How to Survive a Horror Con
Jo crouched behind a toppled merch table like a final girl two scenes too early. Her breath rasped in her ears louder than the screams echoing through the convention center’s atrium. Blood—definitely not stage blood—spattered their shirt, a vintage April Fool’s Day tee she’d worn ironically. The irony was starting to taste like copper in the back of her throat.
The Dream Eater
On the set of a scrappy indie sci-fi series, a young production assistant finally lands the chance to be part of something meaningful—far from the clutches of the Hollywood machine. The creator at the helm is a visionary rebel, celebrated for giving outsiders a voice and reclaiming storytelling from corporate control. But as the lights flicker and shadows lengthen behind the scenes, it becomes clear that something far more sinister lurks beneath the surface. Behind the Lens is a chilling tale of ambition, power, and the hidden price of chasing a dream.
THE UMBRELLA LADY
“She wasn’t paying attention? On her goddamn phone? She was supposed to be watching them!”
The mother’s voice cracked like a whip across the sterile walls of the police station. Christina sat slumped in the metal chair, mascara streaked down her face, shaking. Her phone was still warm in her pocket—still open to the FaceTime call she hadn’t ended, as Nikki listened in, trying to decipher the muffled madness.
“On fucking FaceTime, while my babies were out there alone! How could you?”
Christina choked on her tears. “I—I just looked down for a second. I had to pee. They were in the yard. They were right there.”
THE CRYSTAL IN THE WALL
Skipping school on Friday afternoons had become one of our senior-year rituals. With only study halls and gym left on our schedule, why the hell wouldn’t we? I didn’t have a car, but Donger did, so we’d pile in and drive around, hunting for new places to get high in a town where nothing felt new anymore. Tommy suggested we go on an adventure—hike out to the giant cross near the Russian monastery. Donger bitched about potholes and gas, like he always did, but finally caved to our relentless peer pressure.
Autoplay Next: A Choose Your Horror Flash Fiction Story
A Choose Your Horror flash fiction story, written by Justine Norton-Kertson, from Nerd Horror Media.
THE MILKING
One night, the milk turned blue.
At first, no one noticed. The cows still grazed, the barn lights flickered in their usual rhythm, and the machines kept churning their daily song.
THE BOY WHO COULDN’T SLEEP
I hadn’t really slept since we moved into the house on Church Street, even though I finally had my own room.
I mean, I slept a little, but not a deep sleep. Not dreamless sleep—the kind that washes over you and leaves you feeling whole in the morning. Every night felt like being buried alive in cotton—suffocating in slowness, dragged into a paralyzed fog where I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, but something could touch me. And every morning, I woke weaker. Like I’d run a marathon in my dreams. Like something fed off me while I lay helpless.
THE NECRONOMIKIDS
Max smirked, unsheathing his favorite red pen—the one he always used for writing boss stats—and began copying the first sigil onto the Grimworld monster sheets. The pen moved like it knew the way without him. The moment the final curve closed into a circle, the basement shivered.
Three Days to Animal
Three days without food or water. That’s how long it takes for a person to regress—mind, body, and soul—into a state of pure, animal survival. Three days, and morality starts to rot. Compassion peels away. You’re not human anymore. You’re a creature that will do anything to live—even kill.
That’s what they say, anyway.
But what I saw… he didn’t turn into an animal.
He became something hungrier. Something crueler. Something worse.
THE RULE OF THREE
Lana Grant had built her entire brand on the fine line between fear and fun. Her TikTok series, “3-Minute Myth,” had started as a side project during her last semester of college in upstate New York. Now, with nearly 800K followers and a growing YouTube mirror channel, she was one of horror-Tok’s most popular creators—equal parts skeptic, storyteller, and scream queen.
BROTHER
He was seventeen when the call came.
They said it was a miracle—finally a matching donor, with a perfect heart. My parents cried tears of joy. I just stared at the carpet. I didn’t know what to feel. My big brother Danny had been sick for most of my life. Dilated cardiomyopathy, they called it. His heart was too weak, too big and just not good at being a heart. For years, I watched him fade—pale, tired, sometimes blue-lipped and wheezing after walking upstairs. But then came the transplant and then came the change.
