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The Thirteenth Stop
An elevator stops on a floor that does not exist — and the narrator's wife has been setting an extra place at the table, every single night, for forty-three nights.
Read the full story →Some stories are built for the hour the house goes quiet — when the lights are off and the only sound is the page turning. Ten complete quiet-horror tales for bedtime, free, no sign-up. Read one in bed and see how long it stays.
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An elevator stops on a floor that does not exist — and the narrator's wife has been setting an extra place at the table, every single night, for forty-three nights.
Read the full story →Her mother's answering machine is still taking messages. The newest one is from the narrator — left the night before she died, in her voice, using her name like a stranger's.
Read the full story →I opened my door at 2 a.m. to the boy who used to live in my closet, and he was exactly the age he was when I last saw him — twenty-nine years ago.
Read the full story →The clerk handed me the key to Room 214, and I knew before I turned it that I was in trouble. 214 is the number of the room I grew up in — and I grew up in a house that had no room numbers.
Read the full story →I bought the mirror at a yard sale for seven dollars. The man in it is three seconds behind me — which is how I know it isn't a mirror at all.
Read the full story →The radio in my father's workshop picks up a voice that sounds exactly like mine, reading tomorrow's news. Last night it read my obituary — and got my age wrong by a year.
Read the full story →The knocking started three nights ago — three knocks, a pause, three knocks — and it has not once come from the door, which would have been easy.
Read the full story →An archivist finds a gray box on a shelf that was never there — and her missing memories start coming back, one by one, some of them not hers.
Read the full story →The first time I saw Adrian Cross, my hand was already on the frame of a painting I had no business touching — and the woman in it wore a look of patient attention, as if she had been waiting for me.
Read the full story →The basement stairs still had the same creak, fourth one down, that they'd had the day we moved in. I counted them without meaning to — nineteen steps, a landing, and the sump pump's black basin.
Read the full story →A bedtime story earns its keep from restraint, not volume: one small, reasonable detail you notice once the room is dark — an extra place at the table, a mirror three seconds behind you, a knocking that never comes from the door. Quiet horror is built for the late hour. Finish one and the Threshold is one click away, with supernatural suspense and dark romance waiting behind the same door.
The whole Threshold — every horror, supernatural suspense, and dark romance short story, plus audiobook narrations you can listen to with the lights off — unlocks with one $6.99/month subscription. Cancel anytime.