Horror Writing Prompts

A new prompt unlocks every Friday at 3 a.m. Eastern. Write to it in flash fiction, publish it to the Critique Room, and read what everyone else did with the same seed. The newest 5 prompts take entries; older ones stay here to read.

Write to this week's prompt →

October 16, 2026· Open for entries
You work the night shift at the city morgue. A new body arrives on a steel gurney, but it has a fresh tattoo on its arm that reads: "Don't bury me. I'm not done."
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October 9, 2026· Open for entries
After moving into a new apartment, a tenant starts hearing someone quietly unlock the front door each night. The lock is always still locked in the morning.
No entries yet — be the first
October 2, 2026· Open for entries
Every night at 2:17 a.m., something beneath a man's bedroom floor whispers his name. After three weeks, he finally whispers back. It replies, “Good. Now I know which one you are.”
No entries yet — be the first
September 25, 2026· Open for entries
The highway exit you take home every night has a new sign: your town's name, and beneath it, "Population: 0." When you pull in, the lights are on in every house. Every front door is open.
No entries yet — be the first
September 18, 2026· Open for entries
Your daughter's baby monitor picks up a second voice at night, softly singing her a lullaby you've never heard. Tonight the singing stops, and the voice whispers into the monitor: "She's asleep. Now come upstairs."
No entries yet — be the first

Horror Writing Prompts

You work the night shift at the city morgue. A new body arrives on a steel gurney, but it has a fresh tattoo on its arm that reads: "Don't bury me. I'm not done."

After moving into a new apartment, a tenant starts hearing someone quietly unlock the front door each night. The lock is always still locked in the morning.

Every night at 2:17 a.m., something beneath a man's bedroom floor whispers his name. After three weeks, he finally whispers back. It replies, “Good. Now I know which one you are.”

The highway exit you take home every night has a new sign: your town's name, and beneath it, "Population: 0." When you pull in, the lights are on in every house. Every front door is open.

Your daughter's baby monitor picks up a second voice at night, softly singing her a lullaby you've never heard. Tonight the singing stops, and the voice whispers into the monitor: "She's asleep. Now come upstairs."