tap.
It was soft. Barely there. Like someone using just their knuckles.
Noah sat up in bed, heart thumping. He looked at the glowing red numbers on his clock.
12:03 a.m.
He waited.
Tap-tap-tap.
This time, a little louder.
He crept out of bed and tiptoed to his window. He could see the front porch from there.
No one was there.
No movement. No shadow.
Just the wind rustling the bushes.
Tap-tap-tap.
The knock came again.
It was definitely the front door.
He hurried to Lily’s room.
“Wake up,” he whispered. “Someone’s knocking.”
She groaned. “It’s probably a raccoon. Go back to bed.”
“No. It sounds real.”
Lily followed him downstairs, yawning.
They stared at the front door.
Silence.
No more knocking.
She shook her head. “Nothing’s there. You imagined it.”
“I didn’t.”
They checked the peephole.
Nothing.
Locked the door again. Went back upstairs.
But Noah didn’t sleep much.
The next night, the knock came again.
12:01 a.m.
Tap-tap-tap.
Three soft knocks.
Then a voice. Faint, right outside the door.
“Let me in…”
Noah bolted upright.
He ran to Lily’s room.
This time, she followed him without arguing.
They both stood at the top of the stairs, staring at the front door.
Tap-tap-tap.
“Let me in…”
Lily grabbed her phone and recorded the sound.
Then suddenly—nothing.
They ran down and opened the door a crack.
The porch was empty.
But on the doormat was a single handprint.
Small. Like a child’s.
Smudged in something dark and wet.
They shut the door fast.
The next day, they showed the recording to their parents.
But the audio was full of static.
No knocking.
No voice.
Just a low hiss, like wind through trees.
“Maybe the house makes weird sounds,” their dad said.
Noah and Lily weren’t convinced.
They looked up local stories online. Most were old rumors—ghost tales, warnings about “midnight visitors,” whispers about a spirit who knocked on doors to find company.
One post said: “If you answer the door three nights in a row, the knocking doesn’t stop. Not ever.”
That night, they stayed up again.
11:59 p.m.
They sat on the stairs, flashlights ready.
12:01 a.m.
Tap-tap-tap.
The knock came again.
Louder.
Then a giggle.
“Let me in… I’m cold.”
Noah felt his blood go cold.
He whispered, “That’s not a normal voice.”
They didn’t move.
But the front door handle began to jiggle.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
Lily reached for the deadbolt.
Locked.
They waited.
A soft breath fogged the glass window in the door from the outside.
No one was there.
The next morning, their mom found muddy footprints on the porch.
Small. Bare.
Like a child’s.
But no one in the neighborhood had young kids.
Lily and Noah made a plan.
They set up a trap—flour sprinkled across the porch, and a phone recording video all night from the front window.
That night, they waited.
Tap-tap-tap.
“Let me in… please…”
Noah clutched his flashlight. Lily whispered, “Stay still.”
The knocking grew louder.
Then stopped.
Suddenly, the back door creaked.
They turned.
Footsteps echoed from the kitchen.
But nothing was there.
Morning came.
The flour on the porch had a single footprint.
Small. Perfect.
But it didn’t walk away.
It just… appeared.
And the video?
Glitched. Static. A burst of black and white lines.
And in one single frame…
A face.
Pale. Eyes dark and wide.
Staring right at the camera.
They showed their parents.
This time, their mom looked worried.
She called Mr. Grady next door.
He came over with a serious face.
“I was hoping it wouldn’t come back,” he said. “It’s been quiet for years.”
“What is it?” Noah asked.
Mr. Grady sighed. “No one really knows. It knocks. Pretends to be someone it’s not. If you let it in…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Just handed them a small silver bell on a string.
“Hang this on the doorknob. It can’t stand the sound. Don’t open the door. No matter what you hear.”
That night, they waited.
Tap-tap-tap.
“Let me in… I lost my doll.”
The voice was higher now. Younger.
But it sounded… off. Like something pretending to sound like a child.
Then came sobbing.
“I’m scared…”
The bell on the doorknob jingled softly.
Then—
A SCREAM.
High and angry, right outside the door.
“LET. ME. IN!”
The house shook.
The bell jingled louder.
Then silence.
They opened the door at sunrise.
No footprints.
No voice.
Just the silver bell swinging gently in the morning breeze.
From that night on, the knocking never returned.
But Noah kept the bell by the door.
Just in case.
Because sometimes, when the wind blows just right, you can still hear it—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
7. The Mirror That Watched
Emma had never liked mirrors.
Not because of how she looked in them—she just always felt like something was… off. Like maybe, just maybe, the reflection was watching her.
When her family moved into a new house, she was relieved that her room didn’t have one. But that changed the day her mom brought home an old mirror from an estate sale.
“It’s antique,” her mom said proudly. “Solid oak frame, and look at that silver backing. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Emma wasn’t so sure.
The mirror was tall and narrow, with strange carvings along the edge—little spirals and shapes that almost looked like eyes. When the light hit it just right, the surface shimmered slightly, like water.
Emma didn’t like it.
At all.
