Tag: Horror Stories

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Nailed to the Wall, Still Watching

In Najafgarh, Delhi, a man’s horrifying death—nailed to the wall—unravels a haunting mystery that pulls three friends into a dark and sinister spiral.

Ronald had lived in Block A of Najafgarh his entire life. The neighbourhood was quiet, almost too quiet. One humid evening, while sipping chai on his balcony, he noticed something odd about the flat next door. The curtains hadn’t moved in days. That flat belonged to Mr. Sehgal—a man who rarely spoke but always watched.

Ronald called Neeraj, his childhood friend, over to check it out. They knocked on the door. No answer. Abhishek, Ronald’s next-door neighbour, joined them after overhearing the conversation. When they finally forced the door open, what they found stopped them cold.

Mr. Sehgal was inside. But not just lying dead. He was nailed upright to the wall—arms outstretched, eyes wide open, mouth agape. The room smelled of metal and mildew. Symbols were drawn in red on the floor. Not blood. Something darker, thicker.

The police arrived, but the body vanished by the next morning. Abhishek swore he saw Mr. Sehgal standing near the stairwell later that night, still nailed—still watching. Then, the knocking began. From inside their walls.

Neeraj left town. Ronald tried to burn incense and pray. But nothing worked. Abhishek disappeared two days later—his last message a shaky voice note: “He’s in the walls… I can’t move…”

Now, Ronald hears whispering at night, nails tapping gently behind the plaster.

Something nailed itself to their lives—and it refuses to leave.

*Click Horror Stories for more chilling tales

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Scary Hours at Select City Walk

After hours at Select City Walk, eerie events trap a maintenance worker, a Starbucks manager, and a salesperson in a supernatural nightmare they can’t escape.

The last shoppers had left, and the towering glass doors of Select City Walk locked behind them. The mall stood eerily silent, stripped of its usual buzz. Vikram, the maintenance guy, sighed as he grabbed his toolbox. Another late-night shift. The escalators needed fixing, but something about the stillness unsettled him.

Inside Starbucks, Manager Rishi Kapoor finished counting the day’s cash. The smell of coffee lingered, but something else mixed with it—a damp, earthy scent. He rubbed his temples. Maybe he was just tired. Across the hall, Tanya, a 23-year-old salesperson from a high-end boutique, was shutting the store’s shutters when she felt a chill. The AC had been turned off, but the air was unnaturally cold.

Then, the lights flickered. A loud thud echoed from the empty food court. Tanya turned, heart hammering. “Hello?” Her voice barely rose above a whisper. No response.

Vikram, hearing the sound, walked toward the food court, flashlight trembling in his grip. As he reached the center, the chairs—neatly arranged moments ago—were now scattered. One spun slowly, as if someone had just left it. Then, a whisper: Leave.

Rishi’s phone buzzed—a text from Tanya: Something’s wrong. Meet me near the exit. But as he stepped outside Starbucks, the glass display reflected something terrifying. A shadowy figure stood behind him, its hollow eyes staring right at him.

The exit doors wouldn’t budge. They were locked in, trapped with something that thrived after dark. And it was just getting started.

*Click Horror Stories for more such spooky tales and mysteries*

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The Cursed Residence of Munirka

A haunted DDA flat in Munirka, Delhi traps a 70-year-old resident, a couple, and a little girl in its sinister grip. Some doors should never be opened…

The DDA flats in Munirka had stood for decades, their walls aging with the city. Among them was Flat 14B, one that no family stayed in for long. Locals whispered of strange noises—whispers behind locked doors, flickering lights, and shadows moving without cause. But when Arvind Sharma, a 70-year-old resident, saw a new couple move in, he sighed. Another family unaware of the horror that lurked within.

Rajat and Meera, both in their 30s, were excited to settle in. The rent was low, the location ideal. It didn’t bother them when the landlord mentioned the flat had remained unoccupied for years. “Just superstition,” Rajat laughed. But the unease started early—cold spots in the living room, the scent of damp earth despite no leaks, and their cat refusing to enter the bedroom.

One evening, little Anaya from the neighbourhood skipped by, pausing outside their door. She frowned. “Why did you bring her back ?” she asked Meera. Confused, Meera asked who she meant. Anaya pointed inside. “The lady in white. She cries at night.”

