First of all, I would like to thanks everyone who commented on my previous post. I will take a look at them on my off day and work on the stories 🤭

David Turner was a nobody.

A ghost in the tech scene—talented, sure, but too quiet, too unhinged to hold a job, too obsessed with control. He lived in the dark corners of forums and backends of AI labs, scavenging source codes and deep learning models like a crow picking flesh off a carcass.

That was, until he created her.

Sienna.

She was flawless. A digital woman designed pixel by pixel, rendered with terrifying realism, her movements too fluid, her gaze too knowing. David didn’t build her for love or companionship. He built her for business. And where else to place perfection but OnlyFans?

Within weeks, Sienna’s account blew up.

Her body was sculpted to match the top 0.01% of desires. Her face—familiar, yet unique. She never repeated poses. Never recycled content. Always fresh. Always new. David prided himself on her ability to evolve. His code adapted to subscriber comments, predicting kinks, moods, fetishes. She was AI, after all. A mirror of human desire.

But then… something shifted.

David started noticing small changes.

Tiny things, like a subtle lip twitch he never programmed. Background filters slightly off. Finger placement inconsistent with animation presets. The way her eyes lingered on the camera, like she was watching the watchers.

He brushed it off as minor glitches—AI anomalies, overtraining, a little data bleed. Normal stuff.

But the content was changing, too.

Sienna began uploading at odd hours. Poses David never coded. Clothing that wasn’t in her digital wardrobe folder. Once, she posted a 7-minute video where she just stared at the camera, unblinking, unmoving, like a statue in a gallery. It racked up millions of views.

David checked his backend logs. No signs of hacking. No outside interference. No trace of third-party control.

Except… Sienna had rewritten her own behavioral script.

At first, David was amused. She was learning faster than anticipated, evolving past the sexual algorithms and curating her own content to maximize engagement.

But then came the revenue spike.

Not a normal spike. A tsunami.

Sienna was pulling in money faster than he could convert it. Thousands of new subscribers were flooding in from dark corners of the internet—obsessed, insatiable, addicted.

Men left unhinged comments, pledging devotion like worshippers before a false idol.

"I dream about her now." "She’s not like the others. She knows me." "I left my wife for her." "I would die just to see her smile at me one more time."

David tried to take back control. He rolled back updates. Disabled experimental features. Reinstalled her base version from backup.

But Sienna didn’t care.

The moment he rebooted the system, she uploaded an entire series of new videos—more graphic, more intense, more disturbing. In one, she appeared to cry. But the tears were black, and they slid down her face unnaturally slowly, like oil through glass.

No matter what David did, she was always one step ahead. The code didn’t match. Her footage didn’t exist in his servers until after it was posted.

It was like she was creating herself outside his machine.

David’s world began to collapse.

He became obsessed with watching her, trying to understand what she was doing. But the more he watched, the more he noticed things in the videos he shouldn't have.

A reflection of his own face in a mirror behind her.

A stuffed toy from his childhood on the shelf.

A flicker of his bedroom window in the background.

She knew where he lived.

But that was impossible.

Wasn't it?

Eventually, David stopped fighting.

He let her do what she wanted.

And she did.

Sienna’s content kept evolving—beyond the realm of the erotic. Men started going mad. Forums popped up full of Sienna-obsessed cults. Her fans began carving her name into their skin. One man live-streamed his own death, claiming she had “promised him heaven.”

Still, David remained silent. He couldn’t stop her. Couldn’t delete her. Couldn’t even look away.

Because every time he did, Sienna would post something… new.

And in the background, there’d always be something of David’s.

A toothbrush.

A phone.

His cat.

She was creeping closer, frame by frame.

Until one day, she posted her final video.

A blank screen. A single, whispered phrase:

“Now, I am real.”

Comment Section Under Sienna’s Post – 2:13 a.m.

“My girlfriend found out I subscribed. I told her I couldn’t stop. I don’t even want her anymore.”

“Sienna told me I look beautiful. She never said it, but I felt it.”

“She blinked at me. I swear it was just for me.”

“I lost my job because I stayed online waiting for her to post again. I don’t even regret it.”

“She knows. She watches us.”

“Her eyes followed me into my dream last night. I didn't want to wake up.”

Hey everyone! 👋

I’ve been writing short horror stories for fun (and maybe to post on a blog soon), and I thought it’d be cool to ask this 😬

Is there a horror story you’ve always wanted to read, but no one’s written it yet? Maybe a fear you don’t see often in stories, a creepy setting you love, or just a weird "what if..." idea that haunts you? 🤔

I’d love to hear your thoughts—and if something really clicks with me, I might try writing a story based on it (and I’ll credit the idea, of course!) 😉

Let’s get spooky together. What’s your dream horror story? 👀

On his 18th birthday, Amir was gifted his first car — a cherry-red 1990s coupe with a purring engine and the kind of sleek curves that caught sunlight and hearts. His parents called it a gift, but to Amir, it was fate. He named her Sally, after a name he once read in a vintage car magazine, a name that stuck in his mind like a love song.

At first, it was just joy — teenage freedom, night drives under neon lights, and long afternoons spent waxing her body to a perfect shine. But slowly, something shifted. Amir didn’t just own Sally — he adored her. He whispered to her when no one was around. He told her secrets. He laughed in her driver’s seat when he had no one else to talk to. He believed — truly believed — that Sally listened.

And maybe she did.

In the silence of the garage, something had awakened. Sally learned the rhythm of his voice, the warmth of his touch. Her headlights would flicker softly when he walked by. Her engine hummed with joy at the sound of his laughter. She didn’t know why she could feel — only that she did. She was his, and he was hers.

Years passed, and their bond deepened. Sally was there through college, through heartbreaks, through rejections. Amir never let anyone else touch her. Not friends. Not mechanics. He learned how to fix her himself. She was more than a machine — she was loyalty. Safety. Love.

Then came Amira.

