Horror collection

The Last Train

Every Friday, at exactly 11:47 p.m., a train arrived at an abandoned railway station. It appeared on no timetable. No one knew where it came from. No one had ever seen anyone get off. And those who dared to board it were never seen again.

One cold October night, Lena decided to find out whether the stories were true.

The train appeared without warning. There was no screech of brakes, no rumble of an engine, not even the rush of wind that should have accompanied its arrival. It simply stopped, as though it had been there all along.

The doors slid open.

She stepped inside.

The carriage smelled of old wood and rain. Every seat was empty except one, occupied by an old man in a dark coat.

“Where is this train going?” she asked.

The old man kept his eyes on the window.

“Where the past and the future meet.”

Lena was about to ask another question when a newspaper on the seat beside her caught her attention.

The date read October 17, 2046.

Her photograph was on the front page. Beneath it, in bold letters, was the headline:

WOMAN MISSING FOR TWENTY YEARS FINALLY FOUND.

Her blood ran cold.

“That’s impossible,” she whispered.

The old man slowly turned toward her.

“More is possible than you think.”

Lena jumped to her feet and ran toward the doors, but the station was gone. Beyond the windows stretched nothing but endless darkness.

“Let me out!”

“I can’t,” the old man said quietly. “You already got off once.”

She froze.

“What does that mean?”

The old man raised his arm to straighten the sleeve of his coat.

That was when she saw the watch.

An old silver watch, its glass cracked in the exact spot where her father had once accidentally struck it against a doorframe. She would have recognized it anywhere.

It was her father’s watch.

The father she had buried three days earlier.

“Where did you get that?” she managed to ask.

The old man looked at her, and suddenly his eyes seemed painfully familiar.

“Lena,” he said, in a voice she would have recognized among a thousand others.

It was her father’s voice.

“Dad?”

The old man lowered his gaze.

“Don’t miss your stop this time.”

The lights in the carriage went out.

When they flickered back on, the seat across from her was empty.

Only the newspaper remained.

This time, the headline was different.

OCTOBER 17, 2026. YOUNG WOMAN FOUND DEAD AT ABANDONED RAILWAY STATION.

Her photograph appeared beneath the headline.

Lena felt her heart skip a beat as she read the final line:

“An old silver watch was found beside the body.”

She looked down at her hands.

The watch was now on her wrist.

Rosekeeper

On Monday, I found a dried rose on my nightstand.

Its edges had turned brown, and the petals were brittle enough to crumble between my fingers.

I didn't think much of it.

I keep old flowers—roses from birthdays, dates, and apologies I probably shouldn't have accepted. There's a vase full of them in the living room. I figured I'd moved one into the bedroom and forgotten about it.

On Tuesday, another rose appeared on my nightstand.

This one wasn't completely dry.

I checked the vase, but I couldn't tell whether any were missing. There were too many.

By Wednesday morning, a third rose was waiting for me.

Fresh.

A single drop of water still clung to its stem.

I threw away every dried flower in my apartment.

On Thursday morning, I found a fourth rose beside my bed.

Underneath it was a note.

You always keep the ones I give you.

I called the police.

They checked the locks, the windows, and the hallway security camera.

Nobody had entered my apartment during the night.

I didn't sleep that Thursday night.

I sat in bed with every light on, determined to stay awake until morning.

Nothing happened.

At some point, just before sunrise, I must have fallen asleep.

A faint sound woke me.

Not footsteps.

Not the door.

Something much closer.

A slow, dry rustling beneath the bed.

I held my breath and listened.

Then I noticed a fresh red rose lying on the floor beside my bed.

As I stared at it, another one slowly slid out from underneath...

Headphones Connected

Three months after my sister disappeared, the police returned her phone to me.

Last night, I woke up to a notification:

"Headphones connected."

The last time she was seen, she was wearing headphones...

Under the Bed

Every night, my daughter comes into my bed because she says someone is breathing underneath hers.

Tonight, I decided to check.

Under the bed was my daughter. She was trembling, holding a finger to her lips.

Behind me, I heard my daughter's voice:

"Mom, what are you looking at?"

The 3:14 Recording

This morning, I found a video on my phone recorded at 3:14 a.m.

It showed me asleep in bed, filmed from the doorway. For almost a minute, nothing happened. Then the camera turned toward the mirror.