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
Her bed faced the mirror, and even though the room was dark, the glass seemed to hold a faint glow.
She turned it toward the wall.
But when she woke up the next morning…
…it was facing her again.
She asked her mom if she’d moved it.
“No, sweetie. Maybe the floor’s uneven?”
Emma didn’t think so.
The next night, something stranger happened.
She was lying in bed, nearly asleep, when she heard a soft tap.
She opened her eyes.
Nothing.
Tap. Tap.
She turned her head slowly toward the mirror.
It was faint, but she saw it—her reflection blinked.
Only… she didn’t.
She sat up straight.
The reflection was still lying down.
But smiling.
Emma screamed and threw her blanket over the mirror.
Her mom ran in.
“Bad dream?” she asked gently.
Emma just nodded.
She didn’t know how to explain that her own reflection had moved… without her.
The next day at school, she told her best friend, Zoe.
“That’s so creepy,” Zoe said. “Maybe it’s haunted.”
“Mirrors don’t get haunted,” Emma said. “Do they?”
Zoe shrugged. “My grandma used to say mirrors are windows for things that want to pretend.”
Emma didn’t like the sound of that.
That night, Emma taped a blanket over the mirror and pushed a chair in front of it.
She even placed her toy unicorn in front of the chair, just for extra protection.
She fell asleep with the light on.
Around midnight, a loud crack woke her.
She sat up.
The chair was tipped over.
The blanket had been pulled off.
The toy unicorn was lying on the floor… its head turned completely around.
And the mirror?
It was glowing.
Her reflection stood inside it.
But she was smiling in a way Emma never had.
The reflection waved.
Emma didn’t move.
The mirror Emma mouthed something.
Slowly.
“Let me out.”
Emma backed away.
Then the reflection pressed its hands against the glass—leaving smudges shaped like handprints.
Then…
Cracks started to form.
Spider-webbing across the glass.
Emma ran.
The next morning, she begged her mom to get rid of it.
But when they checked…
No cracks. No handprints.
Just a spotless, still mirror.
“I think we should keep it covered, just in case,” her mom said, frowning.
Emma nodded.
But that night, even though the mirror was hidden again…
She dreamed of it.
Of walking through the mirror.
Of being pulled.
Of a voice whispering, “We could switch places.”
She woke up screaming.
Zoe came over after school the next day with an idea.
“My cousin reads tarot cards,” she said. “He thinks if something’s trapped in a mirror, you need to mark the glass with salt and say its name.”
“But I don’t know its name.”
Zoe shrugged. “Maybe try asking it?”
Emma sighed. “That’s a terrible idea.”
But that night, with Zoe by her side, they stood in front of the mirror.
Emma’s hand shook as she pulled the blanket off.
Their reflections stared back at them.
Zoe leaned in. “Ask it.”
Emma took a deep breath.
“What’s your name?”
The mirror fogged up.
A single word appeared in the mist:
“Emme.”
Emma whispered it aloud. “Emme?”
The lights flickered.
The mirror pulsed.
Her reflection—Emme—smiled wider.
Then the glass rippled like water.
Emma staggered back.
Zoe grabbed her arm. “Mark it! Now!”
Emma grabbed the salt and traced a shaky circle on the glass.
“Go back,” she whispered. “You don’t belong here.”
Emme scowled.
Then her face began to blur, melting into a gray mist behind the glass.
The mirror dimmed.
The glow faded.
And their own reflections returned—normal.
Zoe exhaled. “That… was terrifying.”
Emma nodded. “Let’s keep the blanket on. Forever.”
They kept the mirror covered from then on.
And nothing strange happened again.
But every now and then…
When the room is dark…
Emma thinks she sees a faint shape behind the blanket.
Waiting.
And sometimes, when she walks past a different mirror…
Her reflection seems a second too slow.
As if someone inside is still trying…
To come back.
8. The Lost Voice in the Vent
When Kayla moved into the old brick house with the crooked chimney, she thought the creaks and groans were just part of the charm.
“Old houses have character,” her dad said, smiling as he carried in boxes.
But Kayla wasn’t so sure.
Especially when she heard the whisper.
It was her second night in the new room when it happened. Just as she was drifting off to sleep, a soft voice floated through the air vent above her bed.
“Help… me…”
She sat up straight.
Had she imagined it?
She waited. Nothing.
Maybe it was the wind.
The next night, she left her bedside lamp on and stayed awake, listening.
At exactly 11:47 p.m., the voice came again.
“Can anyone hear me?”
It was faint and small—like a kid her age. Maybe younger.
She scrambled off the bed and stood on her desk to peek into the vent. Just darkness.
“Hello?” she whispered.
There was silence.
Then…
“Finally. Someone heard me.”
Kayla’s stomach dropped. “Who are you?”
“I’m Lily. I’ve been stuck here… a long time.”
Kayla’s skin prickled. “In the vent?”
“Sort of. It’s hard to explain. Please don’t tell anyone yet.”
Kayla climbed down slowly. Her legs felt shaky.
Over the next few nights, Kayla and Lily talked through the vent.
Lily’s voice was always soft and sad.