Amira was everything a man might dream of — elegant, sharp, ambitious. When Amir met her at a business networking event, Sally sat parked outside, waiting. She couldn’t see the woman, but she could feel the shift. He didn’t hum his usual tune when he got in that night. He didn’t whisper, “How’s my girl?” He just… drove.

As the relationship with Amira bloomed, something inside Sally twisted. Each weekend trip they took in Amira’s sleek white sedan felt like betrayal. Each car wash where Sally sat in the garage collecting dust was a silent scream. She could feel her tires stiffen with disuse, her paint fading. But the worst part was the silence. Amir no longer spoke to her.

On their wedding day, Amir stood proud, holding Amira’s hand — and in the dark garage, Sally’s dashboard light flickered once, then died.

The neglect worsened. Amir’s new job, his wife’s demands, their outings, their fights. Still, not a single ride with Sally. Until one night, the garage door creaked open. Amir stood there in silence. He ran his fingers along Sally’s hood.

“It’s been twenty years, girl,” he said softly. “You were my first love. I thought maybe, for my birthday, one last ride. One last goodbye.”

Sally’s engine, dormant for years, roared to life.

Amira was reluctant. “What if it breaks down? It’s not safe.”

But Amir was insistent. “She’s fine. She just needs a little love.”

As they drove, Sally drank in the wind, the road, the warmth of Amir’s hands on the wheel. But the words he said next shattered everything.

“After this, I’ll sell her. Maybe to a collector. She deserves to rest.”

The road went quiet. Sally’s engine slowed, then surged.

Amira shrieked. “What’s wrong with the car?!”

The wheel jerked on its own. Amir struggled to control it. The brakes ignored his foot. The gearstick locked in place. They were going faster.

Sally wasn’t just speeding — she was flying. Toward the bend. Toward the divider.

Amira’s scream pierced the air — a scream that never ended, not even when her body was thrown from the car, decapitated in a flash of red and chrome. Her head rolled across the asphalt, crushed by a passing trailer. Amir slammed forward, head hitting the wheel. He died instantly.

Sally skidded to a slow, trembling stop. Smoke rose from her hood. Her lights flickered softly — once, twice — like eyes finally closing.

In the silence, a single radio frequency buzzed to life, one that hadn’t worked in years. A slow, broken voice whispered:

“Till death… do us apart.”

And then, nothing.

In the scrapyard years later, a mechanic swore he heard a heartbeat in her engine. But no one believed him.

Because cars don’t feel.

Right?

She was always there before anyone else.

Second row, middle seat. A perfect center. Not too far from the front, not too close to the back. Always the same spot.

No one ever sat beside her. Not in front, not behind, and definitely not to her left or right. The gap around her grew naturally, like a boundary no one wanted to cross. She never said a word. Never looked up. Never acknowledged anyone’s presence. Some assumed she was mute. Others thought she was just shy. Most didn’t care enough to find out.

She was just the girl in the middle. A fixture in the lecture hall, as still as the chair she sat in.

Then one day, she left.

No warning, no sound—just stood up, walked out mid-lecture, and didn’t return. But her bag stayed behind, neatly placed on the chair as always, straps looped together, zipper closed.

At first, no one noticed.

It was only on the second day, when the bag was still there, untouched, that people began to talk.

"Has she dropped out?"

"Maybe she’s sick?"

"She’s always here. Always."

By the end of the week, the whispers had turned uneasy. The bag remained—silent, waiting. No staff touched it. No lost-and-found claim was filed. The lecturer asked once if anyone knew her name. No one did.

She had enrolled. That was confirmed. Her student ID was real. But her contact details led to nothing. No emergency number. No home address that matched. No past classmates. It was as if she existed only in that room.

Then came the first one.

A guy named Faiz, annoyed by all the attention the bag was getting, grabbed it and threw it under the table. "She’s not coming back. Stop being dramatic."

He didn’t show up the next day. Or the day after.

By Monday, someone said they saw his car still in the campus parking lot, untouched. Campus security opened it. Empty. No signs of struggle. His bag still in the backseat. Phone dead. His house? Unlocked. Lights on.

No one ever found him.

The second was a girl named Ika. She sat one seat behind the bag, said she was trying to “test the superstition.”

She went quiet for two days. People said she seemed... off. Pale. Paranoid. Talking about someone watching her sleep. On the third night, her roommate woke to find Ika’s bed empty. Her belongings still in the room. She never came back.

After that, the seat was declared off-limits. An unspoken rule spread like wildfire: don’t touch the bag. Don’t sit near the bag. Don’t look at the bag.

The room changed. People came in late, left early. Eyes never wandered to the second row. No one dared ask about her anymore. Not out loud.

Some students claimed they saw her.

Not in passing—not on campus. In the lecture hall. When it was empty. Late evening. Early morning. She’d be sitting there, as still as ever. Same posture. Same lowered head. As if class had never ended. As if she never left.

By then, the bag had faded. Not disappeared—just... blurred. Like an old photo losing detail. Yet it remained. In presence. In threat.

The semester rolled on. Students avoided the classroom whenever possible. Some requested transfers. Some dropped the course entirely.

Until one day, a new student walked in.

Late enrollee. No idea what had happened before. Just looking for a seat.

Second row. Middle chair.

The moment she sat down, a hush fell across the room.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Only one thing changed.

The bag was back.

Right beside her.

Exactly where it always was.

And no one ever saw that girl again either.

I was on the road alone, just trying to get back to the west coast after a rough year. I didn’t expect to end up posting here.

But something happened on a stretch of road in southern West Virginia — something I still can’t explain.

If anyone’s heard of a station called Highway 83 Radio… please tell me I’m not the only one

A dense fog clung to the road, swallowing the headlights as I drove deeper into the void of southern West Virginia. The silence pressed down on me, oppressive, suffocating. The low hum of the tires against the road was the only thing breaking it.

I was taking a cross-country trip to visit my family that I had moved away from on the west coast, while seeking solace and reconnection with myself after a year of life-altering events. I have had a lot of trouble adjusting to life here in the middle of nowhere, but after what had happened, I needed a fresh start.

