3 Dark Web Short Horror Stories | Horror Stories

Best 3 Unsettling Dark Web Horror Stories In English:

Horror Story


Horror Story #1:

Scary Story

I’m what you might call a shut-in. I’ve spent the past five years of my life shut off from the outside world in my tiny studio apartment. Other people might find it claustrophobic, but I find it comforting. This apartment is my world, and it’s small enough that I know everything that goes on in it at any given moment. Here, I know that I’m safe and protected from the chaotic world outside the window that I always keep closed and curtained. I wasn’t always like this, though. I used to be a normal kid with a loving family. I lived in a fairly large house with my parents and older brother. I don’t remember my parents very well. I know they loved my brother and me, but they were always too busy with work to spend much time with us. My brother, on the other hand, I can remember perfectly. He was a lot older than me and, more often than not, had to be the one to take care of me when my parents worked late into the night. I’ve eaten his cooking more times than my mom’s. He never seemed to mind taking care of me, though. Sometimes I wonder how much of that was a facade. A teenager like him must’ve felt frustrated having to take care of his kid brother all the time. Thankfully he was kind enough never to blame me for it-not overtly anyways. In return, I tried my best not to bother him or my parents as much as possible. I was a shy, quiet kid even back then anyways. I kept to myself both at school and home, locking myself in my room until it was time to eat and only coming out when asked to. In my mind, I was trying my best not to be a bother to anyone. I think I might’ve come off as cold or uncaring to my family. Maybe if I’d tried to talk to them more, things would’ve gone differently. One night I woke up to the sound of my door handle rattling. I’d made it a habit to lock my doors early, one out of shyness, which most likely saved my life. I got out of bed to open the door, thinking that my brother needed something from me. But when I heard the person from the other side bang loudly on the door, I froze in my tracks. My brother was a calm, patient person. He never once raised his voice at me. It wasn’t like him to bang on my door like that in the middle of the night. The person on the other side continued to bang on the door, getting louder and louder with every passing second until I was afraid that it might break. All I could do was curl up in my bed under my blanket. At some point, I fell asleep and woke up the next morning drenched in my sweat. I tried to convince myself that it was just a dream. Almost succeeded too. But then I opened the door and stepped into my living room. What I saw there would haunt me for the rest of my life, even though I couldn’t remember most of it. My court-appointed therapist tells me it’s my mind repressing stressful memories that I wasn’t mentally equipped enough to process yet. I can still recall some things, though. I remember the blood flowing down the wooden floorboards. The metallic smell in the air reached into the back of my throat to make me gag. The red and blue glare of the police lights as they pulled up to the side of the house to respond to what they thought was a noise complaint. Those bits managed to sneak past the cracks of my psyche. Now they’re the only thing I can remember about that old life. The repressed memories had extended to memories of my family in general. When I was released from the foster system and found my apartment, I barely remembered anything about my family. Hell, I couldn’t even remember my parents’ faces at that point anymore. I became a shut-in living cheaply off money I made doing freelance tech jobs online. Then, one day, I looked in the mirror and saw for the first time just how sad and pathetic I’d gotten. Or rather, remained. I was eighteen years old, and I was still the same scared little brat who hid under his blankets. I thought that enough was enough and that I would overcome my fear. The therapist I’d been talking to online told me that some gradual exposure therapy could help me overcome my