horror story.

Mr Nazar.


The rain hammered against the precinct windows, a relentless, drumming rhythm that mirrored the dread clawing at Nazar’s insides. He stared at the crime scene photos, the faces of young girls, their eyes wide with terror frozen in time. Two days. That was the grim, consistent interval between their disappearance from St. Agnes School and the discovery of their mutilated bodies.
“No signs of forced entry, no witnesses, nothing,” his partner, Rashid, muttered, running a hand through his damp hair. “It’s like they just…vanished.”

Nazar felt a coldness settle in his bones. This wasn’t just a killer; it was something else, something…unnatural. He’d seen the autopsy reports, the impossible contortions of the victims’ limbs, the strange, black residue found beneath their fingernails. He pushed the images away, focusing on the map of the school and the surrounding area.

“The pattern,” he said, his voice low. “It’s too precise. Two days. Always two days.”
He decided to spend the night at St. Agnes, hoping to catch a break, a clue, anything. The old Victorian building, shrouded in mist, seemed to hold its breath, watching him. The silence was thick, broken only by the creak of floorboards and the whispering wind.

He set up a makeshift command post in the principal’s office, the glow of his laptop casting long, eerie shadows. He reviewed the school’s security footage, hours of empty hallways and classrooms. Nothing. Then, at 2:17 AM, a flicker. A distortion in the static of one of the hallway cameras. A girl, a new face, walked into the frame, her eyes wide with a terror that mirrored the victims. She was gone in a blink.


Nazar’s heart pounded. He rewound the footage, replayed it, again and again. The girl, her face etched in his memory, her name was Anya, the new student. He checked, she was enrolled only 2 days prior. He checked the time, exactly 2 days ago.

He raced out of the office, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallways. He had to find her, stop the cycle. But the school felt different now, twisted, disorienting. The hallways seemed to stretch, the doors leading to nowhere. He felt a cold breath on his neck, a whisper that seemed to come from the very walls.


He found himself back in the principal’s office, the laptop screen flickering. The footage played again, the girl, Anya, walking into the static distortion. He looked at the time on his watch. 2:17 AM.

“No,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It can’t be.”

He tried to leave, but the door was locked, the handle cold and unyielding. The windows were sealed shut. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in. He felt a pressure in his head, a sickening wave of dizziness.

He looked at the laptop screen again, the girl’s face now distorted, her eyes glowing with an unnatural light. He saw his own reflection in the dark screen, his face pale, his eyes wide with the same terror.

He tried to scream, but the sound was trapped in his throat. He felt his body contort, his bones twisting, his muscles seizing. He felt a blackness creeping in, a cold, suffocating darkness.
He woke up, gasping for air. He was in the principal’s office, the laptop screen glowing. He looked at his watch. 2:17 AM. He looked at the screen, Anya, the girl, walking into the static distortion.

He was trapped.

He understood now. It wasn’t just a killer; it was a loop, a horrifying, repeating cycle of death. He was caught in it, just like the girls. He was now part of the pattern. He was now the prey.
He saw his own hand reaching for the laptop, the black residue beneath his fingernails glinting in the dim light. He saw his face, his eyes, mirroring the terror of the victims. He was the next one. He was the end of the line.


The static on the screen intensified, a blinding white light filling the room. He felt a pull, a sickening, wrenching sensation as his body began to dissolve, to become part of the static, part of the loop. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that in two days, another detective would come, another victim would be found, and the loop would begin again. The school would wait, patiently, for its next offering. The rain continued to fall, washing the streets clean, hiding the horror within the old, stone walls of St. Agnes.