Horror Stories of 100 Words
For the month of June 2026, these are the stories that intrigue us most.
* Gossamer by Willow Nichols
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* Meow by Cassondra Tempest
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* Mable is Not Attached by Leslie Wibberley
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* Not Tylenol by Shana Naugle
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* I'm So Hungry, I Could Eat a Person by Kamran Connelly
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* Globophobia by Alan Watkins
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* Boy in the Corn by Clay Anderson
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* Sweet Dreams by Vidya Hariharan
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* Ding. Ding. Ding. by Catherine Boulay
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* The Diamonds of Sahasraksha by Vikesh Mirchandani
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* 1040 by Kristof Mill
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* The Night by Rachel Turney
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Gossamer
by
Willow Nichols
She staggered down the aisle. Adoring peers watched, prowling. The day everyone has waited for.
Each footfall pierced the velvet runner to the pulpit, a crimson path to her prey, who overflowed with hesitation. She could see the fear, oh, the delicious fear that infected his face. Soft smiles and nods as she passed each guest.
Halfway there, and the man became restless. He turned, but the priest placed a leaden hand on his shoulder; there was no escape once spun into her web.
Now at the altar, her salacious grin spread, a virus.
Now, the vows. The man's tears slid down his face, his body shook, and God, was she starving.
To have and to hold.
In sickness and health.
Her gossamer veil encased her groom, containing his shuddering body in its tenacious hold. Saliva flowed from the corner of her mouth. She pulled him close, her black lace dress with a pop of red pressed against his tux. With the insectile opening of her maw, they became one.
'Till death do us part.
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Willow Nichols is a New England based writer of all things speculative fiction. She enjoys all forms of horror, often using her experiences as a BIPOC queer woman to inspire her darkest stories. She has been published in multiple anthologies, Blood+Honey Lit, Cosmic Horror Monthly, among others. When Willow is not writing she is helping as a first reader for Monday Mag and is an assistant editor for The Drabblecast.
Meow
by
Cassondra Tempest
The cat woke me up from a dead sleep.
The raking sound of its vocals cut through my slumber and the night. The weight of its body dipped my bed. Its fur brushed against my blanketed hip, my stomach, and my head.
I opened my eyes to look at the ceiling as its meows broke into a growling purr.
Pitch-black eyes stared back at me.
I don’t own a cat.
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Cassondra Tempest is a writer based out of the City of Philadelphia. She writes a blend of sci-fi, romantasy, comedy, and horror and is actively working on her first manuscript, with hopes to publish in 2027.
Mable is Not Attached
by
Leslie Wibberley
The playground is empty. Odd, on such a nice day, but it pleases Sandra. Nice and quiet. “Go play,” she tells her five-year-old.
Mable plants her feet, “No.”
“Please, sweetheart. Mama needs a break.”
Mable pouts. “No. I don’t like that boy.”
Sandra frowns. “Don’t be silly. There’s no boy.” She pushes a reluctant Mable to the sandbox, sits on a bench, and opens her book.
Two chapters later, she hears an odd squelching sound. She lifts her head to see a pasty-skinned boy sitting in the sandbox, gnawing on something.
A hand.
Mable’s hand.
And Mable is not attached.
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Leslie Wibberley's work has been published in multiple anthologies and literary magazines, including Pulp Literature and the Bram Stoker-nominated anthology: Not All Monsters, and has placed first in Writers Digest's Annual Competition and Popular Fiction Awards, the Chanticleer International Book Awards, and the Pacific Northwest Literary Contest. She is represented by Naomi Davis of Bookends Literary.
Not Tylenol
by
Shana Naugle
Whoops. That wasn’t Tylenol. What was it? I slid to the kitchen floor. What wong, Daddy? she asked, hugging me. I looked at her face as it melted into the floor. What happening? Her voice slowed and echoed through the kitchen. She picked up a squished raisin on the floor. I grabbed it. Give it back! yelled the melted face. Long fingers clawed towards me. I lay down on the dirty vinyl, my face merging with the gray striped flooring. She climbed on top of me, no head remaining; the zipper of her green pajamas where her neck had been.
