Short Horror Stories

Voices In My Head

Trigger Warnings
" Depression
" suicide thoughts

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In a dimly lit room on the 14th floor of an old apartment building, Darren sat on the edge of his bed, holding a tattered journal. The window was slightly ajar, letting in the cold night breeze that carried the sounds of distant sirens and the hum of the city. The darkness was occasionally disrupted by the occasional flash of a neon sign from the bar across the street, illuminating the room just enough for Darren to scribble his thoughts.

"The voices in my head keep on telling me to pray, 'Cause I'm spinning like a carousel, circling the drain..." he wrote.

Each word was a reflection of his inner turmoil, a deep-seated pain that had become his constant companion. Darren had always been a dreamer. But lately, dreams seemed elusive, replaced instead by haunting echoes that reverberated endlessly within the confines of his mind.

He took a swig from the bottle next to him, hoping the burn would silence the voices even for a moment. But they only grew louder, more insistent.

"Hit the bottom of the bottle, I don't wanna feel the pain. But that is all I got for now, I don't wanna talk about it."

His life was a series of unfortunate events. Lost job, failed relationships, and now these voices that seemed hell-bent on pushing him to the edge.

Suddenly, the room's silence was interrupted by a whisper, "Stay with us... Stay..."

Darren snapped his head around, scanning the room for any sign of an intruder. But there was no one, just the familiar shadows cast by the passing cars below.

The voices weren't external, they were in his head. A cacophony of whispers that seemed to be guiding him, or perhaps luring him into a darkness he wasn't sure he could escape.

"If I pull the trigger now then the demons go away," he thought. The idea had its allure. An escape. But every time he got close, a different voice would plead, "Stay..."

The mental struggle was exhausting. Darren wanted peace, and the voices offered choices. But they were choices he didn't want to make.

One evening, as Darren walked the city's streets trying to clear his head, he came across an old church. Its tall spire reaching into the heavens seemed inviting, a possible sanctuary from the storm within. He pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.

The soft candlelight and the scent of incense were oddly comforting. He sank into a pew and looked up at the stained glass windows, seeking a sign, any sign, that might help him choose a path.

"The voices in my head keep telling me to choose a side. It's heaven or hell like it's do or die."

Darren's prayers were interrupted by the soft voice of an old priest. "Troubled, my son?"

He looked up, tears streaming down his face. "Father, I can't escape them. The voices. They're tearing me apart."

The priest sat next to him, placing a gentle hand on Darren's shoulder. "Often, our own minds become our worst enemies. It's a battle between light and darkness. Sometimes, talking about it helps."

Darren shared his story, the weight of his words heavy with pain. The priest listened patiently, nodding occasionally, his eyes reflecting understanding.

But as Darren spoke, another voice began to emerge, one that wasn't his own. Whispered phrases like, "Dark clouds, hard times, bad weather," intertwined with his own words.

The priest's expression changed from one of empathy to concern. "Darren, you must fight these voices. They are not you. You must find the light within and hold onto it."

But Darren's resolve was fading. "Please don't make this last forever," he pleaded, both to the priest and the voices.

Days turned into weeks, and despite the priest's efforts, Darren's condition worsened. The voices grew more dominant, pushing him closer to the edge.

One fateful night, the voices became unbearable. Their demands, their accusations, their torment was too much.

In his room, Darren wrote one last entry in his journal, "The voices in my head keep telling me I'm not okay. It's feeling like a hurricane in my brain."

And as the storm raged within him, Darren made a choice. A choice to silence the voices once and for all.

The next morning, the priest found Darren's journal outside the church doors. The pages were wet from the early morning dew, but the pain in those words was unmistakable.

The priest sighed heavily, holding the journal close to his heart, wishing he could have done more.

The city carried on, oblivious to the silent battle that had raged within one of its own. And somewhere, in the echo of the wind, the softest whisper could be heard, a haunting reminder of the voices that once were.