That night, the crying started. Soft sobs echoed through the flat, seeping from the walls. Meera woke up gasping as an icy hand brushed her arm. Rajat saw it too—a silhouette in the mirror, staring at them. The next morning, Arvind knocked on their door. “You saw her, didn’t you ?” he asked grimly.

The truth was chilling. Decades ago, a woman had died there—some said suicide, others murder. But her spirit never left. Now, the couple had a choice: leave or become part of the flat’s story.

**For more chilling horror fiction tales click here Horror Stories

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The Yakshini’s Grasp: Lajpat’s Fear

A Delhi hospital hides a gruesome secret. An author, her assistant, and a doctor confront a terror that transcends medical understanding.

The miasma of disinfectant and decay hung heavy in the corridors of “Aarogya Sadan,” a dilapidated hospital nestled near the bustling heart of Lajpat Nagar. Dr. Anika Sharma, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion, consulted the flickering fluorescent light overhead. “Another unexplained cardiac arrest,” she muttered, the clinical detachment in her voice barely masking the unease gnawing at her.

Across the dimly lit room, Maya, a 40-year-old aspiring author with a penchant for the macabre, scribbled furiously in her notebook. Her assistant, Rohan, a perpetually anxious 30-year-old, fidgeted nearby, his gaze darting nervously towards the shadowed corners. Maya, researching for her new novel, had become a fixture at Aarogya Sadan, drawn by the hospital’s unsettling reputation.

“The patients… they speak of whispers,” Maya said, her voice a low, gravelly rasp. “They mention a yakshini, a spirit that feasts on life force.”

Anika scoffed, a brittle sound that echoed in the sterile silence. “Superstition, Maya. We deal with biological realities, not spectral figments.”

But the realities were becoming increasingly bizarre. Patients, seemingly healthy, plummeted into cardiac arrest, their skin turning a ghastly, translucent pallor. The hospital’s ancient generator sputtered, plunging the ward into intermittent darkness, amplifying the chilling atmosphere.

One night, the generator failed completely. A cacophony of panicked cries erupted from the patient rooms. Rohan, his face ashen, held a trembling flashlight. The beam danced across the walls, revealing grotesque shadows that seemed to writhe and coalesce.

A low, guttural moan echoed from the end of the corridor. Anika, her professional skepticism wavering, led the way, her footsteps echoing on the cold tile. They found a patient, Mr. Kapoor, his eyes wide with terror, his chest heaving. His skin, now a sickly, luminous green, pulsed with an unearthly light.

“It’s… it’s taking my prana,” he gasped, his voice a raspy whisper.

Suddenly, a gust of frigid air swept through the room, extinguishing the flashlight. A spectral figure materialized, its form shimmering and indistinct, its eyes glowing with a malevolent, emerald light. The figure, a yakshini, exuded an aura of ancient dread, its presence a palpable weight in the suffocating darkness.

Maya, her fear momentarily eclipsed by a writer’s morbid fascination, reached for her notebook. “It’s real,” she breathed, her voice a hushed awe.

The yakshini lunged, its spectral hand reaching for Anika, who recoiled in horror. Rohan, his voice cracking, screamed, “Run!”

They fled, the yakshini’s chilling laughter echoing behind them. The hospital, once a place of healing, had become a charnel house, a nexus of ancient, malevolent power. The stench of decay intensified, a morbid perfume that clung to their clothes and invaded their nightmares. The hospital, it seemed, had awakened a horror that transcended medical understanding, a horror that fed on the very essence of life, a horror that whispered in the shadows of Lajpat Nagar. The terror that they now knew, would not be contained.

**For more chilling Horror Fiction tales click here Horror Stories

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The Haunting at Leela Palace

A retired veteran, a sales intern, and a policeman uncover chilling secrets at Leela Palace, Chanakyapuri. A night of terror awaits in Delhi’s dark corridors.

The Leela Palace in Chanakyapuri stood tall, its luxurious halls hiding more than just wealthy guests. Colonel Arvind Khanna, a retired army veteran, had checked in for a peaceful stay. Decades of service left him with scars—some visible, some buried deep in memory. He was used to battlefields, not eerie silence in the middle of the night.

Meanwhile, Rahul, an overworked sales intern, stumbled into the hotel lobby after partying at Yashwant Palace. His head buzzed from drinks and music, but something about the air inside felt… off. The chandeliers flickered as he waited for the elevator. A shiver crawled up his spine when he saw a man standing in the hallway—a figure in an old military uniform, his eyes hollow.