fears. She was talking about my fears of the outside world then. Once I felt I was ready, she intended to take me for a walk outside to get used to the environment. But for once in my life, I wanted to do more than what was required of me. I was impatient after years of being trapped by my mind and wanted to take action while I still felt the determination to do so. That was the biggest mistake of my life. Instead of gradually exposing myself to the outside world to get used to it, I decided to confront my fear of death first hand. And the only way to do that was to witness it. I logged on to the deep web using a Tor browser and over a dozen security features. I may be a shut-in, but I was also a freelance techie with more than one working brain cell. If I were going to explore the deep web, I wouldn’t take any risks. I went to several gore sites to see people after accidents or natural disasters. A soldier with his leg torn apart by an explosion, its bits scattered on the dirt around him. The car crash site where the driver has been crushed in their seat with their entrails spilling out of their eviscerated belly. And a person who’d been struck by lightning that fired their skin into a blackish blue hue with dark bulging veins beneath them. I couldn’t even tell whether some of the people in the pictures were dead or alive. It might’ve been more merciful had they been dead. I wanted to close the browser so many times while browsing that site. But even as the tears filled my eyes alongside memories that I’ve been trying to forget, I kept clicking on links and looking at the terrible photos that popped up without averting my gaze. I was determined to let myself be scared by stuff like that anymore. It seemed like I was doing well. I hadn’t curled up on the bed in a panic attack yet. But then I clicked one link titled “Family Night Gone Wrong.” I wasn’t sure what I was expecting it to be about, but I thought it’d just be another gruesome photo. Instead, it redirected me to a video. I knew it couldn’t be a live feed, though. I had security programs that would block any attempt to sync my computer to another device. I might be a half-mad shut-in, but I’m not an idiot. The video showed the dimly lit living room of a house. Tied and propped up in a sitting on the couch were middle-aged men and women with duct tape over their mouths. They were both sobbing through their closed mouths, but I could also hear another, younger voice sobbing with them from somewhere off camera. Two men in black ski masks walked into the frame, and each stood behind the man and woman. They both gently rested a hand on the man and woman’s shoulders, like they were giving them a reassuring pat after a rough day at work. The effect they had was anything but comforting, though. The man and woman started hyperventilating. The sobbing of the younger voice off-screen grew louder. Then, without warning, the masked men’s resting hands tightened into a vice-like grip that made the man and woman visibly tense up in pain. The masked men pulled out switchblades from behind their backs and, in one swift motion, slit the throats of the man and woman at the same time. A muffled scream came from off screen as the man and woman bled to death, unable to make any sound but the faint involuntary wheezing of air squeezing out of their open throat. But that wasn’t what broke me. What made me close the browser was what I saw when the camera panned off of the couch and focused on a teenage boy tied to a living room chair. I recognized that boy. He was my brother. That living room was my living room. The faces of the man and woman on the couch instantly became more familiar to me. They were my parents, and I was watching a recording of what happened in my house the night my life changed forever. I immediately called the police. The new evidence helped reignite the unsolved case of my family’s murder. It’s the only good thing that came out of my dark web trip. I’ve given up trying to overcome my fears of the outside world, at least for now. But maybe, if the police can catch the men responsible for my family’s murder, I’ll be able to muster up the courage to go outside again.