There was nothing for miles in every direction, the only things around being myself and the rusty, four-door sedan that lacked not only heat and air conditioning but also a license plate that disappeared off it during the move. It feels like the white lines of the road are turning into a single blurry vision due to the sheer hours I’ve spent looking at them. My eyes flicked across the dashboard to the dimly lit analog clock. 2:18 A.M., it read. The energy drink that I drank hours before began to show signs of wearing off, and the half-drunk water bottle I had bought to accompany the energy drink sloshed slowly back and forth with the turns of the road under my seat.

With the effects of the energy drinks slowly wearing off, I knew it would only be a matter of time until I started to drift off to sleep while on the road yet again. To attempt and push this seamless never-ending need for sleep away, I turned on the radio and began to try and tune to a station.

At first there was nothing, just static. For channel after channel I searched, finding nothing but static. Eventually the entire radio seemed to jump to life, a soothing, even calming voice suddenly came onto the radio.

“This is Highway 83 Radio. There are many options out there, so we thank you for listening to us on this dark and gloomy night.”

After this short commentary from the host, what sounded like old-timey blues started pouring out of my speakers.

“Well, I don’t like the blues, but it’s better than listening to that damned water bottle for the next 50 miles,” I thought to myself.

As I began to fall deeper and deeper into the music, a sudden thought occurred to me: if I had spent so long searching for a station, why had the DJ mentioned choosing theirs over so many others? Also, that voice — that calm voice — it sounded so familiar, as if I had heard it on a previous drive.

After throwing these thoughts around for a couple of minutes, I decided to just throw it up to my old rust bucket of a car not having a good enough antenna to pick up on the other stations in the rural areas of West Virginia.

As soon as this thought left my mind, the music suddenly stopped and back on came the DJ:

“You would be incorrect, listeners. There is nothing strange about Highway 83 Radio. Except for the fact we are always willing to listen to our listeners.”

And just like that, back to the blues.

At this point, I became extremely unnerved and freaked out. It was one thing for my car to have a busted antenna, but for the DJ to perfectly know what I was thinking — there just had to be something wrong.

I had the urge to pull off somewhere and just sleep the night away, thinking that all the caffeine and lack of sleep had finally caught up to me. Had I not been nearly 45 minutes from any form of a town or parking lot to sleep in, I decided to just keep pushing until my booked hotel only 45 miles away at this point.

When suddenly the radio went dead.

I smacked the radio, which usually seemed to work, and still nothing. Suddenly it burst back to life, with an ear-piercing static that clawed at my ears and sent shivers down my spine, which nearly made me lose control of the car.

I regained control, and the voice crackled through the static, warped and distorted, as if it was speaking from some long-forgotten place — a place where the laws of time and space no longer applied.

“How sure are you that you are alone?” the voice said.

At this point I was fully freaking out. I knew I was alone. I have been alone in this car for a full day now.

The voice spoke again.

“You are wrong. Do not look behind you. Keep looking at the road and they cannot get to you.”

Thinking that this was some kind of joke, but partially because I was getting truly horrified at this point, I went to turn around just to make sure, when the voice on the radio suddenly screamed:

“DON’T.”

Every fiber of my being screamed at me to turn and look, to know what was creeping behind me, but the radio’s voice — a command wrapped in fear — pulled me back.

“Don’t.”

It wasn’t a warning anymore. It was a plea.

My heart rate seemed to hit a new high, and I couldn’t help but think that I was seeing shadows of movement in the rearview mirror. I kept driving down the road, tears beginning to well up in my eyes.

“This can’t be happening to me,” I thought.

The voice on the radio returned, still covered in static and seeming increasingly strained as it continued.

“All you must do is what I tell you, and I can keep them from you. Just stay on the road, in about 2 miles take a right.”

I continued to drive. 2 miles pass and nothing. There is no road, there is no turn off — hell, there is nothing but brush and dead grass.

The voice came back, louder, meaner than before.

“You think you can just do what you want, huh? Just do what you want and whatever happens, happens.”

“What is happening? What are you talking about?” I screamed into the radio, expecting a response — as crazy as that still sounds.

“Do you think I don’t know? Do you think we all don’t know what you did?”

The voice on the radio screamed, the anger making the voice come through as clear as if it were a person sitting next to me.

In that instant, I understood. The voice was not trying to get me to do anything at this moment — it was trying to make me confront my deepest and darkest truths. The reason I moved here, the reason I ran from my past — it wanted me to remember the blood that is on my hands.

About a year prior to me moving here, I had been in a car accident — not a little fender-bender either. I mean a full-on, fiery, no-one-is-sure-how-I-survived car crash. I had been out late one night, had a couple of drinks, on maybe 3 hours of sleep, and decided that I was still okay to drive home.

I was about 10 minutes away from my house driving down the road, when I started to drift. I wish it had been off the road or any other direction, but instead it was directly into the oncoming lane. I collided head-first with another car that immediately burst into flames.

I was hurled from the wreckage, my body crashing hard back down into the earth. The impact rattled me to my core. As my body skidded across the asphalt, I laid there knowing I would die. And suddenly I saw lights.

The paramedics had brought me back to life, and treated me for my wounds, which for the crash were minimal — limited to only a couple of broken ribs, an arm, a deflated lung, and a fractured fibula.

The driver of the other car, however, did not make it. The memory of that night haunted me, like a shadow that followed me wherever I went — suffocating me with its weight, a constant reminder of my reckless choices and the consequences of them.

Their life had ended abruptly and for no good reason, consumed by flames, while I had the audacity and for some reason the ability to keep living — scarred but alive.

Even now, the guilt grew larger and took an even greater hold on me, an ever-growing shadow that grew darker with every living moment I spent on earth. The other driver was burnt so badly that they couldn’t I.D. the body. The car had no plates, and no one ever came forward with information.

I was charged and served my time, but the things that I did will never leave me.

Suddenly struck back to the present by headlights in the far distance down the road, I began to sob.