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Shana Naugle is a mother living in the Midwest. Her work is forthcoming at Flash Flood Journal.
I'm So Hungry, I Could Eat a Person
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Kamran Connolly
Day twenty-seven, trapped in this stupid mall, not a morsel or crumb to be found. The horde of undead shuffle past outside doing the same, looking for something to consume.
The agony of hunger leaves me hopeless but lucid, and new clarity opens in my mind.
I watch the wretched creatures turn on one another, taking a bite here and there, nibbling the closest body to them, but they don’t seem to mind.
I watch from behind the glass and salivate. We’re not so different after all.
I open the door and offer myself.
At least I’ll get to eat.
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Kam’s short story DEATH BED INC has been accepted for publication by Twisted Dreams Press. Is published online at The Horror Tree, Trembling with Fear, Flash Phantoms, WitCraft, and T. Saunders publishing for his works of fiction. Has poetry featured in three anthologies, a novella featured in the Paul Cave Prize for literature. Has a feature in Hollowpoint Press inaugural issue of the “300 Project” and is currently shopping around his debut novel, The Extinction Process. And his Vampire novella BLOOD BANK.
Globophobia
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Alan Watkins
It really wasn't a bad plan. He knew the guy had a morbid fear of balloons, so he'd just show up with a balloon, take what he wanted, and leave. He walked in, showed the balloon, and the guy literally froze. He let the balloon go to work on the lock of the display case containing the gold coins. The last things he heard were three pops, each louder than the last. The pop of the lock, the pop of the balloon as it reached the ceiling fan, and the pop of the gun as the bullet entered his skull.
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​Alan Watkins if a software engineer that lives in Wake Forest, NC. He enjoys writing flash fiction, mostly horror related, and has had a handful published to various anthologies and online magazines over the last several years. Most of his stories are written as scripts - he makes far more short films than written stories for readers. With film or the written word, his goal is the same - to tell stories that people enjoy. You can contact him on Facebook or Instagram at @alan.watkins.98. One of his latest short-film can be viewed here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-tNUIzTWgw
The Boy in the Corn
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Clay Anderson
My brother disappeared in the cornfield in 1986. He was seven, chasing fireflies at dusk. Mama screamed his name until her voice broke. The search parties found nothing.
Every harvest, we find a shoe. One small, mud-caked sneaker left between the rows, always his size, always the same brand Mama bought him that last summer. We stopped questioning it. We just collected them, lined them along the porch like a shrine.
This year, we found a pair.
Adult size.
Still warm.
And pressed into the soil beside them, a single set of footprints, walking out of the field.
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Clay Anderson is a writer and social worker living in Jasper, Georgia. He holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Reinhardt University and an M.A. in History from Mississippi State University. His fiction and essays have appeared in Fourth World Journal, Texas Books in Review, the Journal of Big Bend Studies, and the East Texas Historical Journal. He is also a former assistant editor of the James Dickey Review and a former assistant professor of History, English, and Communications.
Sweet Dreams
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Vidya Hariharan
The bed looked super comfortable. A four-poster. Who built that kind of bed these days? The wood looks teak. Sturdy and solid. It fit the bedroom perfectly. It had been a long time since such a bed graced this beautiful room. Most people buy make-shift items these days or DIYs that come with scores of instructions.
The buyers of this bed are connoisseurs. I only hope they move in soon. It has been an age since I occupied the underside of a large bed. I have a few new tricks up my sleeve to annihilate them.
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Vidya Hariharan is a published poet. Her collection "The Migrants and Other Poems" was published in March 2026. Her haiku, haibun and prose narratives can be found in a variety of journals.
Instagram: vidya.hariharan.77
Ding. Ding. Ding.
