5 Unforgettable Scary Short Stories (And My Own)

Love–hate relationships don’t apply only to humans. But to people and stories too.

That’s exactly how I feel about scary short stories.

As someone born in Transylvania, I guess I was bound to be as drawn to creepy stories as the maker of “The Haunting of Hill House” (Mike Flanagan), who was born in… wait for it… Salem, Massachusetts. Spooky tales, horror stories, whatever you want to call them, make me feel alive. Because, sadly, so many people die in them, I just want to go and live life to the fullest after reading or watching them. That’s the love part.

On the other hand, if they do their job well, horror stories make me scared of EVERYTHING. After all, you never know when:

• a malevolent “Leprechaun” might be out to get you
• some “Black Sheep” could turn into bloodthirsty killers
• a beloved pet who’s returned from the dead (“Pet Sematary” – never got the spelling of this one) triggers a heartbreaking chain of events, or
• dessert starts hunting you down (“Attack of the Killer Donuts”).

Right?

Check the end of this post for a link to the video version of it.

What Are the Most Unforgettable Scary Short Stories?

To put it simply, they are the ones that go beyond their obvious purpose, which is to scare the living daylights out of you.

The ones that explore dark corners of the human mind to reveal that none of us are angels.

The ones that dive deep into the “why”(s) behind a terrible thing so that, even if the reason doesn’t justify it, you at least know what caused the tragedy. I think people will always need that – in the absence of getting what they lost back.

The ones that ultimately show there’s the possibility of redemption for souls that have erred and are now rueful about it. No one should be deemed a lost cause.

Without further ado, here are 5 scary short stories to sink your teeth into.

Plus my own amateur one.

1. “Frankenstein” (Mary Shelley)

I’m going to start with an anomaly (a novel instead of a short story), but 288 pages full of fast-paced action, life lessons, and memorable lines (“I am malicious because I am miserable”) surely can’t be that bad?

Written by the dream-inspired wife of the equally creative poet Percy Shelley, this is about a nameless creature (let’s not call it “monster” please) that didn’t ask to be made, but did ask to be loved afterward. When denied his reasonable request, he wreaks havoc in his creator’s life.

It’s all very sad but worthwhile in terms of the many philosophical – and unanswerable – questions it raises.

2. “The Tell–Tale Heart” (Edgar Allan Poe)

I like to call this short story the short version of “Crime and Punishment.” Though it does fall short when weighed against the Russian author’s work.

The opening act is tame compared to what follows. An escalation of dread as you don’t know what to expect next from an unreliable narrator who initially tries to convince you that he is sane. And innocent.

A knock on the front door is followed by a crime scene team getting involved in solving a murder which soon solves itself.

This unforgettable scary story might not involve old tropes like the teenage girl being the sole survivor of a massacre, an old wooden chair in a creepy living room that the resident ghost sits on, a woman’s body hanging from a tree, or a charming old farmhouse that is actually a gateway to hell, but the psychology underpinning it is flawless.

3. “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” (Washington Irving)

One of many short horror stories that have been turned into a Hollywood film. A pretty good one, in fact. I remember watching “Sleepy Hollow” through my fingers as my left hand partly covered my face and the right one dug deep into my much braver sister’s arm. Thank you, Casandra.

This classic American short story puts urban legend to shame by focusing on… countryside myths instead. Find out what happens to schoolmaster Ichabod Crane and his love interest Katrina as a supernatural character – the Headless Horseman – interferes in their affairs. Or does it / he?

If you feel kinda sleepy before reading it, this short story will not only wake you up but keep you awake for ages.

4. The Story of the Late Mr. Elvesham (H. G. Wells)

Penned by the father of science fiction that I wrote my university thesis on, this horror story shows Wells’ range. Clearly, he could also scare people to death.

The gist is that a scientist finds a way to “steal” someone’s life by transferring his consciousness (so the sci-fi element is definitely there) into the body of a younger man.

Frightening in terms of both the logistics of this process and the actual outcome.

Very much à la “Get Out”, but with less of a morally satisfying ending.

Oh well, Wells wasn’t known for his optimism. He wanted his epitaph to be “I told you so” – so what can we expect?

