Random Horror Stories - 500

The streets of London had always been bustling, but tonight something was off. The usual noise of passing cars and chattering crowds felt distant. There was a chill in the air, biting with an intensity that didn't belong in late summer. The people walking down the cobbled roads quickened their pace, their heads down, barely noticing the strange figure that stumbled through the alleys.

His bare feet slapped the wet pavement as he walked, each step leaving a small pool of blood behind. The man was naked, skin pale, slick with sweat and dirt. His body twisted in strange angles as if his bones had forgotten how to move. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, pupils dilated so much they barely left any trace of the whites of his eyes.

His mouth hung open, mumbling something, though no one could make out what he was saying. His hands clutched at his chest, nails digging into his own skin, leaving deep gouges that bled without a hint of pain. He walked like a broken puppet, each movement jerky and uncoordinated, the weight of his body too much for his fractured mind to handle.

Once, he was just like any other man. He had a name, a job, a family. A life. But that man was gone, consumed by the drugs. The pills, the powders, the liquid poison. He had been chasing something, a high, an escape. But what he found was not relief but madness. A spiral that pulled him further and further into something unrecognizable.

And now, here he was, in the heart of London, a feral thing, lost to the fog of his own mind. The city, which had once felt so alive, now felt like a dream. Faces turned away from him as he wandered through the streets, people too terrified to even scream. He was no longer a man. Not really. He was something else, something terrible.

It had started earlier that night. A woman, walking home from the grocery store, had seen him first. She'd spotted him from a distance, thought he was just some drunk. But as he drew closer, she saw the blood, the madness in his eyes. She crossed the street quickly, her heart pounding in her chest, not looking back even when she heard him scream.

Screaming. He did that sometimes, letting loose the screams of something he couldn't control. And they were always loud, too loud. They cracked through the silence of the night like thunder, and each time they left an echo that would not fade.

The streets were emptier now. Some people had made it inside their homes, locked their doors, drawn their curtains. But there were still others who didn't know. Who didn't know the danger creeping down the road.

A group of teenagers, drunk on something other than alcohol, stood on the corner of King's Road. They hadn't noticed him at first, too busy laughing, too drunk to care about anything. Then one of them did.

"Oi, mate, you see that?" one of them said, nudging his friend.

The friend turned, blinking at first. "What the hell...?" His voice trailed off.

The man—if he could even be called that—was getting closer. The group froze, eyes wide, as they saw the blood and the madness in him. He seemed to be drawn to them, his pace picking up. The streetlights flickered overhead, casting strange shadows that danced across the alleyways.

One of the boys fumbled with his phone, his fingers shaking as he tried to call someone. But the man was faster. He reached the group, his breath hot and ragged. He didn't speak, only stared at them, his lips twitching like he was trying to form words. The teens were too scared to move. They didn't know what to do. But one of them, the drunkest, stepped forward.

"Hey, man. You okay?" the boy slurred. His voice was unsteady, too loud, and too filled with false bravado.

The man didn't answer. Instead, his hand shot out, grabbing the boy by the throat. The others tried to pull him away, but they were too slow. The man's fingers dug in like claws, his grip too strong. The boy's eyes bulged, hands scrambling uselessly at the man's wrist. Blood dripped from his mouth, splattering the ground below. His screams filled the air, but they were quickly cut off, drowned by the sound of a sickening snap.

The others screamed, backing away in terror, tripping over each other in their scramble to escape. But the man wasn't done. He turned, his eyes wild, mouth working in a futile attempt to form words. He wasn't human anymore.

A man walking his dog saw the chaos from across the street. His eyes widened in horror. He had seen the group of teens earlier; they had seemed like normal kids. But now? They were scattered, some of them still trying to run, others huddled together, their eyes filled with terror.

"Call the police," the man said to himself, his voice trembling. He reached for his phone, but before he could dial, he felt the cold touch of something against his neck. He turned, slowly, and saw the figure standing behind him. The man was too close. His breath hot and rancid, like something that hadn't had a chance to breathe in weeks.

"I—I don't have any money," the man stammered. But there was no robbery, no demand for money.

The man's fingers curled around his throat. He tried to scream, but the sound was trapped in his chest. His vision began to darken, his body growing weaker, as the life was drained from him by the force of those cold fingers. His knees buckled. And then he was gone.

The streets grew quieter. It was almost as if the city itself had frozen in place, holding its breath.

By the time the police arrived, there was nothing left but blood. The man was gone. The others were too scared to speak. They huddled together in fear, too terrified to even move. No one knew what had happened. No one knew what they had seen.

The man, if he could even be called that anymore, kept walking. His path was endless. His body was failing him, but he didn't stop. The drugs had eaten away at his mind, leaving only a hollow shell behind. His own body was a prison he couldn't escape, twisted and broken. The city seemed to stretch on forever, and he wandered, searching for something he couldn't even remember. He wasn't sure what it was anymore.

The man didn't sleep. Didn't eat. He just walked, driven by something deep inside him. Something primal. Something dark. His body was growing weaker with each passing hour, the blood drying in streaks across his limbs, the cuts and bruises accumulating. He could feel his body decaying. Could feel the life slipping away from him.

In the distance, he saw the outline of a woman. She was standing on a street corner, waiting for a bus. Her face was tired, as if she had been standing there for a long time.

He didn't stop. He didn't hesitate.

The woman turned just as he reached her.

Her scream was the last thing he heard before everything began to fade.

The man's body collapsed to the ground with a dull thud. His skin had turned pale and sickly, his eyes no longer filled with the wild spark they once had. His body, too worn and too broken, had finally given out. There was nothing left.

In the end, he had become just another lost soul, swallowed by the city. A man who had chased something he never understood, and in the process, had left everything he was behind.