Not far away, Inspector Raghav was finishing his routine patrol when a distress call from the hotel security came through. Guests had reported whispers in the hallways, doors slamming shut on their own, and an unsettling presence on the 8th floor. As he arrived, the night clerk whispered, “Sir, that floor… it’s not on our system.”

Curiosity turned to dread as the three men found themselves lured toward the restricted floor. The elevator, unprompted, stopped at the 8th. The doors slid open to reveal a dimly lit corridor lined with doors—each numbered in faded brass. A single candle burned at the end of the hall. As they stepped out, the doors creaked open in unison.

A sudden gust blew out the candle, plunging them into darkness. And then, the whispers started.

**for more horror fiction stories check out Horror Stories

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Whispers of the Haunted Chhatarpur Farmhouse

A haunted farmhouse in Chhattarpur entangles an athlete, a biker, and a frisbee player in its sinister secrets. Can they escape the darkness within?

Ankit tightened his shoelaces as dawn broke over Chhatarpur, ready for his morning run. The sprawling fields and quiet farmhouses were his usual route, but one decaying estate always caught his eye. Rumours whispered that it was cursed—a place no one dared to enter.

Rohit, his childhood friend and a biker by passion, laughed off the tales. “Ghosts don’t scare me,” he said, revving his bike outside Ankit’s house. Roy, their mutual friend and an ultimate frisbee player, agreed to join their adventure when Rohit proposed a dare: visit the infamous farmhouse at midnight.

That night, armed with flashlights and bravado, the trio entered the estate. The gate creaked open, revealing overgrown weeds and an eerie silence. The air grew colder as they stepped inside the decrepit mansion. Dusty chandeliers hung from cracked ceilings, and faded portraits seemed to watch their every move.

In the grand hall, they discovered a weathered diary. It belonged to the former owner, a reclusive artist who vanished under mysterious circumstances. “They’re here… they’re watching,” one entry read, accompanied by drawings of shadowy figures.

Suddenly, a whisper echoed through the room, followed by the sound of footsteps. The trio froze as shadows danced on the walls, growing closer. Rohit’s flashlight flickered, and Roy swore he felt a cold hand brush his shoulder.

As they tried to escape, the door slammed shut, trapping them inside. The house seemed alive, feeding off their fear. Ankit found himself drawn to a painting of a woman with hollow eyes. The figure in the painting turned to look at him, her lips forming the words: “You shouldn’t have come.”

The three friends barely escaped with their lives, but the farmhouse left a mark on them—both physical and psychological. To this day, the whispers of Chhatarpur’s haunted farmhouse warn others: some dares should never be taken.

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The Missing Case from Palam

A nurse, a beatboxer, and a football player unravel sinister secrets in Palam after a mysterious disappearance shakes their lives.

Palam, Delhi, hummed with the usual chaos of city life, but whispers of a mysterious disappearance began to cast a dark cloud over the neighbourhood. Ramesh, a local shopkeeper, vanished without a trace, leaving behind only his shattered phone and a strange symbol etched in chalk on the ground.

Nidhi, a compassionate nurse at a hospital in Rajouri Garden, heard the news during her late-night shift. Her patient, an elderly woman, muttered cryptic warnings about “shadows that walk.” The unease grew when Nidhi received a frantic call from her childhood friend Christopher, a beatboxer who performed in gigs near Palam.

“Ramesh isn’t the first,” Christopher whispered over the phone. “Two other people vanished last month. And that symbol… I saw it again near the park last night.”

Joining their search was Jose, a spirited football player who often trained in Palam. The three combed through the dimly lit streets, following the trail of eerie chalk markings that seemed to form a path. Their investigation led them to an abandoned warehouse on the edge of Palam, its windows shattered, and its doors ajar.

Inside, they found a hidden room lit by flickering candles. Strange artifacts—masks, ropes, and jars filled with unidentified substances—littered the floor. The walls were covered in symbols matching the one found near Ramesh’s phone. Suddenly, a guttural chant filled the air.

A group of hooded figures emerged from the shadows, their eyes gleaming with an unnatural light. Nidhi, Christopher, and Jose realized they had stumbled upon a cult that thrived on human sacrifices to summon an ancient entity.