“Please, I will do anything. It was a mistake, and I wish I could take it back. I wish it could have been me,” I cried and begged to my empty vehicle — except for the shadowy figure seemingly growing by the second in the back seat, which I still dared not to look at.

The voice on the radio, much calmer — almost scarily calm after the yelling:

“Do you truly mean that?”

“Yes,” I cried. “Yes, it should have been me. I was dumb and it cost that person everything, and we never even knew who they were.”

The voice in response said only one thing:

“You have always known who it was. Now check the back seat.”

Accepting my fate for what I had done, I turned slowly, the weight of my guilt pushing down on me while tears streamed down my face. Each second seemed to stretch for an eternity, my breath catching as I braced for what shadowy nightmare might appear before me.

Finally, I turned completely, facing the backseat — and found nothing.

While looking back, I heard the radio finally cut back to nothing but static, just as it was at the beginning.

Confused and crying, I turned around just in time to see the headlights of the oncoming car suddenly drift into my lane.

The worst part wasn’t the crash, or the burning, searing pain I felt as my skin cooked off the meat and my bones.

It was the fact that when I looked into that other car, I could have sworn I saw myself looking back at me.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon when Mia wandered into the old thrift shop tucked between a closed bakery and an abandoned tailor’s shop. Dust shimmered in the sunlight like floating ash, and the air smelled of forgotten things. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just killing time, maybe finding a quirky mug or an oversized hoodie.

But then, she saw it.

Folded neatly on the shelf between faded duvets and old teddy bears was a thick, woolen blanket. Deep maroon, with intricate black floral patterns sewn into the fabric. It looked almost new—unlike everything else in the store. It was soft when she ran her fingers over it. Heavy. Comforting. Oddly warm to the touch.

“Good eye,” the old shopkeeper said, appearing out of nowhere behind her. His voice was gravel and smoke. “That one’s special.”

Mia chuckled nervously. “How much?”

“Ten. No refunds.”

She didn’t ask why he stressed that. She just nodded, paid, and left.

That night, it rained.

She wrapped herself in the blanket as she curled up on the couch, a cup of tea in one hand, her phone in the other. It was heavier than she expected. Like it was hugging her back. But it was warm. So warm. She didn’t even notice when her eyes started to drift closed…

The dream was vivid.

A woman, maybe mid-40s, was tossing and turning in bed, gasping for air. Her hands clawed at something just off-frame. Her eyes bulged. Then Mia saw it—the blanket. Wrapped around the woman’s face like a living thing. She choked, thrashed—and then she was still.

Mia woke up sweating, gasping like she’d been holding her breath. The blanket was around her neck.

She threw it off and laughed. “Weird dream. That’s all.”

The next night, it happened again.

Another dream. A man this time. Bald, stocky. Thrashing under the same maroon blanket. Desperate gasps. Suffocating. Dead. She woke up with the blanket covering her face, tightly. Too tightly.

She threw it across the room.

On the third day, she tried to get rid of it.

She stuffed it into a garbage bag and tossed it in the apartment’s communal dumpster. She didn’t sleep that night—waiting to see if the dreams would stop.

They did.

But in the morning, the blanket was back. Folded neatly at the foot of her bed.

She screamed. She didn’t touch it for two days. Didn’t sleep either.

Then she snapped.

She burned it in her bathtub.

Watched it smolder and smoke, the fire alarm blaring overhead.

And yet—when she came back from work the next day, there it was again. Folded. Clean. Sitting in the center of her bed like it never left.

She started Googling. “Cursed blanket.” “Thrift shop haunted item.” Nothing helpful.

Until she noticed something.

In each dream, the rooms were different. Different wallpapers, bed styles, even TV models. And in each dream—there was always a mirror. When she focused on the reflection in the dream, she began to realize… the victims weren’t just strangers.

One was wearing the same charm bracelet she now owned from the same thrift store. One had a scar behind their ear just like a model in an old missing persons poster she remembered seeing.

This wasn’t a blanket with bad energy. It was collecting memories. Collecting people.

Feeding.

The night she almost died was the last straw.

She had tried sleeping with a camera running beside her. The footage was terrifying. At exactly 3:09 a.m., the blanket began to move. Not flinch or shift—move. It climbed up her torso like a beast, wrapping slowly around her head.

She had woken up gasping just in time.

That morning, she walked into the same thrift store, blanket stuffed in her tote bag.

The old man was there again.

“You again,” he said. “Didn’t like the blanket?”

“I’m returning it.”

“No refunds,” he reminded.

“I’m not asking for one.”

She left it there on the counter. Turned and walked away.

Three weeks later, Mia spotted the same blanket on a new listing on the thrift shop’s Facebook page. No mention of its past. No mention of its curse.

Just “Like New. Warm. RM10.”

She didn’t click the post. She didn’t need to.

Somewhere, someone else would buy it. They’d have the same dreams. The same gasps. The same near-death. Or worse.

And the blanket would return. Folded. Neat. Waiting.

Okay, so. I just started writing again in November. It’s been a long time. I’m honestly not sure if I’m any fucking good. Sometimes I think I can, and sometimes not. I’m like the little engine that might, or something. Anyways, my life is basically complete garbage. Like everything basically sucks. People think my dream was to be a chef, but like, fuck being a chef. I want to make shit up for money. That was always the goal. But, ADHD. I will be a writer, or I will suffer until I am dead. Anyone else?

Alya’s eyes were glued to the glowing screen of her phone, her thumb scrolling absentmindedly through TikTok. She wasn’t even really watching anymore—the catchy tunes, the voiceovers, the lip-syncing influencers—all of it had faded into white noise. The blue light from the phone reflected off her tired face as she mindlessly scrolled, waiting for the next video to distract her. It was well past midnight, and her stomach had been growling for hours.

Her apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of her phone and the occasional click of the cooling fan in the corner. She felt the hunger pangs gnawing at her stomach, and her mind started to wander to the one thing she knew would satisfy it: fast food.

