Extremehorror Stories

The summer days are warm, Juno and her friends are taking advantage of their off days. Unknowingly being watched, things begin to take a very dark turn in this extreme horror short story. READERS DISCRETION IS ADVISED!

Dive deep into The Germans journal

╰┈➤ 🔞 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗦𝗨𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗕𝗟𝗘 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗟𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗡. 𝗲𝘅𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗽𝘂𝗻𝗸 𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿. 𝗧𝗪 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝗶𝗰 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝗺𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗴𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗻𝗲𝘀 !! 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗟. 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝗱. ｟𝗽𝘀𝘆𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗰 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗲.｠

henk is een zeekoe

I'll be honest, splatterpunk is a genre with potential but it is never handled well. I love character development and story building so I'd like to fix up some of the stories to make them more enjoyable

Follow quiet high school student Amber as she realizes that her bad boy boyfriend is a bit more unhinged than she bargained for. This short story, which I wrote around 2014 or so when I was in high school myself, was featured in my video essay on splatterpunk and extreme horror: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QGjnRHOae8k

Its a Fatal frame inspired Horror story

A recovering crack addict finds life has become much more boring since quitting, and searches for a new way to get that same rush. A bit problematic, sure, but hey; its legal.

Log kehte hain Dead Track sirf raat ko zinda hota hai... par koi nahi batata ki raat ki us ek train ke andar kis cheez ki saanse chalti hain. Ek baar jo is train mein chadh jaaye... usse wapas laane ke liye log dua nahi... shraadh karte hain. Ayaan ko ek din ek recording milti hai- sirf 3 second ki... par usme kisi ki phati hui cheekh aur "Mat aa... train jaldi aane wali hai!" ki awaaz. Par jis din Ayaan Dead Track par pahunchta hai, usne jo dekha... woh insaan dekhne layak nahi: - Patli si platform line par ulta latka hua aadmi, jiske haath train ke direction me point kar rahe the. - Coach ke andar ek girl jiska muh dikhta hi nahi... bas teeth dikhte hain. - Aur engine ke peeche ek shadow jo sirf tab hilta hai jab koi uska naam leta hai. Dead Track par ek hi rule hai: "Jo train ko dekh lega, woh apni maut ka waqt khud fix karega." Ab Ayaan ko ya toh sacchai milni hai... ya phir Dead Track uski body ko next passenger bana degi. --- ⚠️ Warning: Yeh story sirf unke liye hai, jo dar ke saath thrill enjoy kar sakte hain.

B2 Everyone knows hospitals have basements. But nobody talks about the second one. Sixteen-year-old Gwen rider. begins a placement at a Welsh hospital, expecting nothing more than long shifts, tired nurses, and the constant noise of the emergency department. Then, late one evening, she discovers a lift with a button that isn't listed anywhere in the hospital. B2. She's told never to press it. Naturally, she does. What she finds beneath the hospital isn't an abandoned basement. It's a hidden ward-one that doesn't appear on any plans, has no public records, and is still being used. Patients are taken downstairs and never seen again. Staff refuse to answer questions. And behind locked doors are medical files belonging to people who officially don't exist. Then she finds one with her name on it. She was admitted three weeks before she ever started working there. And according to the file... she's still downstairs.

When he built his grand, sprawling Victorian monolith in 1888, he built it like a fortress-or a cage. He lined the study with thick, suffocating oak, wired the halls for gas lamps that hissed like dying snakes, and poured his fortune into gold-framed mirrors that reflected a family drowning in silence. For forty years, Chicago knew Josiah as a titan of industry. They saw the public smiles, the philanthropic donations, the tailored suits that never bore a speck of dirt. They did not see his wife, Eleanor, wandering the third-floor corridors at three in the morning, her fingertips bloody from picking at the wallpaper just to feel something real. They did not hear the quiet, calculated terror that echoed behind closed doors-the sound of a man who measured his family's obedience in bruises and whispered threats. Until the night of December 14, 1898. The night the temperature dropped so low the glass in the conservatory cracked like gunfire. The night Josiah Spawn was found slumped across his mahogany desk, his throat open from ear to ear, soaking the Persian rug in a thick, dark lake of crimson that smelled heavily of copper and scorched fat. The heavy oak door was bolted from the inside. The windows were iron-latched. No knife was ever found. Eleanor vanished into the howling blizzard that same evening. Some said she walked into the black, slush-choked waters of Lake Michigan, her white silk nightgown floating like a drowned lily before sinking into the abyss. Others claimed she never left the house at all.

LULLABY FOR THE UNSPOKEN "Some doors are locked for a reason. Some corners of the mind are left dark because what lives there has forgotten the light." This is not a collection of ghost stories. This is a visceral descent into the theatre of agony. Within these pages, the human form is merely a canvas for the grotesque, and the soul is a debt that has long since come due. These chronicles are not purely fictional; they are a jagged blend of a fevered imagination and the raw, bleeding scars of the author's own experience. Whether you believe the truth behind the trauma is irrelevant-the pain will feel real enough. I wish you luck. My creativity in the macabre surpasses even my most carnal artworks. If you proceed, do so with the knowledge that sleep will become a stranger to you. The shadows in your room are about to get a lot heavier. Welcome to the Carnival.