5. “Cabinet of Curiosities” (Guillermo del Toro)

Yes, you read that name right. The maker of masterpieces such as “Pan’s Labyrinth” and the criminally under-rated “Crimson Peak”.

What’s the catch?

You won’t find this anthology in a book, but on Netflix to watch. Which is… still great, I guess?

Two of the episodes (“Lot 36” and “The Murmuring”, the latter based on an actual del Toro story) are co-written by the Mexican director and they are So. Worth. It.

Spine-chilling to the point where even Stephen King would be proud.

My Own Scary Story

As promised, see below my own scary short story. Written not because I wanted to, but because I had to.

It was a Master’s degree assignment to be complied with back in 2019. Exploring the dark side of humanity – or the power and peril of delusion – wasn’t easy. It did not feel like me at all. As always though, I still enjoyed the writing process.

Feel free to tear it apart, as or after you read it. My secondary school students in Oxford had a blast doing this! A kind one did say he liked it just the way it is. So there’s that.

“One Dies at the End” (Rebeca Bianca Duriga)

The day they find the cave is one of the sunniest in years. The forecast says it’s going to stay sunny the entire week, giving their expedition an air of even greater promise.

The thought of not returning empty-handed, but holding up his holy grail to wow the whole world with drives Hugh further and further.

Days of relentless marching through the godforsaken mosquito-infested Mexican jungle have made two of his friends so grumpy though, they look one step away from giving up on the entire quest. And the third, his exquisitely beautiful but used-to-getting-things-her / the-easy-way girlfriend … well, she’s literally dragging her feet.

No matter. Won’t be long now. He can feel it in his bones, Its power calling to him. Professor van Grym told him as much about the voice that won’t be silenced once first heard.

“Hold on a sec” comes George’s exhausted voice. “I’m sweating like Judas here. Wanna check that map again?”

“I second that. The world’s not going to end … if we take a breather.”

Hmm … George’s not making any jokes and Angela’s usually calm voice betrays annoyance. Time for a pit stop. Why can’t they just keep up? Hugh reluctantly sets his backpack down, takes out his water bottle, and pours it all over his face.

“That’s either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. What if we don’t find the cave soon?” asks Belinda, said girlfriend.

“Not to worry. It’s close.”

They’d see it if they weren’t so blinded by the need to meet bare necessities. Hugh goes on reconnaissance and comes back half expecting the sight of his companions setting up camp, though the twilight hours aren’t even close. But what do you know, George is helping Angela put on her overloaded rucksack and Belinda is actually not checking her Facebook. Four days ago she couldn’t be happier about having cell phone reception even in a place like this, but now she genuinely looks ready to go. Thank heaven for small mercies.

They press on in stealthy silence, as if afraid to alert whatever divinity is in charge here to their trespassing. George and Angela exchange the occasional mutually reassuring smile while Belinda follows in Hugh’s exact footsteps, too tired to decide where to place her feet for herself at this point. Hugh keeps wading through the lush foliage when he becomes aware of sounds beginning to ebb.

Then, in a world as noisy as a hypersensitive car alarm there is nothing fluttering, burbling, slithering, hooting, shrieking, or hissing anymore. They are here.

“Let me guess. Somethin’ along the lines of ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’?” George is looking up at the markings above the entrance of the cave.

“Guys … are you sure we should be doing this?” Angela hesitates.

That simply will not do. There must be a way to dissipate this mist of apprehension.

Adrenaline coursing through his veins, Hugh takes one determined step inside, knowing no words would be more convincing than action now. All the others have to do is follow.

Inside, the cave doesn’t look particularly otherworldly, or difficult to navigate. Going down the main tunnel the four reach its central chamber. Hugh wastes no time in trying to see where It is. It wouldn’t be an obvious place. He checks Professor van Grym’s map against the chamber’s layout. There is a match but nothing to indicate exactly where It might be.

And yet … guided by some unknown force, Hugh walks up to the precise nook and flicks the precise switch which lights up the precise corner of the chamber where It is. 

