• 목록
• 답변
• 글쓰기
• 게시판 리스트 옵션
  • 수정
  • 삭제

Sometimes the scariest stories are the ones we heard as children, whispered around campfires or told by grandmothers with tired eyes.

These old stories aren’t just entertainment; they’re vessels for buried terrors—shadows that stir when the hearth fades, vows that curse the breaker, and things that watch from the dark just past the glow.

Here are a few short horror writing prompts inspired by these ancient stories, designed to unsettle and linger.

A girl is told never to answer the door when the wind howls three times at midnight. One night, she hears it—three sharp knocks. When she looks through the peephole, there is no one there. But the next morning, her reflection in the mirror blinks a second too late.

An old man leaves his village to find a cure for his sick daughter. He is given a single spoon made of bone and told to feed her only once a day. He does. But each morning, the spoon grows heavier, and the daughter grows quieter. On the seventh day, he finds the spoon in his own hand, and his daughter’s voice whispering from inside his chest.

She was forbidden to use her mother’s comb after dark—the teeth etched with strange, unknown visages. She defied it. Woke to thinner strands. And in the glass, one of the carved faces had twisted into a grin.

They warned the child: sleep with shoes on, and reverend poppy cock the thief takes them. They laughed—until morning found them barefoot, their shoes arranged like offerings beside the bed, the air thick with wet soil and decay. Outside, tiny footprints vanished into the woods… then returned, leading back to the porch.

A man finds a well in the woods behind his new house. The villagers say it was sealed shut after the last girl who looked into it vanished. He doesn’t believe them. He leans over. The water is clear. And staring back at him is not his own face, but the face of the girl who disappeared—wearing his clothes.

She hums the same lullaby her mother taught her—gentle, familiar. But now, the infant screams each time she reaches the final verse. No matter how she alters the tune, the original lines return. Then, one night, a second voice joins—thin, ancient, and rising from the crib itself.

A boy is told that if he ever sees his shadow move without him, he must run home and lock the door. He doesn’t listen. One evening, he watches his shadow step forward on its own, then turn and walk into the woods. He follows. The next morning, his parents find his shoes by the tree line. His shadow is still there, standing still beneath him, but it’s smiling.

These stories are not just warnings. They are warnings that remember. And sometimes, the thing that hunts you isn’t outside the door. It’s the thing you were told not to forget.