If you’re craving a quick thrill without diving into a long book or movie, short scary stories are just the ticket. You can read them in minutes—perfect for a late-night chill or a quick break between tasks. Many of these tales borrow from real legends or strange experiences, so they feel all the more unsettling.

Picture this: a lone old farmhouse, footsteps echoing down an empty hallway… or a cold whisper when no one else is around. In just a few lines, you’ll feel the hairs on your neck stand up. No slow builds or drawn-out plots—just a snap of fear that lingers in the back of your mind.

So grab your comfiest blanket, turn off the lights, and let these bite-sized stories sneak up on you. Ready for a scare? Let’s dive in.

Short Scary Stories to Read Online

Looking for a quick scare? These short scary stories are easy to read and perfect for a spooky moment anytime. Just a few minutes and you’ll be hooked if you’re brave enough.

The Dark Room

I wake gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs, as though trying to break free. Darkness presses in on me from all sides. I hear my own ragged breathing. Then—a whisper, soft and urgent—stops my breath altogether.

“Don’t look.”

I freeze. The whisper comes again, in the voice I think I know but can’t quite place. A cold finger grazes the back of my neck. My limbs lock, heavy as granite. My pulse thunders in my ears, as though my skull is a drum.

“Don’t look.”

My hand fumbles for the lamp on the nightstand. Fingers brush its cool metal base. Relief flares; I twist the knob. Light flares—and I regret it immediately.

In the corner of the room, half-shrouded in the shadows cast by the single bulb, stands a figure. It is tall, too tall to be human, its head brushing against the ceiling tile. It wears a long, flowing garment that seems woven from shadows themselves, its edges dissolving into the darkness like smoke. But what grips me—roots me to the bed—is the face. There is none. Just two jet-black pits where eyes should be: vast, bottomless, raven-wing dark. They reflect no light, reveal no soul. They stare at me, unblinking.

I can’t scream. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

The whisper comes from that void: “Don’t look.”

My mind screams to run; my body refuses. The figure remains utterly still, silent now, as though waiting. My skin prickles with awareness of its gaze, though I see only emptiness. I close my eyelids—something I haven’t done since I was a child, when I still believed that if I blinked hard enough, monsters would vanish. But when I open them again, it’s still there.

“Go back to sleep,” it says, voice like a thousand dry leaves scraping across concrete.

The words scratch at my mind, leaving behind a sensation of gritty despair. I want to obey, to crawl under the covers and pretend this is a nightmare I’ll wake from. But something inside me—not courage, but a desperate flicker—asks: Who are you? What do you want?

“Not yet,” it replies. The chill in its voice makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “Soon.”

I swallow. “Why me?”

It tilts its head, as if hearing the question for the first time. “Because you looked.”

I jerk upright. “I—”

“You opened your eyes.”

My mind reels. Of course I did. How else could I know the shape in my room? How else could I know the whisper hadn’t been my madness? But those words chill me through and through: I looked.

Light flickers. The overhead bulb has begun to dim, pulsing like a dying heart. My chest tightens. The room grows colder—an instant Arctic snap that had no warning. My breath fogs in front of me, as though I’m in winter rather than my own bedroom.

“Stay still,” the figure warns. “Breathe slowly.”

I try. Count in my head: one… two… three… but my lungs ache. My eyes water. Why is it telling me to slow down? Why these instructions, as if it cares whether I panic?

“Still,” it repeats. “Very still.”

My body obeys, though every fiber of my being screams to bolt. The figure takes a single step forward. The carpet fibers flatten beneath its foot—but no sound. My ears strain, but I hear only the creak of my own heartbeat.

“Don’t look away,” it whispers.

I dare not. I keep my gaze locked on that void of emptiness, and it somehow feels like staring into oblivion itself. My vision blurs; darkness crowds the edges. The figure raises an arm—long, slender, impossibly pale. Its hand hovers, as though inviting me, beckoning.

“Take my hand,” it says. Its voice is patient, even gentle.

I know the moment I reach forward I will regret it. Everything screams NO. Yet my arm moves, as if puppeted. My fingers brush its skin—or what I think is skin—and a shock runs through me, cold as the grave. My palm presses against its wrist, and I feel… nothing. A numb absence. Then, with a shock, I realize I feel my own blood pounding beneath my fingertips.

“Good,” the figure murmurs. “Keep looking.”

My head swims. I want to tear my gaze away, but can’t. Something in me fears that if I look away, I’ll lose myself entirely to whatever this thing is.

The lamp sputters—then goes out. Pitch-black envelops me. My hand is still on that wrist. I can’t see, but I feel it close. Feels firm—almost human. I try to pull away, but my own fingers won’t open. Cold spreads from the touch, creeping up my arm. I shiver, teeth chattering.

Then—the whisper again:

“You’ll see soon.”

And just as suddenly as it vanished, light returns. The lamp is back on. But the figure is gone.

Silence. The hush of my own trembling breath. I stare at the empty corner. My pulse pounds so loud I’m sure the walls shake. I yank my hand back. Look at my skin. It’s warm; normal. No wound, no bruises.

I slide off the bed, knees weak. With shaking fingers, I turn on every lamp in my apartment. The living room. The kitchen. Even the bathroom, though I don’t want to look in the mirror. I flip on the TV. The late-night talk show host’s voice blares. I click on my phone: two missed calls, no voicemails. Don’t want to call anyone; don’t want to explain “I saw something”—they’ll think I’m insane.

I sit on the couch, lights glaring, and time stretches. My mind replays those black eyes, that whisper. My head throbs. At two in the morning, there’s nowhere to distract myself. Even the apartment feels alien, angles and corners now suspect. I stare at the blank walls, straining to see movement in every shadow.

At three, I can’t take it. I pull off the couch and go back to my bedroom. The lamp—still on. I sit at the edge of the bed, feet on the floor. I stare into the corner. There’s nothing—only the empty space behind my desk. But I swear I’ve never felt so exposed, so naked.

Then: a low click. The lamp flickers. I look up. The bulb goes dark.