THE ALGORITHM FEEDS
The video was everywhere, a shaky, low-light livestream. A woman in her twenties. Makeup—perfect. Ring light—glowing. She leaned toward the camera, mid-sentence.
FATHER
They kidnapped me from outside my apartment. One moment I was unlocking my bike, the next—a hood, hands, a vehicle that smelled like sulfur and old milk. I passed out.
I woke up, strapped to a table of cold metal—my wrists burned. The air buzzed with some frequency I couldn’t hear, but felt in my teeth. Inside I tasted dread as candles flickered while the smell of rotted flesh lambasted me.
I lifted my head to see my kidnappers in a large dilapidated open room. They’d arranged themselves with their backs to me mostly, in a semicircle around a wall. As I stared, the wall pulsed, shimmered and breathed. Like it waited for me—licking its lips to taste my fear.
THE CRYSTALLINE VOW
They say when you’re dying, your life flashes before your eyes. But mine won’t stop replaying just one night—one scream, one blade, one name I still whisper in dreams. I broke a vow I never made, and they killed him for it. Now the crystal is humming again, and I don’t think I have much time left. So if you’re reading this, listen closely—because once I tell you, it won’t just be my secret anymore.
THE GATEKEEPERS
There’s something lurking in the code, in the algorithms that’s preying on us—If you’ve seen this post, it might already be too late.
The door was open. It wasn’t supposed to be. It gaped like an invitation no one wanted, humming with silence. I stepped inside Justine’s apartment, whispering their name. No response. Just the kind of stillness that feels loaded. And then I saw the blood.
It was smeared along the edge of their keyboard—a perfect, curling half-print of a fingertip. Beneath it was a tiny message written in red Sharpie on the back of a Post-it note:
"Rule 0 is real."
That was the last thing they ever wrote.
POLLY MILLER ROAD
If you grew up in upstate New York, you’ve probably heard some version of the Polly Miller story. Witch. Murdered lover. Cursed swamp. The older kids always dared each other to go out there, to Polly Miller Road, after dark. I used to think it was all bullshit. Just local legend. But in the summer of 1999, I found out it wasn’t. Polly’s real—and she’s been waiting.
All we wanted was to run—me and Jess, two girls who’d gotten too deep in Carter’s bullshit. Swayed by the money, the free drugs, and that so-called safe compound tucked deep off Vickerman Hill. We had it made, but the cost was our souls, and that was too steep for me.
THE CURIOUS CASE OF JORGE THE VAMPIRE HORSE
This is Jorge.
Jorge was a good little horse.
He came from Mexico.
He didn’t have papers—just dreams.
This is the Man in the Red Hat.
He was not the sharpest tool in the shed.
He was very mean.
He hid behind a cross and a gun.
And he treated politics like his favorite sports team.
The Man in the Red Hat hated Jorge.
JACK’S TONIC
WARNING: Never drink a 150-Year-old Snake Oil Tonic—My Aunt did, and now she’s not human anymore
They told me the old milk house hadn’t been opened since 1947. My great-grandfather, Jack “The Milk Man,” died there—collapsed by the churn with his boots on. The room had stayed sealed ever since, the cold stone cellar beneath it undisturbed.
Until now.
MIDNIGHT MASS
Once a month, every adult in town would vanish after dark. The children stayed home—locked in, lights out. Told not to peek, that we should be asleep by then anyway, and if we weren’t, all manner of monsters lurked about at night looking for disobedient children to chase.
SEE EMILY PLAY
This is a warning. If you hear kids calling outside your window after 2AM—don’t go. Don’t answer. And whatever you do, don’t say your name.
There’s something wrong with my street, and it starts after midnight. You’ll hear laughter—children playing. Sometimes tag, sometimes jump rope, sometimes just… calling.
But we all know better. You don’t open the window. You don’t peek through the blinds. You never go outside.
I told Emily this, but she didn’t believe me. She thought it was just some dumb story I made up to scare her.
She doesn’t think that anymore.
Because she’s gone.