She said she used to live in the house. That something had happened, and now she couldn’t leave.
“Like a ghost?” Kayla whispered.
“Not really. Just lost. Trapped.”
Lily said she’d been waiting for someone to hear her. Someone who might help.
“I don’t know how,” Kayla said.
“There’s a way. But it’s dangerous.”
That didn’t help Kayla sleep at night.
Still, part of her wanted to help. Even if it scared her.
One afternoon after school, Kayla asked her dad about the house.
“Did a girl named Lily ever live here?”
He paused. “Funny you ask. There was a family here before the last owners. They had a little girl—disappeared during a storm. Never found.”
Kayla’s heart thumped. “How long ago?”
“Almost thirty years.”
That night, she stood on the desk and whispered into the vent, “Is your name Lily Meadows?”
Silence.
Then—
“Yes. That was my name.”
Kayla took a deep breath. “How can I help you?”
The voice answered softly.
“You need to go into the crawlspace under the house. There’s a vent hatch. Open it.”
Kayla didn’t want to.
But the sadness in Lily’s voice made it hard to say no.
The next day, Kayla grabbed a flashlight and snuck around the side of the house. The crawlspace was dark and dusty, with cobwebs in every corner.
She found the metal hatch under the vent.
It was sealed with rusted screws.
“Lily, I found it,” she whispered.
“Open it. Please.”
With shaking hands, Kayla loosened the screws and lifted the panel.
Cold air rushed out—freezing cold.
And something else came with it.
A whisper.
A sigh.
A shape.
A flicker of shadow that darted past her and vanished.
She scrambled back outside, heart racing.
That night, the vent was silent.
No Lily.
No voice.
Just the faint sound of wind.
The next day, Kayla felt strange.
Light-headed. Forgetful.
At dinner, she accidentally called her dad “Mr. Thompson”—her teacher’s name.
He looked confused. “You feeling okay?”
“I… I don’t know.”
That night, she stood on her bed and peered into the vent.
“Lily?” she whispered.
No answer.
But her own voice echoed back.
“Lily?”
“Lily?”
Exactly the same.
It didn’t sound like an echo.
It sounded like a copy.
Then—
“Kayla?”
Her own voice. But she hadn’t said it.
It came from the vent.
“I’m still here…”
She froze. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t leave. You let something else out.”
Her skin crawled.
“That wasn’t me.”
Kayla’s dreams that night were full of shadows with teeth.
She woke up gasping—and found her desk chair turned toward the vent.
She hadn’t done that.
The next day at school, people started acting weird around her.
“Why are you talking like that?” her friend Jenna asked. “You sound… different.”
Her teacher said, “You wrote your name as ‘Lily’ on your paper.”
Kayla looked down. She had.
Her hands trembled.
That night, she begged the vent. “Lily, tell me how to fix it.”
The voice answered, but it wasn’t sad anymore.
It was angry.
“Too late. You let it out. And now it wants you.”
She didn’t sleep.
She researched everything she could—about haunted vents, echoes, and trapped spirits.
One post said:
“If you hear your own voice coming from somewhere it shouldn’t… don’t answer. It’s not you. It’s something that wears your voice like a mask.”
Kayla felt sick.
She taped over the vent. Covered it with blankets.
Tried not to listen.
But at 11:47 p.m., every night…
“Kayla… come closer…”
She didn’t.
And slowly, the voice faded.
But it never went away.
Today, the house still stands.
Kayla moved out years ago.
But she never forgot.
And every so often, when the wind is just right, the new family hears something from the vent.
A whisper.
A laugh.
And sometimes, a girl’s voice saying…
“Help me. I’m still here.”
Tips for Enjoying Spooky Stories
Reading scary stories can be a great time—as long as you know what your reader likes! Here are a few easy ways to keep things fun and friendly:
Know what’s “just right”
Some kids love creepy stories. Others like just a little spook. That’s totally fine! Start with something mild and see how it goes.
Read together
Reading with your child makes everything feel safer—and more fun. You can laugh, gasp, and talk about the story as you go.
Bring a “boo buddy”
A favorite stuffed animal, blanket, or flashlight makes everything better during a spooky story. Even the bravest kids like to snuggle up!
End with something happy
After the story, do something cheerful—like watch a funny video, read a silly book, or dance to a happy song. It’s a nice way to end on a smile.
Wrap Up
Now that you’ve had your fill of quick chills and playful frights, remember that the best part of a scary story is the imagination it sparks. Whether you read these tales alone by flashlight or share them with friends at a sleepover, each little scare is a chance to practice your bravery—and giggle a little afterward when you realize it was all in your head.
These stories are just the beginning. Bookmark this page and come back whenever you need a tiny thrill—there are always new adventures waiting in the shadows. And if you ever feel inspired, why not try writing your own spooky tale? You might surprise yourself with how creative (and daring) you can be.
Sweet dreams—and happy haunting!
Mark Richards is the creative mind behind Classica FM, a podcast platform that brings stories, knowledge, and inspiration to listeners of all ages. With a passion for storytelling and a love for diverse topics, he curates engaging content—from kids’ tales to thought-provoking discussions for young adults.