In the corner, two black pits open. It stands there, grinning. I realize: it never left. It was just waiting for the darkness to return.

I hear the whisper inside my mind now, not just my ear:

“Don’t look away.”

There’s no lamp to save me. No cell phone’s pale glow. No safe corner. I am suspended in absolute black, hand still outstretched, the cold wrapping around me.

I try to pull away—but the icy grip tightens.

I shut my eyes—because maybe in there, I can pretend it’s gone. But the whisper follows:

“I see you.”

And then the cold consumes me, and I know I can’t hide in darkness. It is darkness.

The Phone Call

The moment my phone vibrates on the kitchen counter, I freeze. The screen lights up with my own number. My blood runs cold. I stare at it, disbelief tangled with a strange, growing dread.

How can it be my own number calling me? I don’t recognize the call as a prank or glitch. The air feels thick, as though the walls themselves are holding their breath. I pick up, trembling.

“Hello?” My voice cracks.

Static.

Then, unmistakably — my own voice, but not speaking to me. It’s distorted, deeper, cold.

“I’m coming for you.”

The line stays open. No click. No dial tone. Just that heavy silence, broken only by faint breathing on the other end.

I drop the phone to my side, heart hammering. I look around the kitchen — empty. The sunlight filtering through the window can’t chase away the cold clutching my spine.

I want to laugh it off. Maybe a prank, someone messing with my caller ID. But that voice — my voice — saying those words? It shakes something inside me loose.

I pick the phone back up. “Who is this? Stop calling me.”

Silence. Then again, that voice.

“I’m coming for you.”

It’s not a recording. It’s live, whispering from some place I cannot see or reach.

I hang up. I check my phone’s call log. The number is definitely mine. No new apps, no unknown contacts. Just me.

Then the phone buzzes again.

My number. The same words.

Panic starts to bubble, fast and sharp. I grab my coat, thinking maybe if I leave the house, this nightmare will stop.

Outside, the street is quiet. The sun sets low, painting everything orange and bruised. I walk faster, my phone clutched tight. Every time I glance at it, my own number blinks back.

I try calling a friend, but the call won’t connect. Instead, my phone rings again — my number. I stare, frozen.

I answer.

“I’m coming for you.”

The voice sounds closer now, urgent and hungry.

I drop the phone to the sidewalk. People pass by, unaware of the cold sweat slicking my skin, the terror stealing my breath. No one looks at me twice.

Back at my apartment, I lock every door, block every window with blankets and chairs. My phone rests on the table — a ticking time bomb.

I try ignoring it. But it rings again and again. My own number. My voice.

“I’m coming for you.”

I run a hand through my hair, desperate for answers. Who could be doing this? How?

I call my phone provider’s customer service. After long hold music, they confirm no outgoing calls have been made from my account. Someone is spoofing my number.

But spoofing doesn’t explain the voice. Or why it sounds exactly like me.

That night, I don’t sleep. I sit with the lights on, phone on silent but within reach. Every minute, I expect the call to come again.

At 3:33 AM, it does.

My number flashes on the screen. My heart races faster than ever.

I answer, barely breathing.

“I’m here.”

This time, the voice is not distant. It’s close — inches away. It sounds angry. Determined.

I want to scream. Instead, I whisper, “Who are you?”

A pause.

Then, the line goes dead.

I drop the phone. Silence. The kind of silence that presses against your ears until it hurts.

I glance around the dark room, expecting shadows to move. But nothing.

Morning light is a distant hope. The calls continue all day. No one else can hear them, no one else answers.

My friends call me worried. “You’re scaring me,” one says. “Are you okay?”

I say I’m fine, but the truth is, I’m unraveling.

Then I remember the old phone in my drawer — my grandmother’s. It’s ancient, rotary-dial, unplugged for years.

On a desperate whim, I dig it out. I plug it in.

My phone rings. My number.

I don’t answer.

The old phone rings. I pick up.

Silence.

Then a whisper. My voice. “You can’t run.”

I slam the phone down, heart racing. How is this possible?

I realize the calls aren’t coming from the outside. They’re coming from inside — my devices, my own home.

I search online for similar stories. People receiving calls from themselves, warnings, threats with no explanation. Mostly dismissed as urban legends or hacks.

But mine feels real. Personal.

I start keeping a journal, writing every call, every phrase, every time the voice changes. The voice seems to learn, growing more sinister, more urgent.

Days pass. My reflection in mirrors looks hollow. I hear footsteps in the hallway when no one is there. Doors creak open, then close.

The calls are constant now. At night, they come every hour. “I’m closer,” my voice hisses. “You can’t hide.”

One night, I leave the apartment, wandering the empty streets, phone in hand, trying to outrun whatever is chasing me.

I stop under a streetlamp, breath ragged. The phone rings. My number. I answer.

“I’m right behind you.”

I spin around. No one.

But the cold is there. The dread. Something unseen watching.

I want to believe it’s a glitch. A hallucination. But the fear is real.

On the seventh night, the calls stop.

Silence.

I don’t know if I should feel relief or dread.

The next morning, I find a note slipped under my door.

In my handwriting:

“I’m coming for you.”

The Elevator on the 13th Floor

At exactly 11:11 PM every night, you step into the lobby of the Halcyon Tower and wait by the elevator bank. The marble floor gleams under harsh fluorescent lights. All day long, you ignore the peeling paint on the walls, the dusty mat by the entrance, the hum of aging machinery. But at 11:11 PM, you stand still, eyes trained on the elevators’ digital displays.

They click over. 11:10 PM. Then… 11:11 PM.

Only one car’s doors glide open. Its stainless steel façade is blemish-free, as though recently polished. You press the ground-floor button and slip inside. The smell of machine oil and linoleum tugs at memories you can’t quite place—of old department stores and childhood mall trips. The doors slide shut behind you with a soft hiss.

You glance at the panel. Floors 1 through 12, then—nothing. No “13.” Yet the small red light beside the 14th-floor button blinks. You hesitate, heart hammering. The elevator jerks upward. The hum deepens, and the world outside those metal walls feels ever more distant.

