Words That Haunt and Heal

People like to say attention spans are shrinking. They’re not wrong — the world now speaks in seconds . TikToks. Reels. Shorts. Notifications stacked like sediment in a collapsing mine. We scroll past entire lives with a flick of the thumb. It’s not that we don’t want depth anymore — it’s that the world keeps taking our oxygen before we can dive. And in that kind of world, short horror doesn’t just survive… it evolves. Short horror isn’t patient. Short horror doesn’t circle t

There was a time when power didn’t need a camera. It was absolute—terrible, unfiltered. Nero had his own mother killed. Caligula demanded worship as a living god. Commodus fought slaves in the arena to prove his divinity. To displease these men was to vanish. No debate. No committee. Just blood and silence. They were monsters, yes—but monsters of conviction. Their cruelty was not performative. It was naked, self-assured, real. They didn’t tweet about empathy while starving pr

People think silence is empty. It isn’t. It’s where stories breathe before they speak. In horror—and in writing—silence isn’t the absence of sound. It’s the moment your mind fills in what’s missing. The space between footsteps in a dark hallway. The blank line after a sentence that should have ended differently. The breath the author takes, just before the truth arrives. That’s where the real story hides. Not in the screams, but in the quiet before them. A good horror writer