“And you just did that. What else can you do – grow wings and fly us outta here? Wouldn’t mind an ice-cold Corona by now.” George’s wisecrack earns him a scowl from Belinda.

“He’s been into this all his life. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about it.”

With the caution of a tightrope walker, Hugh takes It out very slowly and places It on the floor. They’re all staring at It now, woefully clueless as to what to do next.

“What the heck are we waiting for, huh?” George simultaneously utters the words and unwraps It from Its rags revealing a golden dagger with an intricately carved sun symbol on Its handle.

“Huitzilopochtli” whispers Hugh, his eyes glowing with reverence for the sun goddess. The wait is over. The long-lost knife of Montezuma, the one he managed to keep hidden from Cortés for all those years, is finally in his possession.

Nothing he would ever achieve in this life – a thousand lifetimes – could compare to this moment.

“Well, take it. It’s your treasure.” Angela smiles and hands It to Hugh.

“Don’t” he hears It say. “You can only use me for one purpose.”

Overwhelmed, Hugh steps back. The others let him be, like they always do, and set about making sleeping arrangements. Angela chooses a dusty corner and is getting settled for the night when George comes over and pulls her sleeping bag closer to the others.

“They have plenty of space. You don’t always have to sacrifice yourself for others, you know.”

“They’re a couple though. Don’t wanna intrude.”

“They can be a couple back at uni. Out here they don’t get special treatment.”

Hugh is watching them from a distance, a mocking expression on his face. George is about as fast as a stalactite romance-wise. At this rate, he might tell her how he feels by the time she’s past her childbearing years. Oh well, not everyone’s meant to get what they want early on in life.

Only the great ones.

Smiling to himself, he lies down next to Belinda, his last thought of the glorious times ahead.

He isn’t the first to wake up. The others are whispering frantically while … doing what exactly? Sitting down, Belinda is holding Angela and George is rubbing Belinda’s back. Hugh waits for the sharp pang of jealousy but there’s none whatsoever. Intriguing. He sees all three are wearing jackets which he didn’t even realize they’d brought along. And two sleeping bags are on top of his own! Belinda gets up and heads outside, phone in hand. It’s only when Hugh pulls the coverings aside that it hits him. The Arctic cold.

“It started a couple of hours ago. 14 degrees and dropping.”

Hugh’s mind races through possible explanations but can’t settle on anything plausible. “You know what it is.” Its voice sends more shivers down his spine. On his way out of the cave, he meets Belinda.

“The weather people are worried. They say …”

“Meteorologists” he interjects.

Belinda stares at him in disbelief. “Hugh Brease. Wanna know what’s going on or you’d rather improve my vocabulary while we’re slowly turning into popsicles?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

He isn’t sorry, just wants to hear the scientists’ take on this.

“The cold’s not gonna stop. Just look at the predictions.” He studies them ashen-faced. Dashing back to the central chamber, he barks his order: “Put it back. Now!”

George starts to laugh, his face suddenly frozen in a half-serious half-amused expression when he sees Hugh’s.

“What? D’you really think that is the reason for the cold? That stuff only happens in mind-numbingly stupid movies. What, did we disturb some Mayan king’s eternal resting place by moving his precious knife 10 feet from where it’s been for centuries? WHO GIVES A SHIT??”

“It’s Aztec.”

“Huh?” George is fuming.

“Aztec, not Mayan king.”

“Seriously?”

“George” Angela intervenes, gently taking him by the arm. “I’m not saying he’s right. But, just to be on the safe side, maybe we should … put it back?” She probably had him at “George,” Hugh can’t help but think. Pathetic putty in her hands. George bends down to pick up the dagger, then tries to hand it to Hugh.

“Why don’t you do it then? If you know better than the rest of us.”

Hugh’s reluctance resurfaces. “Best I don’t touch it. I’d … I’d be grateful if you did it.”

George doesn’t budge. Belinda wraps and puts the knife back instead. “No need to fight, boys. See, it’s done.”

“So what now?” asks Angela.

“We bundle up and wait” answers Hugh, setting about equally distributing jackets, sleeping bags, and anything else that can serve as covering.