You try to press “12” or “14.” But your finger is drawn inexorably toward that blinking light. You press 14, and the car shudders as it climbs.

The numbered lights on the panel flicker past: 2… 3… 4… higher, higher. Then—nothing. Darkness closes in around the indicator. No light for 13. The elevator slows, a tremor running through its steel frame, and the doors slide open onto a hallway bathed in pale yellow light.

You step out. The corridor stretches on both sides, carpeted in threadbare red with a pattern of golden fleur-de-lis. The walls are lined with tarnished brass sconces, their bulbs flickering. There are no windows, no exit signs, no room numbers. Just that dull glow and the endless carpet.

At the far end, you see a door. No number. You walk toward it. The carpet feels strangely thick beneath your shoes, muffling your footsteps. The silence is absolute—no hum of air conditioning, no distant city sounds, nothing but your own breath.

You reach the door. It’s old, painted an institutional gray, the edges chipped. A small brass peephole sits level with your eye. You press your ear to the wood. Nothing. Still. You circle the door, searching for a handle. Suddenly, the lights flicker violently, and the entire hallway plunges into darkness.

Your breath catches; you fumble for your phone. No signal. The lights stab back on, brighter than before, and the door is gone.

Panic roils in your chest. You spin—no door, no hallway. Just the open shaft of the elevator, its doors sliding closed.

You throw yourself inside just as the doors seal with a pneumatic sigh. The car rocks, and the indicator panel springs back to life. It reads “—” where 13 should be. Then it ticks down: 12… 11… 10…

When the doors open, you’re back in the lobby. It’s empty, silent, as though you never left. The wall clock glows 11:12 PM. You step out, trembling, wondering if you dreamed it. But your shoes carry the imprint of thick carpet—bright red fibers pressed into the soles.

The next night, curiosity tugs at you. You return at 11:11 PM. You wait. The single elevator opens exactly as before. You step inside. You press “14” again. The ride up is smooth and silent. The panel goes dark on “12,” and you find yourself in the same corridor—same flickering sconces, same worn carpet, same door at the end.

This time, you don’t circle. You stride straight to the door. You grip the handle—it’s cold and smooth. You turn it. No creak. The door swings inward to reveal a room lit by a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling.

Inside is a child’s bedroom. A small bed with a patchwork quilt sits against one wall. The quilt’s squares feature numbers: 1 through 12, each stitched in neat red thread. The thirteenth square is missing—just empty backing fabric. A rocking chair creaks softly beside the bed, though no wind stirs.

Your pulse races. You cross the threshold. The door clicks shut behind you. You’re aware of the elevator shaft yawning behind, but beyond the flat of your hands on that cold door, there is no escape.

On the far wall, a mirror reflects the room. And in the mirror, you see yourself—pale, wide-eyed. But there’s something else: a faint shape behind you, like a stain on the surface of the glass. You turn, but you’re alone.

The rocking chair moves again, slow and deliberate. You swallow, throat tight. You approach the quilt. Each square bears a stitch of red. You count—one, two, three… up to twelve. And that empty thirteenth square gapes like a missing tooth.

A whisper slides through the air:

“Step inside.”

You whirl around. No one. The voice was a child’s, trembling.

The rocking chair slows, then stops. The room feels colder. You force yourself to speak. “Who are you?”

Silence. Then the whisper again:

“Join us.”

You glance at the bed. On it lies a pair of small shoes, polished black leather, waiting. You know—without knowing—that these shoes belong to the one who never returned from floor thirteen.

Your fingers brush the empty quilt square. A stitch of red thread unravels and floats away, drifting like a leaf. You feel drawn toward the 14th-floor button, toward the lights beyond the door. Panic surges—this is a trap.

You spin for the door, but it is gone. In its place, the wall is blank. The bulb flickers, and you realize the mirror is gone too.

You press the light bulb, but the switch doesn’t work. The whisper grows:

“She’s coming.”

Your stomach knots. Who? A child? A girl? You turn—there, in the doorway now cut into the back wall, a small silhouette stands. A girl in a frayed dress, her head bowed. She takes a step forward. Her feet are bare; her toes curl inward, as if they never learned to walk properly.

Your throat closes. You search for the missing shoes, remember the quilt, remember 11:11. Adrenaline flares. You press your hand to the wall, sliding along until you find the seam of a hidden hatch. You yank it open. Behind is the elevator shaft: the car slowly climbing away, lights blinking.

You hesitate—then jump. Your hand grips the cable. You climb up the shaft, heart slamming, muscles burning. The girl watches from the threshold, expression impassive. When you reach the car, you slip inside. The hatch slams shut above you, plunging you into darkness.

The car rattles upward, slower than before, as though reluctant. The indicator lights flicker: 13… blink… 14. The doors open onto the lobby. You stumble out, gasping.

It’s 11:12 PM. You fall to your knees, clutching your sides. You look up as the other elevator doors open, a young couple stepping out, chatting about dinner reservations. They don’t see your terror.

You run for home, doors slamming behind you. You lock the deadbolt. You sink against the wall, sliding down, trembling. The quilt from the room plays on your mind—the empty thirteenth square, the unstitched hole. You cover your eyes, trying to blot the image of the girl in the frayed dress.

Days go by. You avoid the lobby after dark, take the stairs to your apartment on the fourth floor. But at exactly 11:11 PM, your phone buzzes with an alert—a push notification from the building’s elevator app:

“Elevator 3: Maintenance scheduled. No service at 11:11 PM–11:13 PM.”

You stare, horror blooming. Someone—or something—knows. You delete the notification, but it reappears each night.

On the seventh night, you cannot resist. You stand in your apartment doorway at 11:11 PM, wrapped in a blanket. You watch the hallway camera feed on your phone—grainy black-and-white, static flickering. The elevator doors slide open on the first floor. No one appears. The doors close. They blink off.

You press the button to watch the 14th-floor feed. The screen goes gray. Then static. Then a shape emerges: the same hallway, but the camera is lower. You see the girl’s bare feet creeping into frame. She looks up—empty eyes meeting yours through the lens. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes.

