Calling all horror enthusiasts and wordsmiths of the macabre! Step into the shadows and join our spine-chilling 2024 Six Word Horror Memoir Contest. As the witching hour approaches, we challenge you to unleash your most terrifying tales in just six blood-curdling words.
Delve into the depths of your darkest memories, unearth the nightmares that haunt your every waking moment, and expose the horrors that have shaped your twisted psyche. Craft a memoir that drips with dread, pulses with heart-pounding terror, and leaves readers trembling in fear.
The Rules:
- Your horror memoir must be exactly six words – no more, no less.
- Each entry will be judged on its ability to elicit pure, unadulterated terror.
- You may enter as many spine-chilling memoirs as you dare.
- Submit your entries by the stroke of midnight on October 1st, 2024.
- Prepare to face your deepest fears and darkest demons.
- Entries go in the comments below
The Prizes:
- Eternal glory and your tale immortalized in our upcoming print issue, “Nightmare Fuel.”
- One month of free promotions for your writing on our site, from new releases to author interviews.
- Your name whispered in horror circles for generations to come.
- A digital badge of honor to showcase your mastery of the macabre.
- Bragging rights as the creator of the most terrifying six word memoir.
- To appear in our print and digital issue
To enter, simply post your most hair-raising six word horror memoir in the comments below. Remember, every word counts in this battle for the title of horror master.
Don’t forget to sign up for our Dreadful Digest newsletter, where you’ll receive a free digital copy of “Terror Tome” – a collection of the most haunting tales from our archives, guaranteed to keep you up at night.
The clock is ticking, and the darkness awaits. Will you rise to the challenge and claim your place in the annals of horror history? The choice is yours, but remember – in this contest, only the truly terrifying will survive.
Let the nightmares begin, and may the most spine-chilling memoir win! Mwahahaha!
Follow him on Twitter, and check out our Submissions page.
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I purged blood until darkness fell.
Midnight the spooky sounds all around.
Creepy shadow moving across the hall.
flashing light and a voice outside
Voice of Yawheh calling for repentance.
They idled, no thought who followed.
some thoughts out of my control
i panic, but no one cares
”Dad buried us alive”; twins revealed.
We should start seeing other people.
I pronounce you husband and wife.
I’m sorry, Ivan didn’t make it.
Dirty fingerprints after digging my grave.
A shadow grabbed my left hand.
Fear takes ahold the heartbeats faster..
Treading water, the ship sailed off.
Lights out. Wind moans. Shadows scream.
Zombie husband craves my fleshy embrace.
A jumbie hiding in the closet.
A Sokonyah flew by my window.
” A Sydney spider ; by my hand !”
A corpse outside my front door.
“Oxygen mask drops on the plane!”
“The plane descent grab oxygen mask!”
The needle slips, under my fingernail.
Don’t breathe.
It’s there.
Behind you.
“I’m awake! It didn’t work!”
“Scalpel.”
A twister tore off the roof.
I’m surrounded by man eating tigers.
Their ravenous faces swerve toward me.
The creepy old man next door.
Out of gas on train tracks.
Lost in the middle of woods.
Tea steeped in blood for guests.
Baby footprints, over windshield, after funeral.
“Figured biting back was the cure”.
I know you can see me.
The advertisement: ‘MISSING CHILD, NO REWARD.’
A killer never just strikes once.
Itchy eyes, best replaced with spare.
Holmes died before solving the case.
You should have milked the snake.
I slurped her spine matter clean.
Buried under floorboards, praying oxygen depletes.
It is searching for me .
” Boo!”
Found myself in tomorrow’s obituary today.
Home alone. Heavy steps coming upstairs.
Sutures are my specialty, cleaving’s his.
Spiraling birthmark grew five inches wider.
Just one more video before bed.
Fangs grew in after dental appointment.
“Stop following,” he begged her grave.
I know where she lives now.
“You must escape tonight, promise me?”
Sale: non-infested baby. 15-day return policy!
Kissing. Serpent slithers out his mouth.
“They think I’m not real, mama.”
Therapy session unsuccessful, gargoyle still visible.
Run. Hide. But do it tonight.
Howling stops. Transformed. Nope, still human.
Adopted curbside sofa, never returned home.
Gutted lady kismet, cheated owed destiny.
Ingrown scales clipped, forked tongue glued.