And wait they do, for five hours and twenty-three minutes. They have a meal and talk like they’re not feeling more disquieted with each passing second. Which Hugh is counting by now.

He closes his eyes and pictures himself in a snow globe, standing in front of his parents’ house. His miniature self goes inside to find them sitting on their delightful decades-old blue couch, frozen for eternity in a beautiful pose of closeness. He runs outside, then through the icy whiteness fiercely wishing away the cold, reaches Professor van Grym’s campus rooms and bangs on his door as loud as gunfire. Minutes (hours?) of noiselessness. Hugh leans against the door and then sits, ready to take his place in the snow globe’s desolate tableau. His shaking gives way to numbness. When the specter of oblivion presents itself, he welcomes it.

“You know what to do” a voice finally reaches him from beyond the door. The professor’s words rouse him, his resolve revived too. Alas, he does know what to do.

For life to continue, there must be death.

“Decision time, everyone” Hugh decrees, thinking he has to pull his friends out of their slumber. All three are alert though – and look to him for salvation.

“You mean st-stay here or leave? Dunno about you … but I’m not … p-pulling a Jack Torrance at the end of ‘The Sh-shining.’ I’m staying put till this craaaaaaaaaaazy cold p-p-passes” says George. Curled up to him, Angela nods. Hugh looks down at Belinda whose head is resting on one of his knees.

“Not talking about st-st-staying or leaving, George. We need to d-do something else.”

“‘Is th-this about the knife again? What, you wanna perform a r-ritual or something now?”

“We h-have to. It’s just going to get c-c-colder otherwise. So cold nothing will s-s-survive.”

“What is it then? Read a sp-spell or … ooh, make a deal with the d-devil? Sp-spit it out, I’m just d-d-dying to find out.” George’s aim for a hysterical laugh misses as only a snort comes out.

“A b-b-blood sacrifice is req-quired.”

Belinda raises her head. So she is listening.

“How much b-b-blood?”

“All that so-someone has.”

No. Freaking. Way. No one was getting sacrificed to appease some fictional deity. Was he completely out of his mind? This was the 21st century; if anything was gonna save the world, it’d be reason, science, a cutting-edge device concocted by the Apple people, not some gruesome medieval practice shamefully included in history books. And even if something as horrifying as this worked, how would they be able to live with themselves, in case they weren’t struck down where they stood, that is? Forget it, never gonna happen.

Belinda’s phone battery is at 33%. She goes out for an update and lets them know it’s now minus 14, an estimated -40 tomorrow. They aren’t equipped for this, she complains while switching her phone off to preserve the battery. Besides, she has a facial on Saturday which she absolutely has to make. She hasn’t been to a salon in ages, just look at the sight of her! She collapses in Hugh’s arms tears streaming down her cheeks. Hugh’s grateful she’s shedding them silently. And glad they warm his face too.

The four lethargically wait some more. Hugh watches the icicles forming everywhere – is ice inside his veins as well? George pulls Angela in closer. At least someone’s getting something out of this catastrophic event, acknowledges Hugh with a sneer that hopefully the brand new love birds are too exhausted to notice.

He trudges outside.

“How much longer?” It asks softly while he stares blankly at the snow coming down all white and wild and wicked. Murmur turns to scream but to him, it’s like a song heard countless times before. Or never before. Either way, there’s no tuning It out now. He comes back in.

“Can’t b-b-believe I’m s-saying this but m-m-maybe Hugh’s right” suggests Angela. “Don’t know, let’s dr-draw straws or so-something, j-j-just in case.”

Hugh expects resistance. None comes. Re-energized, he rummages in his backpack for what’s needed, even offers to go first.

“No” protests Belinda. “Let’s w-wait so-some more.”

For what? A miracle?

“Yes!” she insists. “Sure beats of-ffing someone.”

Twelve hours is the time they set. If nothing changes, they’ll do it. All go quiet again, three perhaps to hide their shame at what might come to pass, one surely his lack of it. Belinda gathers the strength to head outside for yet another bleak update. Time drags on and the cold intensifies, fear alongside it. So much so that, oh no, they’re not going to wait twelve hours. St-straws have to be dr-drawn now, r-r-right now, and not a mo-mo-ment later. Hugh takes charge, not caring what happens to him for a change. So long as Its will is done. George draws first, Belinda second, and Angela third. Hers is the short straw. George takes it from her hand and throws it as far as he can, a ridiculously short distance since it’s, in the end, a straw.