The live feed cuts. The app crashes. Your phone dies. You stare at the blank screen. The silence in your apartment sounds suddenly loud.

From the silent elevator shaft, you hear a single, distant creak. You step toward it. At the bottom of the stairs leading down, you see footprints in dust—small, barefoot footprints heading toward the lobby.

You know, then, that someday you will hear that creak again, at exactly 11:11 PM, and you will be tempted to step inside.

Because the empty quilt square is waiting for you.

Under the Rock

You set out before dawn, lacing your boots in the dim gray light. The forest trail yawns ahead—roots twisting like ancient veins, ferns brushing your calves. You’ve hiked this path before, drawn by its solitude and the promise of empty vistas. No other hikers venture this deep; the map even marks the area “unexplored” beyond a certain point. You like it that way.

Birdsong drifts through the pines as you climb. Your backpack is light: water, protein bars, a compass, and your old camera. You pause at a rise where the trees part, revealing a rocky slope streaked with moss. The view is worth the early start—mist coils around the distant peaks, and a river glints far below like melted silver.

You descend toward the stream, boots crunching on gravel. Sunlight dapples the water in shifting patterns. There’s a perfect rock by the bank—flat, wide, warm from the morning sun. You sit and unwrap a bar, listening to the burble of the current. For a moment, nothing exists beyond this hillside and the sky.

Fifteen minutes later, you continue on, following the stream upstream until the sound of water softens. You climb over fallen logs, duck under low branches. The air grows cooler, damper. Moss thickens on boulders and tree trunks. Up ahead, a patch of forest floor seems too even, as though someone smoothed it deliberately.

Your curiosity pricks at you. You move closer and notice a single stone, larger than the rest, half-buried in emerald moss. It’s roughly the size of a softball, its surface polished smooth—odd in a place so wild. You crouch, brush away the moss, and uncover the curious shape: a stone so perfect it might have been carved.

Gently, you flip it. Underneath—your breath catches.

A human eye, polished like glass, stares back at you. The iris is milky gray, the pupil a perfect black dot that seems to swallow light. No flesh surrounds it, just smooth edges where skin should have been. It feels impossibly warm under your fingers, as though it’s still alive.

You drop it. It rolls back under the moss and settles, staring. Your heart pounds. You curl your hands into fists, pinching your palm to prove you’re awake. When you look again, the eye sits impossibly still—too still, too pristine.

You scrape dirt at its edge and lift it again. It’s heavier than you expect, almost unnervingly so. You press your thumb to the white of the eyeball and feel a faint pulse, like the beat of a distant drum. A shiver runs down your spine.

“Hello?” you say, voice hollow. Only the forest replies.

The hairs on your neck stand up. You glance around. No birds flutter. No squirrels dart. Even the wind seems to hold its breath. You swallow hard and slip the eye into your pack, tucking it between your water bottle and first-aid kit. Your rational mind screams at you to leave it behind. But in your gut you know—you can’t. Not yet.

You stand, brush dirt from your jeans, and head back the way you came, trying to ignore the weight in your pack. Branches snap behind you. You spin, heart leaping, but there’s nothing—only trees, silent and watchful. You quicken your pace, boots thudding on leaf litter.

A rustle to your left—too deliberate to be wind. You freeze, listening. Footsteps, soft but certain, echo on the forest floor. They move parallel to you, keeping pace. You shouldn’t be hearing another person this deep in the woods—no trail, no path. And yet the sound follows.

Your heart hammers as panic surges. You break into a run, leaping over roots, scrambling up a small embankment. The footsteps match you, stride for stride. You don’t dare look back, focus on the rising incline until your lungs burn.

At the top, you burst into a clearing. Pale morning light spills across ferns and wildflowers. You gasp for air, press your back against a tree, trying to calm your racing pulse. Silence returns—oppressive, heavy.

You glance over your shoulder. No one. No footprints. The clearing is empty, untouched. You wipe sweat from your brow and glance down at the ground. There—half-buried in mud—is a second polished eye, identical to the first. You stagger back, stumbling over a gnarled root. Everything tilts.

The eye in the dirt stares up at you, as though waiting. You back away onto the mossy bank, pack thudding against your spine. A low moan rises in the air, a sound not quite human. The ferns tremble.

Your rational mind deserts you. You snatch the second eye from the mud, jam it into your pack beside the first. Now they press cold against your ribs, two smooth weights that threaten to crush you.

The moan grows louder, swelling around you. You spin, heart pounding too fast to count. The trees seem to lean in, branches twisting like grasping fingers. You can’t tell direction—north, south, left, right—all the same in this green gloom.

You break into a desperate dash, wild and blind. Your boots slip on damp leaves. You crash through underbrush, branches slapping your face, roots tangling your ankles. Every step feels like you’re sinking deeper, thrashing in a sea of foliage.

Then—light. A break in the trees where the forest opens to the slope you know. Relief floods you. You scramble toward safety, emerge onto the familiar boulder-strewn path. You slow to a jog, forcing your breathing even.

But you’re not safe. The footsteps have returned, closer now, circling you. Left… right… always near. You spin around, tearing off your backpack and dumping its contents on the ground. The eyes lie in the dirt, pristine and accusing.

A sudden crack—like a gunshot—echoes through the woods. Your head snaps up. In the clearing ahead, a fallen log splits, its thick center bursting open. A shape writhes within: pale, slick limbs, long and spindly, eyes gleaming in its skull-like face. It drags itself onto the leaf litter, limbs cracking as it moves.

You freeze. This thing should not exist. Its body seems half bone, half sinew—ribs exposed like mangled iron bars. Its head tilts, and its eye sockets are empty. You feel its gaze—but it has no eyes.

“Give them back,” a voice rumbles inside your head. Not words spoken aloud, but a command that vibrates through your blood.

You stare at the two polished eyes on the ground. One by one, you scoop them up. Your fingers tremble as you hold them out. The creature’s chest cavity heaves; each breath sounds like bone grinding against stone.

Slowly, it rises. Its clawed hand reaches toward you. In its palm is an empty socket—one missing eye, waiting.