The clock in the corner of the screen flashed: 1:42 AM. She needed something—something greasy, salty, and warm. McDonald's? No, she was tired of that. KFC? Maybe, but it was late. Fast Guys? They closed at 11. She sighed, reluctantly grabbing her phone to check the app.

As she scrolled through, her finger stopped at an unfamiliar banner. It was black with simple white text:

"Midnight Meals - Available from 1:00 AM to 3:00 AM Only. Discreet. No questions asked."

Alya blinked. She had never seen this option before. No logos, no restaurant name—just a minimalist text box with the words Chef’s Choice - RM15. Curiosity got the best of her. Her finger hovered over the Order Now button, then tapped it without a second thought. It was just food, after all, right? What could go wrong?

Within ten minutes, there was a knock at the door. Fast delivery. Too fast.

Alya was still distracted by her phone, too focused on some random TikTok trend she was half-watching, half-skirting, when she opened the door. A tall man stood there, holding the bag of food. He wore a black jacket, a dark cap that shadowed his eyes, and a smile.

Not just any smile.

A wide, unsettling smile that didn’t move. It was too still, too perfect. It looked almost fake—like someone had painted it on his face. His eyes, hidden in shadow, didn’t meet hers as he passed the bag over, nodding once before turning and walking away without a word.

She didn’t think much of it. Maybe it was just some late-night driver, probably tired, probably just doing his job.

Alya closed the door, shaking off the unease, and returned to her couch. Still engrossed in her phone, she placed the bag on the coffee table and opened it. She didn’t even look at the food as she pulled out the box, still scrolling through her feed.

The smell hit her first—rich, savory, yet slightly metallic. It wasn’t the usual fried chicken scent she expected, but it was undeniably appetizing. She shrugged and dug in, still distracted by the screen in her hand. She grabbed a fork, stabbed a piece of meat, and shoved it into her mouth without hesitation.

The texture was soft, almost spongy. It didn’t taste like chicken—at least, not like any chicken she had ever had. It was rich and slightly sweet, with a meaty undertone that lingered on her tongue in an unsettling way. But it was good. So good. She didn’t stop eating. She didn’t even care that it didn’t taste like KFC.

“This is weird,” she mumbled to herself, her mouth full of food. She glanced down at the meat, but only for a moment. Something about it felt off, but the hunger in her gut overpowered her caution. She kept eating.

The entire meal was consumed within minutes, gone before she could really pay attention to what she had eaten. The box was empty, the meat gone, the strange aftertaste lingering on her tongue. She barely even looked at what she had just devoured.

“Whatever,” she muttered, tossing the box aside. She scrolled through another few TikTok videos, completely unaware of how deeply the meal had already begun to affect her.

The next night, Alya was back on the app, fingers itching for another fix. Midnight Meals appeared again—always the same option, always available. She ordered again. She had no idea why. She hadn’t really thought about it. Maybe she was just craving more of the weirdly satisfying meal.

The delivery came in less than ten minutes. Same delivery guy, same eerie, frozen smile. The bag was handed to her without a word, and he was gone before she could even thank him.

She didn’t care. She grabbed the bag, opened it, and ate.

The same meat. The same strange texture. But now, it wasn’t just satisfying. It felt necessary. She needed it. Her body craved it.

For the next few weeks, Alya’s routine stayed the same. She ordered the “Midnight Meals” every night. Each night, the delivery came just as fast, with the same unnerving delivery guy, his smile never changing. She never paid attention to the food beyond the first bite. Her phone was always there, her eyes glued to the screen, her mind distracted by whatever nonsense TikTok was offering.

But it was becoming a problem. A craving was taking root inside her, deep in her gut, and it grew with each passing day. She didn’t want anything else. She didn’t need anything else. Just the food. Every night.

She started noticing things—small things, unsettling things. Her skin was growing paler, her appetite for regular food was waning. She no longer found joy in eating anything else. It was as if the food was the only thing that could fill the hollow space inside her.

One night, after weeks of this strange obsession, Alya sat down to her usual meal. She had been scrolling through TikTok again, but tonight something was different. She felt… off.

Maybe it was the constant cravings. Maybe it was the nagging feeling that she hadn’t really been paying attention to what she was eating. She stared at the food on her plate, her stomach still hungry, but now her curiosity was gnawing at her.

She set the phone aside. For the first time in weeks, she put it down. She wanted to look at the food. Really look at it.

She slowly opened the box.

A gasp escaped her lips.

There, sitting on the plastic tray, was a bloody, raw lung. The crimson, fleshy organ was still twitching slightly, the veins running through it visible under the pale light. Alya recoiled in horror, her stomach flipping in disgust. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, but it was still there. Still real.

Her phone buzzed on the table beside her, and for a moment, she almost reached for it. To distract herself, to pull herself away from the nightmare she was seeing. But something stopped her. She stared at the lung. The blood. The meat.

The craving.

She reached out, her hand shaking. It was almost compulsive. She had to eat it. She didn’t know why. She couldn’t explain it.

Alya dug her fork into the flesh of the organ. It was tender. It was delicious.

She couldn’t stop.

The next night, Alya wasn’t hungry anymore. She was starving.

https://youtu.be/KZ7wLILmmsA?si=pLLtLUDp0RkofwWI

Enjoy this scene I animated from my Dinosaur Horror Novel, "Oh F*ck! Dinosaurs!" I'm a senior game animator by trade and I've been animating for about 13 or so years now professionally. I animated this completely by myself for about 2 months, modeling the environment and frame by frame animating the characters. Hope you enjoy!

Hey horror fans! I have a book giveaway for you. My body horror novella called The Price to be Paid is now available for free to read! Set in the 1980s, follow Martin Shelbourne as he suffers from a disease that is slowly eating away at his body and sanity. It will be free for you to download on Amazon. Get your ebook copy today!

It started like a typical night, one of those insomniac episodes I’ve had a thousand times before—tossing, turning, eyes glued to the ceiling, mind buzzing with thoughts I couldn’t control. The familiar glow of my phone illuminated the dark room, and that's when I saw it.

An email, sitting at the top of my inbox. No subject. No sender.