Horror Story #2:

Scary Story

I used to sell organs on the dark web. No, I’m not a murderer. I work at a funeral home as its sole undertaker and owner. It’s the only funeral home in the small town I live in, so I was pretty much the only choice for the families of the deceased to go to. I wasn’t always the only worker there, though. The funeral home’s a family business, so my father was the one who taught me the ins and outs of the trade as soon as I was old enough to. I tried to get out of it by going to medical school after university. I did pretty well for the three years I was there before I was forced to return to my hometown. My father had passed away from a sudden heart attack back home. He passed the funeral home down to me in his will. He also requested that I be the one to prepare his body for his funeral. Having to embalm his body was the hardest thing I ever had to do, but I did it anyway because that’s what he wanted. It was clear that the family business meant a lot to my father. The locals needed it, too, if they wanted a proper ceremony without having to drive miles to the next closest funeral home. Knew that I couldn’t abandon it anymore. It’s not like I would be able to pay off the student loans now that my father isn’t around to help support me either. I had a choice. Either normally work as an undertaker and keep paying my student loans until it was my turn to be put in the ground, or find a little hustle on the side that might let me pay it off before I retire. The choice was obvious in my mind. My medical school experience helped me carefully extract the organs from every corpse that found their way to my embalming table. The suits and dresses cover up the scars, and a little bit of stuffing where the organs used to be kept them from looking deflated. Honestly, it wasn’t too different from regular embalming. Their loved ones were none the wiser at their funerals. They often thanked me for making their family look alive one last time, not knowing that I had their organs stashed in a freezer in the back of the funeral home. For as much effort as we undertakers put into making bodies look pretty, our living clients tend to not look at them very closely in the end. So hey, what they don’t know won’t hurt them, right? It’s not like the corpses themselves can object to whatever I do to them either since they’re, you know, dead. Considering some of the gruesome stuff regular embalmings entail, undertakers wouldn’t exist if they could. Now before any of you judge me for what I did, know this. As someone who has known doctors and wanted to become one in the past, the organs that people bury and burn every day are worth more than their weight in gold. There are people in hospitals waiting for life-saving organ transplants. And while their own time is running out, those whose time has already passed are taking their invaluable organs with them into the ground where they have no use for them. Burying something as precious as organs that could potentially keep more people from dying is absurd. It’s one of the reasons why I was so against inheriting the funeral home business in the first place-even, more so than the morbid nature of the profession. That’s not to say that I’m some sort of saint for thinking that way, though. After all, I mainly sold organs to make money, not save lives. No legitimate doctor I know would ever try to find organs for their patients through the dark web. I try my best not to ask what my customers intend to do with the organs I provide them. That used to be the case with one of my most frequent recurring customers. For the sake of the story, let’s call him Harry. I met Harry when I started my organ selling business on the dark web. I had my little website on the dark web where I conducted my business. Every time I extracted an organ from a corpse, I would list it on my website with a starting price that people could bid on. Once an organ was sold and paid for with bitcoin, I’d drive to a secluded spot near the buyer’s address, place down a container with the organs inside, and send the coordinates to the buyer before getting the hell out dodge. Harry was always a high bidder, and I quickly got used to seeing his username on my dark website offering exorbitant amounts of money for any organ I listed. He almost always won the bid too. I don’t know where he got all the money to be spending on these organs, and I didn’t care. I just wanted the money. I had a complete set of organs up on sale on my dark website one day. Hearts, lungs, kidneys, you name it. The person I got them from had died from hypothermia. He got drunk off his mind and spent the night asleep on the street, where he froze to death. The tragic incident, but it gave me a rare chance to harvest a full set of undamaged organs. His death from the cold meant they were all still remarkably preserved when he reached my embalming table. The liver was a little worse for wear, though. Harry won the bid for several of the organs within just one day. I made a crap ton of money, but I also had to haul a heavy icebox with a heart, a pair of lungs, two kidneys, and one nasty ass liver across the state to the city he was in. I was really tired that day. Extracting many organs without damaging them and stitching the body back up again isn’t easy. That, coupled with the fact that I’d delivered organs to Harry about a dozen times before, made me complacent. I didn’t notice the black car tailing me from behind until I was already in a secluded part of the city. When I noticed the car in my rearview mirror, I felt my pulse racing. I’d always been afraid that something like this would happen. I thought that the police must’ve finally caught on to what I’d been doing. But before I panicked, I calmed myself down. It could just be a coincidence. A car that just so happened to be going in the same direction as me. I pulled my car to the side of the road under the pretense of checking my phone, hoping that they were just a regular car that’ll just drive past. Instead, my heart leaped into my throat when the car pulled up beside me. “This is it,” I thought. They were the cops and would arrest me for selling organs on the dark web. But instead of arresting me on sight, the person in the black car rolled down their window. Inside was an average-looking man in a white dress shirt. I kept my window shut, still pretending to be on my phone, when I got a text message on it. It was from Harry and simply read, “Look beside you.” I realized that the person beside me was my buyer. I was relieved that it wasn’t the police, but I didn’t want to show my face to a guy who buys organs on the deep web. I made no move to open the door or roll down the window. I texted him back, asking if he was the guy in the car beside me. He confirmed my suspicion and told me to roll down the window so that we could talk. I didn’t budge. I told him that we could discuss whatever he wanted through text. I also asked him how he knew where I was in the first place. He chuckled in his car when he read my message and texted back that he had his way. I could only assume that he must somehow be tracing me by my phone. He asked me how I got my organs, to which I replied that it was none of his concern. I saw him frown through his car’s open window. Then he asked me if he could be there when I “acquired” the organs. I asked him why the hell he’d want that. His response remains with me to this day. He texted me that he always wanted to try making sashimi and that the meat needed to be extra fresh for that. I realized with horror that he’s been buying the organs I sold for eating them all this time. When I looked at him again through the closed car window, he smiled in my direction with a toothy grin and wide, crazed eyes. I hit the gas and got out of there as soon as possible. I also broke my phone and tossed its remains in a garbage can as soon as possible. Deep down, I always knew that it was possible that my customers could be eating the organs I gave them. There are a lot of sick people on the dark web. But there’s a difference between knowing there are cannibals out there and coming face to face with one yourself. I no longer sell organs on the dark web. Instead, I encourage my living clients to donate their loved one’s organs willingly. Maybe I can make up for all the disgusting things I’ve enabled on the dark web by doing that.