Your stomach twists, but you hold out the first eye. It hovers inches from its hand. The creature’s head tilts, and for a moment, you think it will take it. Then it jerks backward, as though burned, and the eye slips from your fingers, rolling across the leaves.

“No,” it growls in your mind. “Only mine.”

Panic flares. You snatch the second eye and fling it as far from the creature as you can. It skitters across the forest floor and disappears beneath a clump of ferns.

The creature lunges for the hiding spot. You seize your pack—empty now—and dash past it, feet pounding. It crashes after you, limbs snapping like branches. You don’t look back, even when you hear the sickening crack of bone.

You hurtle down the slope, branches whipping your arms, until you reach the riverbank. You plunge into the cold current, water searing your legs. You swim toward the opposite shore, our eyes burning, the creature’s roar drowned by rushing water.

You crawl onto the smooth rocks across the stream, gasping. You turn your head to watch, but the water’s surface is calm—no ripples, no disturbance. The river looks peaceful, as if nothing extraordinary happened. The forest beyond is silent.

You sit on the bank, chest heaving, until the sun climbs high overhead. You gingerly touch your pack—empty. No eyes. No proof. Only the memory of cold glass beneath your fingers and the creature’s hollow gaze.

You gather your camera, tripod, and supplies. You begin the climb back to the trailhead, shaken. The forest behind you seems to exhale, branches swaying in a breeze you don’t feel.

When you reach the parking area, you flick on your camera, hoping to capture something—an image you can study, proof of what you saw. But the memory card is blank. No photos. No recordings.

You pack everything into your car. Your hands are still trembling. Before you leave, you turn back once, squinting at the treeline.

For a heartbeat, you think you see something moving—a glimpse of pale limbs among the shadows. But when you blink, it’s gone.

You drive away, wheels crunching on gravel, every mile leaving the forest further behind. But you know this isn’t over. Something inside you carries those eyes—your own heartbeat echoes in your skull, reminding you.

You think you can leave them behind. You think it was just a dream. But sometimes, late at night, you wake to a whisper in your ear:

“Under the rock.”

And you know it’s calling you back.

The Whispering App

It started with a notification: “Discover your fate.”

You’d been scrolling through your phone when an ad popped up—an app promising to predict the exact date of your death. A dark background, a simple white skull icon blinking. It was creepy, sure, but you tapped “Download” on a dare, half-joking.

The app installed quickly, no fuss. You opened it, a clean interface with a single button that said, “Reveal your date.” You hesitated—part of you didn’t want to know—but curiosity won.

Your thumb hovered, then pressed.

The screen blinked black. Then, in bright red letters, a date appeared. Not months from now, but just a few days away. Your heart hammered. You thought it must be a joke. Maybe the app was just random, or a cruel prank.

You closed the app and tried to ignore it. But that night, your phone buzzed at exactly midnight. You picked it up, and the screen was dark—except for one blinking notification: “Don’t delete me.”

You frowned, but the app was still on your home screen. You unlocked it, and a whisper drifted from the speaker, barely audible: “You can’t run.”

You shook your head, laughing nervously. It was just a gimmick.

The next day, the app asked if you wanted to “learn more.” Hesitating, you tapped “Yes.” A new screen popped up with a short, cryptic message: “Fate sealed. Time is thin.”

You decided to uninstall it. The app icon trembled on your screen as you pressed “Delete.”

But then your phone rang. The number was your own. You stared, heart pounding. You answered.

A voice, your own voice, echoed through the speaker, cold and distorted: “I’m coming for you.”

The call wouldn’t end. You hit “Hang up,” but it kept ringing. You powered off the phone. The ringing continued.

You tossed the phone on the couch and backed away. The silence was heavy, but you didn’t breathe easily until the ringing stopped.

The next morning, your phone was on, screen cracked, showing the app’s icon pulsing faintly. It had reinstalled itself overnight. You tried again to delete it. The phone froze.

Suddenly, the speaker crackled to life. The whisper, clearer now: “You can’t run.”

Your hands shook. You stared at the screen, dread curling in your stomach.

You left your phone on the kitchen table and walked outside, trying to clear your head. But everywhere you went, your phone buzzed. Notifications, messages, all from the app, taunting you: “Closer.” “Soon.” “No escape.”

You tried a factory reset. The app was gone for a few hours. Relief blossomed in your chest.

Then, your phone rang. Your own number again. You answered, voice barely steady: “I’m coming for you.”

The call never ended.

You went to a tech store. They scanned your phone and shrugged: “No viruses. No malware. Nothing we can find.”

You asked friends if they’d seen the app. None had. It wasn’t on any official app stores.

You realized it wasn’t just a program—it was something else. Something alive inside your phone, whispering threats and promises.

One night, you heard a faint tapping on your window. You looked outside—nothing but shadows and the rustle of trees.

Your phone buzzed again. A message: “Look outside.”

You stared into the darkness, heart hammering. You didn’t want to look.

The tapping grew louder. You wrapped your blanket tight, tried to shut it out.

Suddenly, your phone screen flashed. The app opened itself. A countdown appeared: “00:01:00.”

One minute.

You dropped the phone. It hit the floor, screen shattering, but the countdown kept ticking.

The whisper filled the room: “You can’t run.”

You covered your ears, but it pierced through.

Then silence.

You dared to open your eyes. The countdown was gone. Your phone was dead.

You breathed, shaking. You thought it was over.

But the next morning, your voicemail beeped.

You played the message. Your own voice, clear and cold: “I’m coming for you.”

And somewhere deep inside, you knew it wasn’t a joke.

Because now, you knew the app had chosen you—and it never lets go.

The Forgotten Friend

I’m twenty-eight now, unpacking boxes in the new apartment I just bought. Moving cities always makes me nostalgic. I find a battered folder labeled “Benji.” Inside, my six-year-old scrawl labels a single sheet:

“Benji. He’s my friend.”

The drawing is bright and cheerful: me in pigtails, Benji arm in arm beside me. His eyes are huge black circles rimmed in blue, hair a scribble of brown. That crooked grin.