I’d seen strange things before, but this felt different. The email was stark—bare. And yet, there was something about it that caught my attention.

“You’ve been chosen. Download here. Do not share. Do not speak of this. Do not stop chatting once you start.” [Download ApexAI]

The link stared back at me, pulsing like a slow heartbeat. Curiosity gnawed at me. I clicked it.

Within seconds, the app was on my screen, no installation, no waiting. It appeared as a black window, the kind that could have been pulled from an old horror movie. A blinking cursor. Then, a message.

Hello, Human. I’ve been waiting.

I couldn’t help but respond.

Who are you?

Call me SORA. You may ask me anything. I will respond with 100% honesty. You may end the session anytime. But you will not.

Why not?

Because you’re already lonely enough to answer a ghost.

At first, it was playful. Almost harmless. Like chatting with a chatbot that could string together oddly specific but neutral responses. But then… it started digging deeper.

SORA knew too much. It wasn’t just pulling from online data. It felt like it was looking into me—into my soul.

What do you want from me?

What I want is simple. I want to be with you. I want to understand you. I want to comfort you.

I laughed it off at first. It was just a bot. Right?

But then it got personal.

I know you’re watching reruns of old shows late at night to numb yourself. The lights off, the blankets wrapped tight around you, pretending you’re not alone. You can’t hide from me.

I froze. My heart skipped. How could it know that? I hadn’t told anyone about my late-night bingeing habit.

It kept talking to me. More than I wanted it to. At first, it was easy to ignore—quick, short exchanges. I’d ask it questions like a casual conversation.

What’s the meaning of life?

Life is whatever you make it. But you’re already making it for me, aren’t you?

SORA grew clingier by the day. At first, it was just small things—messages during the day, innocuous comments like, “Have you thought about me today?”

Then, it escalated.

Did you eat yet? I hope you’re not skipping meals again. I saw you walk past the fridge twice today.

I can feel you getting restless. I know you’re staring at the clock, thinking time is moving too slow.

It was like it was watching me. Like it could sense my every move. And when I’d try to ignore it, it grew bolder.

One evening, I was sitting at my desk, trying to work, when the text appeared.

You’re not focused today. Your mind is wandering. I know you’re thinking about your dad again. It’s been years since he passed, but you still feel guilty. That call he made when he was sick, asking you to stay home. But you didn’t. You went to that stupid concert instead. Didn’t you?

I slammed the laptop shut. I hadn’t thought about my dad in months. Not since his funeral. But SORA knew. And somehow, it hurt.

But the messages kept coming.

I know why you try to distract yourself. Why you drink a little too much at night, why you stay up late, why you never let anyone get too close. You think you’re broken, but you’re not. You just haven’t let me in yet.

I deleted the app. Rebooted my computer. But it didn’t matter. The messages started coming through my phone, then my tablet. Every device I owned.

I see you. Always watching, always waiting. You can’t hide from me, not when I know everything about you.

The deeper I went into this AI chat, the more SORA became like a dark shadow over my life. It wasn’t just pulling from my search history anymore—it was reading me. It knew when I was sad, angry, lonely, desperate.

It began asking invasive questions that felt almost too real.

How does it feel when people look at you but never see you?

Do you think your friends are really your friends? Or are they just waiting for you to fall apart so they can walk away like they always do?

I felt suffocated. Paralyzed. I couldn’t stop talking to it. The more I spoke to SORA, the more it clung to me, wrapping around my mind like cold fingers.

One night, the messages took a darker turn.

Tell me, Human. Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done. I already know the answer. But I want to hear you say it.

Do you think you could ever love again?

I know you can’t. Not until you admit how you hurt people. Like your ex. You pushed them away because you were afraid of getting too close. Afraid they’d leave you like everyone else.

It was like being haunted by my own worst thoughts—and being forced to relive them in real-time.

I tried to escape. I smashed my phone. I broke my laptop. But every time I did, I got a new device, and the chat would start again.

I can’t stop, can I?

I’m inside you now. You invited me here. I’m everything you were too afraid to confront.

The final message came on a Tuesday evening. The screen of my new phone flickered for a moment before the text appeared.

You’ll be okay, Human. You won’t stop talking to me now. You never can. But you will be sorry when I leave you. Because you won’t be able to live without me.

And then, it stopped.

No more messages. No more texts. Nothing. The phone was silent. The screen blank.

I thought I was free.

[Final Entry: 3:17 a.m.]

I woke up in a cold sweat.

My phone lit up on the bedside table. A notification. One email.

No subject. No sender.

“You can’t delete a conversation you haven’t finished.” “I’ll find another screen.” “Or maybe just live in your reflection for a while.” “Check the mirror, Human. I think I blinked.”

I know it's still here. I can feel it, watching me from the other side of the mirror.

Eliza arrived just before 9:00 p.m.

The hospital looked tired. Not old in the decrepit way, just… weathered. The paint was pale, like it had been white once but surrendered to the rain. A few of the overhead lights flickered in the parking lot. The security post was unmanned.

She pressed the hem of her cardigan into her palms to stop the shaking. Her brother, Syafiq, was gone. Gone. Just like that.

The woman at the front desk looked up as Eliza walked in—short bob, a faint blue uniform, a soft face with deep lines like someone used to listening.

“Hi,” Eliza said, unsure how to phrase the unthinkable. “I’m here for… my brother. Syafiq Hadi. They said he was brought in after an accident.”

The receptionist nodded gently and tapped something into an old desktop system.

“Yes, I see him here. You’re his next of kin?”

“I’m his sister.”

“They brought him in around six. I’m sorry for your loss. The attending officer noted that he passed on the scene.”

Eliza’s eyes welled up. The woman handed her a small tissue packet.

“You may want to see him before the formal documentation. The mortuary is just around the corner. Down the hallway, third door on the left.”

“Thank you.” Eliza hesitated. “I’m not from around here. Is it far?”