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Catherine Boulay
No mirror anywhere. Bare walls in the foyer. Void above the sink.
“Last tenant didn’t like ‘em mirrors,” the creepy landlord explained.
Cheap rent doesn’t mind red flags. In she moved.
First night: ding, ding, ding!
Second night: ding, ding, ding!
Third night: DING, DING, DING!
Serious commotion she carried out in the closet and the cupboard until she found it beneath the sink: a small oval mirror wrapped in newspaper.
She unwrapped it, and her face looked back at her.
Her reflection smiled.
She hadn’t.
It smiled again and lifted a finger to the glass.
Ding, ding, ding!
From inside.
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Catherine Boulay is a Canadian author and English teacher. She likes to turn daily oddities into horror or suspenseful stories.
The Diamonds of Sahasraksha
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Vikesh Mirchandani
My heart hammered. Around the bend, the sacred pool glistened with a thousand silver sparks, casting a dancing constellation across the cave.
“There,” the guide whispered, eyes glinting. “The diamonds! After you, sir.”
I waded in, the sparks ebbing from my boots. “Mesmerizing!” I breathed, reaching for one. “This is worth thousands—”
He clicked off his flashlight. The sparks vanished.
I spun in the sudden, crushing black, blinded.
Two orbs ignited—the guide’s eyes, dimly revealing a slick, slimy shape reeking of sulfide.
“Wakey-wakey, kids. Supper’s here,” he gargled.
A thousand silver slits twinkled, then surged up my legs.
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Vikesh Mirchandani is a writer from Jakarta, Indonesia. His fiction is forthcoming in FlashFlood Journal and the Edinburgh Anthology 2026. He placed third in the Anthology Flash Fiction Competition 2025 and was longlisted by Flash 500 and Cranked Anvil Press.
1040
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Kristof Mill
1040. That’s how many legs I have. All skittery and obstinate. One night, it rumbled in my underbelly, and joints clicked. Next day, third leg popped out. I wanted to go for a checkup, but couldn’t figure out walking. Then I had four, managed to move, barely. I scoured the web. I had fifteen by then. Literal point of no turning back. I put the pants on, all 520 pairs, and went to the doctor.
I’m hopeful. I really am. Get some pills and be normal. The problem is, I’m waiting in a very long queue. Hundreds of feet long. All me…
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Kristof Mill writes about grief, cosmic dread, and the absurdity of being alive. His stories inhabit spaces between horror and dark comedy. He believes the best work comes from realising you have no idea what you're doing. https://www.instagram.com/kristofmill
The Night
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Rachel Turney
At night, we hear a noise like howling. It isn’t wolves, though; we know what those sound like. I think I can even hear quick feet moving over snow, but we only find large round tracks, nothing like we have ever seen before. In the morning, the field is flooded with blood. They have been here, and our neighbor's horse is gone. The town directive has been to stay inside after dark. We hear about a missing hunter and teenagers who haven’t been seen in months. Nothing is found of them, even as the snow melts and spring comes.
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Rachel Turney, Ed.D. (she/her) is the Writer in Residence (2026) at NKollectiv in Englewood, Colorado and EIC of PIB (the Magazine). Her poems, research articles, reviews, and drawings can be found in a variety of publications. Rachel is passionate about immigrant rights, teacher support, and empowering other artists. She is a Writers’ Hour prize winner and Best of the Net nominee. Her photography appears on a few magazine covers. Rachel is the founder of the popular online reading series Poetry (in Brief). She is on staff at Bare Back Magazine with her monthly column Friday Night in the Suburbs. She reads for The Los Angeles Review. Her debut poetry collection, Record Player Life (the b-side) is available with The Poetry Lighthouse. Her second poetry book, Retired Wannabe Club Kid, is out now with Parlyaree Press. Website: turneytalks.com Instagram: @turneytalks Bluesky: rachelturney