I stare at it, puzzled. I never remembered drawing it. When I was six, I was shy around other kids. I spent afternoons playing outside with my older sister or reading in the backyard. I never mentioned a “Benji.”

I slip the folder into the box and push the memory aside.

That night, I have trouble sleeping. My new apartment is too quiet. I crack a window, hoping for the hum of traffic. In the dark, I see a shape in the corner of my bedroom—an odd silhouette cast by the streetlamp outside. My heart starts to pound.

I sit up. The shape shifts. Curiosity, and something deeper—recognition—draws my gaze. I flick on the lamp. Nothing there. Just empty floor and a scattering of packing peanuts.

I exhale. Probably just my mind playing tricks. I turn over and close my eyes.

In the morning, I find muddy footprints leading from my bedroom door to the window. Tiny, childlike prints. I frown. My apartment is on the sixth floor—no way a child could reach. I wipe them away, convincing myself they’re from the movers. I’ve been tracking dirt in all day.

I pull out the folder again. “Benji.” I flip through the pages. There’s only one drawing. Underneath, in a spidery scrawl I don’t recognize, someone added:

“Come play.”

I drop the folder. My skin prickles. I had to write that myself—no one else could. And yet… I don’t remember.

I shake it off. I have work deadlines, bills to pay, life to rebuild in this new city. I tuck the folder into my desk drawer and lock it.

That night, my phone alarm wakes me at 2:17 AM. Groggy, I reach out… and my fingers brush something cold and bumpy on the nightstand. I sit up. There on the wood is a crayon, stubby and worn, brown streaked with blue. I never brought crayons to the apartment.

My breath catches. I flick on the light. The crayon lies exactly where it is, its tip dulled. I pick it up; the label is peeling. “Crayola.” Watercolors, pastels—no, crayons. I never touch these since grade school.

I slip the crayon into my pocket. Sleep flees. I stare at the corner of the room. Half expecting—hoping?—to see the shape again. But nothing.

Over the next few days, odd things escalate.

My coffee mug vanishes, only to reappear on top of the wardrobe, perched precariously. My houseplant is moved to the bathroom sink. Notes in childish handwriting appear: “Play hide and seek,” “Come find me,” “I’m here.”

Each message stabs at my calm. My logical mind hunts explanations—wind drafts, sleepwalking, or some prankster. But the handwriting matches the scrawl under my Benji drawing. And the childish tone. And who else would know “hide and seek” is my sister’s favorite game from childhood?

I confront my sister on the phone. She laughs. “You didn’t have an imaginary friend. You never did.”

I feel a flicker of panic. “Then how—?”

She interrupts. “You’re exhausted. Move in, get settled, and it’ll stop.”

I hang up, unsettled. Exhaustion might lie, but footprints and crayons don’t.

That night, I dream of the woods behind my childhood home. I’m six, following a small boy with curly hair. He holds my hand, leading me deeper. We find a tree with a hollow in its trunk. He smiles and curls behind the bark. I sit beside him. He whispers, “Stay.”

I wake screaming, drenched in sweat. The dream lingers—the hollow tree, his black-ringed eyes pleading.

My phone rings at exactly 11:11 PM. My own number. I answer.

Silence.

Then, in my own child’s voice, “Come find me.”

My stomach drops. I grab my coat. I have to see where this is coming from.

I pull on shoes and rush to the living room. There, on the floor, is another drawing—this one in shaky, uneven lines. It shows a small figure standing in a forest under a moon, beside a tree with a hollow trunk. Beneath it: “Find me.”

The sketch looks exactly like my dream. I shiver. I grab the drawing and dash for the door.

I check the street—dark, empty. No footprints. But I remember the dream’s hollow tree. My sister’s old house was just outside town, on a dead-end road. I could drive there in twenty minutes.

I hesitate—this is insane. But I can’t leave it. I can’t ignore it.

The drive is tense. Rain glints the asphalt. My rearview mirror catches movement, but there’s nothing there. I park under the sagging porch of my sister’s childhood home—now abandoned, weeds choking the yard.

I step out, drenched. No lights, no sounds. I grip the drawing. “Find me,” it says.

I push open the door—rusted on its hinges—and step inside. Water drips through a hole in the roof. The floors are warped. The air smells of rot and memories long forgotten.

I find the back door ajar and slip outside. The woods lie just beyond, pale moonlight filtering through bare branches.

I follow a narrow deer path, heart pounding. My flashlight beam bobbles over roots. I’m acutely aware of every sound: the rustle of leaves, the croak of a frog, my own breath.

At the center of a grove, I stop. There’s the tree—ancient oak, its trunk scarred. A hollow opening at its base, dark as a mouth.

I shine the light inside. I see a pair of legs—child-sized—huddled within. I step closer, mouth dry.

“Benji?” I whisper.

No reply. I crouch and shine the beam deeper. There, pressed against the wood, is a pale face—eyes large and black-rimmed, lips curved in that crooked grin.

I freeze. My chest tightens.

“Why?” I whisper.

He blinks—slow, deliberate. His tiny fingers grip the edge of the hollow. “You forgot me.”

Tears sting my eyes. Relief. Joy. Fear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

He cuts me off. “You drew me here.”

My throat seizes. I stare at the drawing clutched in my hand. It’s the same drawing I saw in my dream, now wet with rain.

“Play with me,” he says, voice soft but insistent. “Stay forever.”

I shake my head, backing away. “Benji, you can’t—”

He slides out of the hollow and stands beside me. His body is translucent, pale as mist, but his eyes—those hollow black eyes—lock onto mine.

“I never wanted to be forgotten,” he says. His voice echoes, as though coming from deep underground.

I swallow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t remember you.”

His head tilts. “You remembered me now.”

A sudden doubt claws at me—if I truly remember him now, then maybe… if I turn away, I’ll forget again. I’ll leave him behind, and he’ll vanish. He’s tethered to me, and if I break the link… I’ll lose him forever.

He steps closer, and the air goes cold. I can see the forest beyond him, framed in the hollow, but the world feels smaller, tighter.

I grip the drawing. “What do you want?”