“Let’s wa-wait some more” panics Belinda. “It hasn’t b-been tw-tw-twelve hours.”

“We don’t have twelve hours” declares Hugh, his voice stutter-free and reassured.

He pulls the terrified Angela up, then toward It. George tries to pull her back but he’s apparently grown weaker than he thought. Hugh knows he’s watching Angela who’s on the ground fighting for her life now, and senses his courage melting away. So much for true love.

“I … need … some help … holding … her down.”

Belinda slowly moves to the furthest point of the cave, her eyes transfixed on the scene nonetheless. Through one supernatural effort, Angela kicks Hugh hard so he lets go of her. Her freedom is fleeting – out of nowhere, another arm pushes her back down and Hugh plunges the dagger into her heart. At least her death will be swift; they can painlessly take care of the messy bit after.

Angela stares at George’s arm, now needlessly preventing her from fleeing. Choking, she pulls him closer so he’s forced to look into her soon-to-be-dead eyes.

“Burn … in hell” she whispers.

Is it her sweet condemning voice that’s turning into thunder? The cave starts to quake and an unbearable sound fills it. The sound of ridicule and rage, exceeding what the human ear can tolerate. It reaches a peak, then trails off into echoes. Then there’s silence and yes, heat. A thawed Belinda runs outside and is welcomed by rays of sunshine – as if the horror of the cold and cold-blooded murder had never existed. George and Hugh join her, red drops from their jackets creating polka dots on the white, still thick, sheet of snow. With automatic gestures, she turns on her phone, clicks on the first link, and reads aloud:

“One of the lowest temperatures on record … the result of carbon dioxide levels temporarily dropping to dangerously low levels. While frightening, the phenomenon is not unprecedented. In fact, it’s been theorized to re-occur if …”

She falls to her knees, shaking.

“Oh God. We killed her for nothing.”

Hugh snaps the phone away from her to read for himself.

No. His voice is firm. They made it cold so they did what had to be done and now everything was going to be okay again.

He extends his hand toward the sun to feel its warmth.

The bitter chill remains.

How Can Scary Stories Benefit Language Learners?

I can’t emphasize this enough. It’s reading in general that will help you expand your vocabulary and, in time, read much faster than you think.

Scary stories are one category you can go for, but you can always choose other types of fiction, graded readers (which I talk about at the end of my “Favorite Books” post), personal development books, or even fairy tales!

Conclusion

These are the short stories that I’ve shortlisted.

No matter what your own relationship with horror stories is, remember it’s okay to love and hate them at the same time. I probably always will.

And if you want more scary movie ideas, read my “Favorite Movies” post to find some.

FAQs

1. What is the shortest scary story?

“The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock at the door …”

This is it.

This is the shortest scary story ever.

Written in 1948 by Fredric Brown, it packs a punch despite its brevity. Or because of it.

2. What are some good creepy stories?

You can’t really go wrong with Edgar Allan Poe, whose own life was a bit of a creepy story. No offense.

So read “The Fall of the House of Usher” (recently made into a series by the aforementioned Salem-born Mike Flanagan), “The Cask of Amontillado”, “The Pit and the Pendulum” and “The Masque of the Red Death” at the very least.

Being from Transylvania, I also can’t help recommending Bram Stoker’s “Dracula.”

3. What is the scariest story ever written?

Scary question. Because it’s hard to answer.

At the risk of choosing a story already on my list, I’d go for Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein.” Any story about a man playing God just for the sake of it is scary. And this is the ultimate one.

Check out the Kenneth Branaugh and Robert de Niro-starring movie version of “Frankenstein” too.

4. What is the oldest horror story?

Hurrah. A Lit question.

The consensus is that this genre (type of story) was invented by Horace Walpole, who wrote “The Castle of Otranto” in the 18th century. The horror story became a legit literary form thanks to him.

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