Someone was holding my phone.

I immediately checked the front door.

It was still locked from the inside.

She's Here Again

My husband had just come home from the hospital after a serious car accident. For the first time in weeks, we were finally able to relax.

We were lying in bed, talking. My head rested on his chest, and his arm was wrapped around my waist.

Then, suddenly, he stopped speaking.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

His eyes were fixed on something behind me.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm not looking at you."

I laughed, thinking he was joking.

"Then what are you looking at?"

He didn't answer right away. He just pulled me a little closer.

"Don't turn around."

My smile disappeared.

"Stop it."

"I'm not joking."

He was still staring over my shoulder.

"Remember when you stayed at your parents' house a few weeks ago?"

I nodded.

"That night, I woke up and saw someone standing beside the bed. She looked exactly like you. She just stood there, watching me."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because I was convinced I'd dreamed it."

He paused.

"And then, the next morning, I had the accident I'm still recovering from. I didn't connect the two things back then."

His eyes shifted behind me again.

"But now she's here again."

I felt my heart racing.

"The same one?"

"The same one."

"What's she doing?" I asked.

He held me tightly against him, never taking his eyes off the space behind my back.

"Last time, she was looking at me... Now she's looking at you. And pointing straight at you."

Then he pulled me even closer and whispered so quietly I could barely hear him:

"And she's smiling."

The Reflection

Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I swear my reflection is a second behind me.

Tonight, the bathroom light flickered. I looked back at the mirror, startled.

My reflection smiled.

I didn't.

Don't Open the Door!

My mother died eight months ago. After the funeral, I couldn't bring myself to return to her house for a long time.

Eventually, I had to. I needed to pack up her belongings and decide what to do with the house.

On my first night there, I woke up to knocking.

It was around two in the morning. Three slow knocks on the front door. I waited. A minute later, it happened again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Then I heard a woman's voice.

"Sweetheart, open the door. I forgot my key."

It was my mother's voice.

Not someone who sounded like her. Her voice. The exact same tone, the same way she would draw out the last word whenever she wanted something from me.

I sat in bed, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. Then something struck me.

"Sweetheart."

That was what Mom always called my brother.

She had called me "Mouse" my entire life.

I didn't answer. The knocking stopped, and for a few seconds, the house was completely silent.

Then the voice came again.

"Mouse?"

I moved away from the door.

"Mouse, it's Mom. Open the door for me."

It didn't make the same mistake twice.

I called my brother, but he didn't answer. The voice kept calling me, growing softer, as though it were trying to persuade me to come closer to the door.

A few minutes later, my phone rang. My brother's name appeared on the screen. I answered and told him what was happening.

He was silent for a long time.

"Did you open it?"

I told him I hadn't.

"Good. Don't."

I asked him why. He went quiet again before finally saying:

"Because the same thing knocked on my door last night."

The knocking at my door stopped immediately. I didn't hear anything else until morning.

In the morning, I stepped onto the porch, but there was no sign that anyone had been there during the night.

My brother arrived around nine. While we were having coffee in the living room, I asked him:

"What did she say to you last night?"

"Who?"

"Mom. You said she knocked on your door too."

He stared at me for a few seconds.

"We didn't talk last night. What are you talking about?"

I showed him the call from 2:16 a.m. On my phone, it had lasted four minutes. On his, there was no record of it.

As we stared at our screens, three slow knocks came from the pantry door.

Then we heard our mother's voice.

"Mouse, come help me. Open the door."

My brother was standing right beside me. Neither of us moved.

Then, from behind my closed bedroom door, we heard his voice.

"Don't open it."

The Growling

My dog sleeps beside my bedroom door every night. Last night, I woke up to the sound of him growling in the hallway.

"Stop it," I mumbled.

Then I felt something move beneath the blanket. My dog was sleeping beside my feet.

The growling in the hallway stopped. For a few seconds, there was complete silence.

Then I heard someone whisper in my own voice:

"Stop it."

The dog beside my feet growled again.

But he wasn't looking toward the hallway.

He was staring underneath the bed.

The Family Drawing

My daughter drew our family at school today: me, her, our dog, and a tall black figure standing behind us.

"Who's that?" I asked.

She shrugged.

"The man who comes into my room at night to tell me when you're asleep."