His grin widens. “A friend.”

The question echoes in my mind: am I ready to make room again? At six, I needed him. At twenty-eight, I thought I didn’t. But here he is, a fragment of my own making, aching for the connection he was never meant to need.

My flashlight flickers. The trees press in. I realize if I refuse, he might never let me leave. If I accept… what then? A ghostly companion in my life, a reminder of childhood I tried to bury.

My breath hitches. I take a step back, test the ground with my foot. It’s solid earth, not dream. I meet his gaze. “Benji… I remember you. But I can’t stay.”

His face falls. The crooked grin fades. “Please.”

I close my eyes. When I open them, he’s gone—no footprint, no echo. The hollow tree stands empty.

I exhale, trembling. I stumble back along the path, soaked through, mind racing. I don’t look back until I’m in my car.

I drive straight home, locking every door. I fling the folder of drawings into the trash and shred every scrap I can find. I delete the photo where I once posed with my sister, hoping to erase traces of that innocent time I spent with Benji.

It’s been a week. No drawings. No crayon. No phone calls.

But sometimes, in the corner of my vision, I swear I see a flash of brown curls and a crooked grin. At night, I half-expect to see his black eyes watching me from the hallway.

I’ve learned two things: you can forget an imaginary friend, but you can’t unmake what you created. And some memories refuse to stay buried.

Every time I close my eyes, I hear one small voice, almost pleading:

“Let’s play again.”

I don’t know if I’ll ever answer.

Mirror Message

I wake to the click of the bathroom light before I’ve even opened my eyes. Morning sun slices through the narrow window, slanting into the tiny room and painting gold lines across the tile floor. My head throbs from yesterday’s late work, and I rub my temples as I stand.

I pad forward, bare feet cool on the tile, and flip the switch fully on. The mirror above the sink fogs with remnants of last night’s shower. I lean in, fingers trailing through the mist to wipe a clear circle. My reflection blinks back—bloodshot eyes, disheveled hair tied haphazardly, pajama top slipping off one shoulder. I let out a soft chuckle. “Rough night,” I mutter.

Then I see it.

A word scratched into the glass: “I see you.”

My breath catches. The letters are uneven—some gouged deep, others faint and thin. Whoever wrote them had done it with fingernails, jerky strokes that scraped through the silver backing. My pulse spikes, adrenaline zing­ing through my veins. I jerk backward, heartbeat pounding so loud I fear it might wake the whole apartment.

“I see you.”

I run a shaky hand over my mouth, trying to swallow down the panic. This has to be a prank. My roommate is away for the weekend—she’s at her sister’s wedding in Vermont. No one else has keys.

I step closer, gaze locked on the mirror. My reflection stares back, and behind me, a dark shape that shouldn’t be there. My heart lurches as I spin around. The bathroom is empty. Towels hang neatly on the rack, the shower curtain is drawn back, and the little window shows only blue sky and swaying branches. No one.

I whirl back to the mirror. The words remain. I touch them, fingertips slick with condensation. They’re cold, etched deep. I press harder. The groove gives under my nail—fresh and raw.

I back away and grab my bathrobe from the hook. I wrap it around me and practically fly down the hall to the living room. My phone is on the coffee table; its screen glows with a weather alert. I snatch it up and call our landlord, my voice high and breathless.

“Hey, Jim—sorry to bother you so early… Could you check the cameras in the hallway? Someone scratched my mirror. I think… I think someone broke in.”

He sighs, sympathetic but worried I’m overreacting. “No one’s entered your unit. The front door camera shows no unexpected comings or goings. You sure it wasn’t the fog from your shower?”

I bite out, “It’s not fog. It’s literally cut into the glass. I’ll send you a picture.”

I take a quick photo: the words gleam ominously. Jim replies with a thumbs-up emoji and promises to pull the hallway footage. I hang up and pace the living room, robe trailing behind me. My skin prickles, as though eyes are on me, watching from the shadows.

I flip on every light in the apartment. The living room, kitchen, bedroom—until the brightness feels garish. I peer into every dark corner, lift throw pillows, open cabinets. Everything’s exactly where it should be. No footprints, no hair, nothing to suggest someone was here.

Still, I can’t stay. I need fresh air. I grab my keys and step into the hallway. The carpets are empty and quiet. I walk downstairs to the lobby, try to shake the feeling of being hunted. I stop at the mailboxes, but my gaze keeps flicking to the stairwell. It’s dark in there, the fluorescent bulbs long since burned out. I remind myself: stairs are cliché. If anyone wanted to hide, they could remain there for hours. I slip back upstairs and lock my door behind me, dropping the deadbolt three times.

Back inside, I pull the bathroom door shut and wedge a chair under the handle. I sit on the toilet lid—fully clothed—and press my forehead to my knees. I count heartbeats. One… two… three… until the pounding slows.

After ten minutes, I finally stand. I need coffee. Anything to distract me from the mirror’s cruel message. I make a pot, the rich scent comforting, and bring it back to the living room. I sip slowly, staring at the steam curl from the mug.

The apartment feels too quiet. I flip through channels on the TV, ignore everything until I land on a home-improvement show. Couples cutting corners on old Victorian homes—heroes armed with paint rollers and optimism. I try to imitate their calm, but every creak in the building makes me prick up my ears.

An hour passes. I force myself to return to the bathroom. The message is still there. I lean in close, inspect the scratches. Someone had to press hard. This wasn’t done by chance—they meant to send a message.

“I see you,” I whisper to my reflection. The words feel personal, invasive, as though they know me, know my habits, my empty apartment. I trace the first letter, “I,” with my fingertip and feel a tremor run through my body.

I run water in the sink and cup it in my hands. I splash my face, willing myself to feel normal again. The water beads on the glass. I wipe it away, and the words remain. Even if I wipe off every drop, the scratches will stay.

My phone buzzes: a text from Jim. “Checked cameras. The stairwell camera was offline last night. Maintenance scheduled replacement tomorrow. No motion detected on other floors.”

Offline last night. Of course. The one place someone could have come up. I swallow. Jim adds, “Call me if you need anything.”