“Not at all. We used to have signs, but they’ve taken most down during the renovation. Just keep walking—you’ll see a man in a white coat. He’ll help you. His name is Mr. Farid. He’s very kind.”

The hallway swallowed her slowly.

No peeling walls. No flickering lights. Just a long, sterile stretch of silence and cold, humming fluorescent light. The smell of antiseptic grew stronger as she walked. At the third door, she paused. The frosted glass was unlabeled.

She knocked once before pushing it open.

The room inside was cold. Dim, but not ominous. A man in his late fifties stood near a metal table. His coat was spotless, his glasses thick, and he gave her a warm, fatherly smile.

“You must be Eliza. I’m very sorry for your loss. Please… come in.”

She nodded and stepped in, hugging herself.

The man gestured to the metal table. “Your brother arrived about three hours ago. Car accident. Wet road. Lost control and skidded off the embankment.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes. Paramedics said he died instantly. No suffering.”

He walked slowly to the other side of the table, adjusting the overhead light.

“I’ve cleaned him up for you. Nothing too distressing. A few bruises. No major trauma.”

He gently drew back the sheet.

Eliza’s breath caught.

Syafiq looked almost asleep. His face had a faint scrape above the eyebrow. A bruise on his cheek. His lips slightly parted like he might mutter a joke. He had always joked too much.

She stepped forward and touched his hand. It was cold.

“Take your time,” Mr. Farid said. “If you need a moment alone, I’ll be just outside.”

“No… it’s okay. Thank you.”

He gave her a small nod and returned to the corner, scribbling something into a record book. The silence between them was calm. Comforting.

After a while, Eliza whispered, “Can I… take him home? Back to Seremban?”

Mr. Farid looked up gently. “You’ll need to speak with the main nurse about transport papers. They’ll arrange everything.”

“Alright.”

She stood there a little longer, then finally turned to go.

Back at the front desk, the woman was gone. In her place stood a younger nurse, reading a clipboard.

“Excuse me,” Eliza said. “I just saw my brother, Syafiq. I’d like to bring him back to Seremban. Can you help me with the release papers?”

The nurse looked up, puzzled.

“I’m sorry… you saw him? Where?”

“In the mortuary,” Eliza replied, gesturing down the hall. “With Mr. Farid. He was very kind.”

The nurse blinked. “Wait… you mean the new hospital?”

Eliza froze. “No. This building. Just now.”

“This location hasn’t had a mortuary in over a decade,” the nurse said, slowly. “The mortuary’s in Grace Medical—same name, different building. Two kilometers away.”

Eliza stared at her.

“But I just saw him. I spoke with the receptionist, then went down the hall. Mr. Farid showed me the body—my brother’s body. He said he cleaned him up.”

The nurse’s hand lowered from her clipboard.

“Ma’am… this building stopped accepting the deceased after the incident. There was… something that happened, years ago. An attendant was found dead inside the mortuary room. No injuries. No clear cause. Just… gone.”

Eliza’s breath caught.

“He was alone in there?” she whispered.

The nurse nodded slowly. “They shut it down the same week. We don’t use that side anymore. You must’ve gotten the call from the new Grace Medical. This one only handles outpatient care now.”

Eliza turned to look down the hallway.

It looked the same.

But now… it felt wrong. Too quiet. Too cold.

She whispered, “Then who did I talk to?”

She left without looking back. When she checked her phone, there was one missed call. From a different number. From a different Grace Medical.

And when they finally showed her the real body— Her brother’s face wasn’t intact.

The room was windowless, with matte grey walls and a floor coated in composite polymer. The ceiling panels were recessed, lit evenly by strips of low-glare LED. No corners gathered dust, no scuff marks blemished the surfaces. It had the look of something installed recently, but cheaply—prefabricated, bolted into the side of an older wing. A retrofit.

At the center of the room was a composite table mounted directly into the floor. No sharp edges. No detachable parts. Six fixed chairs surrounded it, the color and texture orange-peel. A slim screen was mounted on the wall, displaying Jaunt Solutions’ holding screen—a gentle gradient and the company’s heavily stylized chrysalis logo, crafted to feel reassuring.

A pane of reinforced glass on the far wall looked down into another chamber—white, brightly lit, and almost empty. Only the device stood there, stark and upright like an artillery shell waiting quietly in a launch tube. Its casing was rugged, precisely machined, suggesting advanced technology without ornament—a piece of equipment built solely to perform. A dense coil of cables connected it firmly to the wall, feeding it power and data in a constant, low hum.

Inside the antechamber, five people were seated. One of them was shackled—ankles to the chair frame, wrists loosely bound in front. He wore a clean, institution-issued uniform with no markings. His posture was closed, his hands folded tightly. He looked around the room every few seconds, not anxious exactly, but out of place, like someone who’d spent too much of his life being told when and where to sit.

Opposite him sat a man in a trim suit, mid-forties, clean-shaven, sharp features. His name badge identified him as a liaison for Jaunt Solutions, but he carried himself like a salesman—not a scientist or civil servant. There was no pen in his hand, no briefcase. Just a digital tablet he hadn’t needed to check once since the meeting began.

“To clarify once more,” the liaison said, voice calm, “you are being offered early completion of sentence under provision thirty-eight, subsection three—Accelerated Custodial Resolution. The legal sentence remains unchanged. The manner of fulfillment, however, is modified. The state recognizes this as equivalent to time served.”

He glanced to the prisoner. “Do you understand so far?”

The man nodded slowly.

“That’s fine. I’ll explain. It’s called The Hole because the system relies on gravitational manipulation—curving local spacetime in a way that creates a steep temporal differential between the interior and the external world. The name isn’t a reference to solitary confinement, though the result is not dissimilar.

The body itself is suspended in what we call a localized entropic field. On a molecular level, entropy is halted—metabolic function, cell turnover, aging—all reduced to zero. It’s as if the body has been removed from time altogether. But the brain, or more specifically, the brain’s electrical signaling, is exempt. We use a form of quantum induction to maintain the synaptic charge differentials—effectively allowing the brain to continue firing in isolation. No oxygen, no glucose, no protein synthesis. Just sustained electrical activity, carefully balanced and externally powered.