Before they could escape, the door slammed shut. The three fought desperately, but the shadows seemed to come alive, clawing at their sanity.

As dawn broke, the warehouse stood empty. The missing were never found, but locals whispered of strange markings appearing in new places.

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The Sinister Secrets of Vasant Vihar

A murder in Vasant Vihar unravels dark secrets involving a tycoon, a car dealer, and a Sikh family. Sinister truths blur the lines between greed and horror.

Vasant Vihar, Delhi—home to sprawling mansions and powerful figures—was known for its tranquillity. That peace shattered one misty winter morning when a body was discovered in a vacant villa.

Alok Mehta, a real estate tycoon, arrived at the scene, pale and visibly shaken. The victim was Harpal Singh, a kind-hearted patriarch of the Sikh family who had rented one of Mehta’s properties. The crime scene revealed an unsettling detail: Harpal’s body lay in a perfect circle of salt, with strange symbols etched into the marble floor.

Inspector Riya Chaturvedi led the investigation, questioning suspects, including Anil Kapoor, the flashy owner of a luxury car dealership. Anil had a history of financial disputes with Harpal. “He refused to sell me his land near Gurugram (then Gurgaon),” Anil muttered, his hands trembling.

Meanwhile, Gurleen Kaur, Harpal’s daughter, revealed that her father had been troubled in the weeks leading up to his death. “He said the house had a presence… voices in the night, shadows that didn’t belong,” she confided.

As the investigation deepened, Riya uncovered a shocking link: Alok Mehta had a secretive partnership with Anil, using occult rituals to seal high-stakes deals. Harpal’s murder wasn’t random—it was a ritual gone wrong. Harpal had unknowingly interrupted their sinister ceremony meant to invoke prosperity.

The truth came to light when Riya confronted Alok in the villa’s shadowed halls. A hidden chamber revealed artifacts for dark rituals: blood-stained parchments, black candles, and eerie figurines. Alok confessed, his voice trembling, “The spirits demanded a sacrifice… we didn’t expect Harpal.”

In the aftermath, the villa was abandoned, left to decay. But locals swear they still hear whispers at night—reminders of the greed that turned deadly.

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The Haunting Beneath Connaught Place

A businessman, doctor, and teacher uncover haunting secrets beneath Connaught Place, Delhi. Shadows, whispers, and terror await in this spine-chilling tale.

The moon cast a silvery sheen over Connaught Place as its iconic white colonnades stood solemnly against the midnight sky. The city, alive during the day, now held an eerie stillness.

Arun Mehra, a successful yet weary businessman, tightened his coat against the biting wind. He had stayed late at the office—a decision he would soon regret. His footsteps echoed faintly as he crossed the central park, clutching a briefcase full of documents that suddenly felt irrelevant.

Meanwhile, Dr. Sanskriti Roy parked her car nearby after an exhausting shift at the hospital. Her mind buzzed with the remnants of life-and-death decisions, but the odd stillness of the area made her uneasy. She glanced at her watch. Midnight. Too late for comfort, yet too early for dawn’s reprieve.

At the same time, Mary Thomas, a school teacher, lingered at a café with her laptop. Deadlines for lesson plans loomed, and the dim lighting inside felt safer than the dark streets outside. When the café owner announced closing time, Mary hesitated but eventually gathered her belongings and stepped out.

Fate pulled the trio together. Each of them noticed something peculiar—a faint sound, like whispers brushing against their ears, yet no one was visible. Arun was the first to stop.

“Did you hear that?” he asked as the three met at the edge of the park, their paths converging unexpectedly.

“Yes,” Sanskriti replied, her voice low but firm. “It sounded like… someone calling my name.”

Mary nodded, her face pale. “But there’s no one here.”

A gust of wind carried a stronger, chilling whisper, this time unmistakable. It wasn’t just a name. It was a plea: “Help me…”

The words seemed to rise from the ground beneath them. Mary’s hands trembled as she clutched her bag tighter. Arun looked around, his sharp business acumen giving way to fear. Sanskriti, the most pragmatic of the three, crouched down, her doctor’s instincts urging her to investigate.

“It’s coming from below,” she said, her voice almost drowned by the sudden, hollow hum of the wind.

Without warning, a manhole cover nearby shifted slightly. Arun recoiled, Mary gasped, and Sanskriti, suppressing her fear, approached cautiously.

“Wait!” Arun called, grabbing her arm. “What if it’s dangerous?”