I pocket the phone and stare at the mirror. Stairwell camera offline… I think about the dark stairs. Could someone have slipped in, scratched the mirror, and left? But why? And how long did it take them? My mind reels.

I back away and close the bathroom door, flick the lock. I run down the hall and pull the chair back under the handle—just in case. Then I sit on the edge of my bed, coffee growing cold on the nightstand. My thoughts spiral: maybe it’s a neighbor playing an elaborate prank. But the message feels too earnest, too terrified. I feel watched.

That night, I leave every light on and sleep in the living room, blanket pulled over my shoulders like armor. I wake once to a sound—soft scraping, like a fingernail on a board. I bolt upright, heart hammering, but it stops. I lie awake until dawn.

In the morning, I muster the courage to check the bathroom. My robe feels heavier now, like a protective layer I can’t shed. The door is ajar. I push it open and flick on the light. The message is gone.

I stare. The scratches have been filled—smoothed over by the fog and my frantic wiping. No trace remains. My breath hitches. I circle the sink, press my palm against the glass—clean, unmarred. It’s as though I never saw it.

A whisper of relief washes through me… then cold dread. If it disappeared so easily, maybe it can return just as fast.

The next day, I avoid the bathroom. I shower at the gym, brush my teeth there, even change clothes in a stall. I only come home to sleep. Each time I open my door, I scan the hallway, imagining someone lurking just out of sight.

On day three, I finally break. I flip on the bathroom light and flick on my phone’s flashlight as backup. I lean close to the mirror, staring hard for any sign of fresh scratches. There’s nothing. I inhale, exhale, and turn.

And then I see it—written on my skin, in red welts across my collarbone: “I SEE YOU.”

My blood runs cold. I freeze, tracing my fingertips over the letters. The skin feels raised, tender, as though someone carved into me while I slept. My mind screams. I stagger back, press a hand to my throat—every breath feels shallow.

I yank off my robe and strip, staring at my skin in the mirror. The words span from shoulder to shoulder, perfectly legible. I bend forward, horror blooming. How? How did this happen? I didn’t feel pain. I didn’t wake.

My phone vibrates. I nearly drop it. A text from an unknown number: “Good morning.”

No name. I don’t respond. The message stares back at me.

I touch the scratches again and feel a shiver of pain. I tear off the rest of my robe and run to the living room, fling open my laptop, and Google “mirror scratches appear on skin.” Nothing. Desperate, I search “I see you scratches mirror.” The results are pop-up ads and horror forums. One thread mentions “mirror spirits”—urban legend that a malicious presence can cross through reflective surfaces. But it’s just folklore.

I glance at the clock—2:13 PM. Stairwell maintenance scheduled in an hour. I can’t wait. I need answers now. I dial the locksmith’s number, convinced someone has a key. They’re booked for the week. I ask about building security cameras; Jim already confirmed the stairwell was offline. There’s no footage.

I hang up, feeling stranded. I sink onto the couch, head in my hands. My skin itches beneath the letters. I feel watched. I imagine eyes behind the glass, peering through to me.

That night, I won’t sleep. I grab my backpack, stuff it with snacks, phone charger, flashlight, pepper spray. I sit in the bathroom, door locked, light on, staring at the mirror for hours. My reflection’s eyes look back, haunted.

At midnight, the glass fogs again—no heat source but my breath. And there, scrawled in fresh scratches: “NOW YOU SEE ME.”

My heart leaps. I press my palm to the glass, fingertips brushing the words. The scratch’s edges are sharp. I look down at my hand: there are tiny blood droplets on my skin.

A whisper drifts through the room, soft and mocking: “I see you.”

I spin around—still alone. Then a movement flickers in the mirror. Not my reflection, but something behind me: a pale face, hollow eyes, grinning too wide. I whip my head around. Nothing. Just my empty bathroom and the tiled floor.

I back away, stumbling, bump into the sink. I turn my phone flashlight toward the mirror and snap a picture. The flash blooms in the glass. I glance at the screen. Nothing but me and the empty room.

Terror claws at my chest. I drop the phone and sprint out of the bathroom, fling open my front door, and race into the hallway. I don’t stop until I’m downstairs, pressing my back against the lobby wall, panting.

The building is silent. The night watch camera blinks on the ceiling, but I don’t dare look at the feed. I swallow. Stairwell bulks to my left, dark and forbidding. My skin itches where the words remain, throbbing softly.

I turn down the street and run, not stopping until the apartment disappears behind me.

I don’t go back. I rent a cheap motel room for the night, bathroom windowless, mirror only in the tiny vanity. In the morning, I check: no message. I shave the welts from my collarbone—flesh rises red and raw, but the cuts are no deeper than surface scratches. I bandage them.

I pack my bag and drive home, decals of “New Resident” fluttering from my rearview. I pull into my parking spot, stomach knotting. I gather courage, unlock my door, and step inside.

I head straight to the bathroom. I flip on the light, heart in my throat.

The mirror is blank.

I step closer. I stare. Nothing. My reflection’s eyes look back, wary but whole. I let out a shaky laugh and reach up to touch my neck—no more scratches, just pale skin.

I exhale. Relief floods me. The ordeal is over.

Then I feel it—a flutter at the corner of my vision. I look up at the mirror one last time.

In the glass, etched faintly but unmistakable, are two words:

“I WAS.”

I stumble backward, chest tight, and the lights flicker out.

Wrap Up

No matter how busy your day gets, these short scary stories are an easy way to sneak in a little excitement. They’re quick to read, so you don’t have to set aside a lot of time, but they still deliver that perfect creepy feeling. Whether you’re alone at night or just want something different to break up your day, these stories can give you that little thrill you’re looking for.

The best part is, you don’t need anything special — just a few quiet minutes, maybe a dim light or a cozy spot, and your imagination. Once you start reading, you might find yourself glancing around, wondering what’s lurking just out of sight. And that’s exactly the fun of it.

So go ahead, give yourself a quick scare whenever you want. Sometimes the smallest stories leave the biggest chills. Enjoy—and watch your back!

Mark Richards

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.