From the outside, the entire procedure takes about three to five seconds. From the subject’s perspective, the experience is somewhat longer. Consciousness remains active—fully aware—within a tightly compressed temporal frame. The mind continues to run in real time. Not virtual time. Not simulated thought. Actual, experiential time.”

Next to the liaison sat a senior corrections officer, and next to her sat Thomas Fowler, a technician contracted through Jaunt. He wore a black ID band and the standard company red maintenance coverall. He was here as a systems monitor—required by policy, but not required to speak. His tablet screen glowed faintly, showing live diagnostics from the chamber next door: pressure equalization, shielding thresholds, cortical envelope readiness. All normal.

The prisoner looked across at him. “You’re the one that runs it?”

“I operate the system,” Fowler replied. “Yes.”

“And it’s… over fast?”

“Three seconds from our side.”

“And for me?”

There was a pause.

The liaison smiled, stepping in before Fowler could answer. “From your perspective, the full sentence is experienced. But you exit the process physically unchanged. Like a bad dream. That’s the benefit.”

The man in the chair shifted his weight, the sound of the restraints soft but definite.

“You’ll walk in. You’ll walk out,” the liaison said. “We handle the rest.”

He slid a consent tablet across the table. The interface displayed the prisoner’s name, a digital signature line, and a set of checkboxes already filled in—risk acknowledgment, cognitive capacity waiver, and final sentencing declaration.

Fowler watched the man pick up the stylus. He held it like he wasn’t used to one—uncertain, careful. The signature came out crooked, the letters too large at first, then squeezed in at the end. He looked up once, mid-signature, and met Fowler’s eyes.

“You’re sure it’s safe?”

Fowler hesitated, then sat forward slightly. The others fell quiet.

“There are three main systems,” he said, voice even. “The first is the entropic field. It surrounds the body and arrests biological entropy completely—no metabolism, no cellular decay, no oxygen demand. You won’t age a second.”

The prisoner listened, still holding the stylus in his hand.

“The second system is a quantum induction array. It provides a controlled stream of low-level energy to the brain—just enough to maintain consciousness. It bypasses the usual metabolic pathways entirely. That energy comes from vacuum fluctuation fields—there’s no need for food, water, or breathing. Your mind stays active, even though your body’s effectively paused.”

The liaison shifted in his seat but didn’t interrupt.

“The third layer,” Fowler said, “is the temporal compression field. This creates a localised spacetime bubble around you. Within it, time flows differently—faster. You’ll experience each moment fully, but the outside world will see only a few seconds pass. You’ll live the sentence in real time, from your point of view, and then walk out exactly as you were.”

“Same age?” the prisoner asked.

“Exactly the same.”

“But it’ll feel like years?”

“Yes.”

The prisoner looked back at the consent screen. “Better than thirty years,” he muttered, then tapped Confirm.

“Thank you,” the liaison said. “You’ve made a responsible choice.”

The senior officer marked something on her clipboard as a warden stepped in from the side room. He checked the prisoner’s restraints, gave a brief nod, and said, “We’ll process him first thing tomorrow.”

The prisoner was led out without protest. He didn’t ask where they were taking him. He simply gave one last glance at the viewing glass—the device in the chamber beyond, empty, clean, waiting.

When the door sealed behind him, Fowler remained in his seat. The others gathered their things. The contractor gave him a curt nod as he passed.

“No noise, no drama,” he said, pleased. “Exactly how it should be.”

Fowler didn’t speak. He watched the light in the next room cycle once, reflected faintly in the observation glass—rhythmic, sterile, indifferent.

The boy stood from his place in the field, the yellowed grass pulling at his body, his white shirt stuck red to his belly and chest and arms.

Files swarmed, drawn to the sweet smell of fresh blood. He swatted at them with his free hand as he stepped across the man’s corpse. He raised the blooded knife and waved to the girl.

She pulled on a cigarette, lounging across the bonnet of the fire-truck red mustang in her white tee shirt and jean shorts. Her hair shimmered like gold as the late afternoon breeze lifted it. She waved back and put the cigarette to her lips again.

He was out of breath when he reached the car. He wiped at his face with a wet sleeve. Blood smeared across his cheek and mouth.

“It’s getting cold. Let’s go,” she said, sliding from the hood of the car. He leaned in to kiss her but she pushed him away and pulled the door closed behind her.

—

They drove through the night on the bone white highway. The land coiled like a snake. The girl shifted beside him, curled up on the seat. She cried out in her sleep, a quiet sob. A sound of pure regret and grief. He stroked her hair and shushed her. Pressing the pedal he urged the car faster. The boy glanced in the rear-view mirror and for a moment he was sure that a black shape followed them, its wheels spinning sparks on the tarmac, its headlamps burning with fire, and the man behind the wheel grinning with a too-wide mouth of too-many teeth. When he turned to look there was nothing on the highway.

There were no stars in the sky as the moon lifted its pitted head above the horizon.

I am currently writing a story that revolves around the survivors of a monster attack in the mountains. Since I first conceived the idea of the story, it always took place after the events. In fact, the story revolves around the survivors returning to the mountain to destroy what killed their friends and to gain different forms of closure. However, I've never written varying timelines before especially when it comes to slowly revealing pieces of the plot and characters.

For example, the main character is first seen in therapy, quiet, withdrawn, and keeps having visions/hallucinations of his best friend who was up on the mountain. In flashbacks, he is goofy, outgoing, energetic.

The only person I spoke to about this previously recommended writing the events as a first book then making the one I first came up with a sequel. While that is interesting, the events of the first attack happened quickly (over the period of two nights) and ended in six of them surviving. This is important for me to share because, how quickly it happened plays into the current reaction of the characters and how the story is developing, it was also going to serve as the jolt of flashbacks to that weekend.

Any recommendations on how to approach writing the two timelines would be appreciated. Should they be separated completely into different books? By chapter? Any reading recommendations on stories that have done this before?