Horror Story #3:

I became a shopaholic in my high school years. Like most girls my age, I was interested in clothes, boys, and clothes that’ll get me noticed by boys. One boy that I wanted to get the attention of was one of the rich preps who wouldn’t turn to look at you if you weren’t wearing brand-name clothes that cost more than what any high school student could make in a month from part-time jobs. Let’s call him Dick because that’s what he was now that I look back on it. I can’t remember why I was crushing so hard on him other than that he was rich and moderately good-looking. I must’ve been a weird, stupid kid back then. Especially considering the lengths, I resorted to in a desperate bid for his attention. I wanted to get my hands on some exclusive limited-edition clothes to impress Dick. You know, the kind that prospective customers have to line up and camp in front of the brand-name store the day before it’s released for a chance of buying it at a price higher than what most people make in a month. It’s stupid, and I knew it was stupid. But it was the thing that Dick liked to see, so I was willing to put my better judgment aside just for him. Still, I had neither the time nor the money to do what needed to be done to get stuff like that. My parents wouldn’t let me use their money for such a stupid reason. So instead, I tried looking for them second-hand online for a price that I could afford using what I made at my part-time babysitting job. I didn’t have much luck with that. Many sellers were trying to make money by selling the items for more than they’d bought them, so the prices were even more ridiculous than they would’ve been fresh off the rack. I remember once reading that stolen goods could be found being sold on the dark web for cheap since the sellers wanted to get rid of them as quickly as possible, so I decided to try my luck there once I’ve exhausted every other option. I logged into the deep web using a Tor browser and immediately went to find a website for stolen goods on sale. I did find some of the exclusive clothes that I was interested in. The prices were barely any better than the retail price, and some of them had stains that I didn’t want to think about too much. After a while, I was ready to give up trying to impress Dick with clothes I clearly can’t afford. Things would’ve turned out better for me had I done that. But right before I closed the Tor browser and got back to my life, an ad popped up on the corner of my screen. Several ads like it had popped up now and then as I browsed the deep web. I ignored most of them, but I decided on a whim to take a look at this one before I closed the browser. It was an advertisement for credit card information on sale for as cheap as $. That piqued my interest. I thought I’d be able to buy the clothes online using someone else’s credit card if I just bought the credit card info for a measly $. I probably should’ve known that there would be a catch, but the possibility of an easy solution too blinded me after having searched everywhere to be disappointed. After buying the equivalent of $ in bitcoin and spending it all on a stranger’s credit card, I was ready to go shopping. I won’t say the name of the person whose credit card is for reasons that’ll become obvious. For the sake of this story, I’ll just call him John Doe. John Doe was loaded. I must’ve bought over 10,000$ worth of stuff without maxing out his card. I was ecstatic that I had hit the jackpot. Even the fiercest dick quickly fired me in favor of dating a girl in the family richer than his, and I kept using John Doe’s credit card to buy just about whatever I wanted online. I never had them sent to my house, though. There’s an abandoned house in my neighborhood that I used as the billing address for the stuff I bought. The yard was a bit overgrown, but it still looked livable enough that someone who didn’t know any better would assume that the homeowner was too lazy to cut their grass. I was pretty small for a teenager, so I could squeeze through a tiny window in the back of the house to sneak inside. When the day of an expected delivery came, I’d go to the house and wait behind the door for the courier to arrive. I’d snatch the package they left on the front door the moment they were gone and stuff it inside my bag to bring home with a smile. Things were perfect. Then, one day, someone knocked on the door as I was waiting in the house for an overpriced jacket. I thought it was just a courier at first. I waited in silence for them to give up and just place the package on the door before leaving. But they kept knocking. Then, they started banging on the door while shouting for “John Doe” to open the door. I got scared at the mention of John Doe’s name. I’d stolen his credit card info to buy things in his name and had them delivered to that house. Whoever was on the other side must’ve tracked my transactions made under his name and found the house where the items were being delivered. They thought I was John Doe, and they did not sound happy with him. As I sat frozen in panic on a dusty couch, trying to figure out what to do, a loud BANG rang out from the other side of the front door. A vase in the living room shattered into pieces. A smoking gunshot hole was behind where it once stood, fired through the front door. I immediately booked it out of the house, jumping out of the back window and into the streets. I ran back home as fast as I could, the sound of gunshots fading behind me the further I got from the abandoned house. A few days later, I read on the news that a man named John Doe had died in a hit for stealing money from the mob. I had no way of confirming it, but I knew it was the same John Doe whose credit card I’d been leeching off. I never returned to that abandoned house to receive that jacket I ordered. After what almost happened to me there, I don’t think I’ll ever return to that house or the dark web again.



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