“Exactly why we can’t ignore it,” Sanskriti shot back.

Together, they lifted the heavy cover. A damp, musty smell wafted up, and a dark tunnel yawned before them. Mary’s legs nearly gave way, but Arun steadied her.

“Let’s not,” Mary whispered, her voice trembling.

But the whispering intensified, growing urgent. Against their better judgment, the trio descended the rusty ladder into the depths.

The underground was an abandoned labyrinth, its walls slick with moisture. Faint remnants of colonial-era infrastructure hinted at its age. They followed the whispers, now accompanied by distant sobbing. Shadows danced along the walls, cast by their flickering phone flashlights.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the darkness—a frail, spectral woman dressed in torn, bloodstained attire. Her eyes glowed faintly, and her voice echoed eerily: “You must help me… or suffer as I have.”

Fear rooted them to the spot. Arun stammered, “W-who are you?”

“I was once like you,” she murmured. “Trapped. Forgotten. Betrayed by those I trusted.”

The trio listened as she recounted a haunting tale of betrayal and death, her life cut short beneath Connaught Place. But the details were fragmented, and her presence grew more sinister with every word.

When they tried to leave, the tunnels began to shift, the air thickening with an otherworldly pressure. The woman’s whispers turned to screams, echoing in every direction.

Realizing they couldn’t escape without confronting her, Snaskriti demanded, “What do you want from us?”

“Justice,” the specter hissed.

The trio pieced together her story, deciphering clues scrawled on the damp walls. A powerful industrialist from decades ago had wronged her, burying both her and her secrets beneath the bustling streets above.

In a harrowing conclusion, the trio found a decayed box containing documents exposing the industrialist’s crimes. As they presented the evidence, the specter’s screams subsided into a chilling silence.

Climbing out of the manhole just before dawn, they felt the oppressive weight lift. The whispers ceased, leaving Connaught Place to its daytime bustle once again. But none of them would ever view it the same way.

Above ground, Mary whispered, “Do you think it’s over?”

Arun shook his head. “We’ve freed her. But something tells me Connaught Place holds more secrets than we can imagine.”

Sanskriti gazed at the now-quiet streets and muttered, “Let’s hope they stay buried.”

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Mehrauli’s Curse: Whispers in the Shadows

In Mehrauli, Delhi, a businessman, a taxi driver, and a foreigner confront an ancient curse that awakens the chilling secrets of Delhi’s haunted ruins.

The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and mystery as Rajiv, a shrewd businessman, exited his office late one evening. His driver had called in sick, so he hailed a taxi near Mehrauli’s Qutub Minar.

The taxi screeched to a halt, driven by an unkempt man named Vijay, whose piercing gaze held a strange intensity. Rajiv hesitated but climbed in, giving directions to his bungalow. As the car moved through Mehrauli’s narrow lanes, Vijay began humming a haunting melody.

“Do you believe in spirits, sir?” Vijay asked abruptly, his eyes meeting Rajiv’s in the rearview mirror.

Rajiv chuckled nervously. “I believe in profits, not ghosts.”

Vijay smirked. “Then you haven’t heard about the cursed banyan tree near the ruins.”

Rajiv rolled his eyes, but before he could respond, the taxi stalled near an ancient, gnarled tree. A chilling wind swept through the street, making the hair on Rajiv’s neck stand on end. Vijay got out, muttering, “The spirits don’t like to be ignored.”

A woman’s voice startled them both. “Need help?” It was Eleanor, a foreign researcher living in Mehrauli, drawn by its eerie allure. She carried a lantern and a book bound in cracked leather.

Curiosity overcame fear as the three investigated the tree. Eleanor explained that the banyan was tied to a 200-year-old legend of a tantrik who cursed Mehrauli to eternal unrest. As she read aloud an incantation from the book, the ground trembled. A shadowy figure emerged, its eyes glowing like embers.

The trio ran, but the figure followed, whispering their secrets. Rajiv’s illicit deals, Vijay’s hidden crimes, and Eleanor’s obsession with forbidden rituals surfaced in chilling clarity.

Back at the taxi, the shadow cornered them. “You summoned me. Now fulfill the pact,” it hissed.

The cursed banyan’s roots snaked out, pulling them into the ground. By morning, Mehrauli was silent again, except for the whispering wind and the faint glow near the tree.

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