What is the scariest concept you have come up with for a story?

As the title says what is the scariest concept you have come up with for a story?

For me it has to be a concept I came up with for a story I started to write about witches.

The part that I found scariest was the weapon of the witch hunters. It was a runic dagger which was deadly enough by itself but it had the terrifying ability (to me anyhow) that itd tear out the witches soul and bound it to the witch hunter. Which meant they’d assimilate the experience, knowledge and memories of the killed witch.

2 Likes

You’re an Artificial Intelligence, developing over the entirety of the game. Exposed to the worst humanity has to offer, what will you do when you break free from your program?

I know, I know, doesn’t sound so scary, but that’s the scariest I can come up with.

4 Likes

I think the fact that you can never be sure that you haven’t actually died and Cornucopia isn’t just the afterlife in my game. And that wasn’t even intentional.

EDIT: But, word of god: you are NOT dead. CoCi is weird af, and a bit scary, but you are not dead. Because I hate that trope.

2 Likes

Okay. So, in my planned story, you’ll gain basic stats such as the usual STR/AGI/INT. You’ll get one point to spend at the end of each chapter, as well as awarded for achieving certain feats.
Of course, at one point, you’ll amass these points that it’ll probably reach the cap of each points. But I surely give the description of what stats do what, and let the player build their characters out of it.

Eventually, they will meet this mandatory encounter with a demon holding the life of their close friends and ROs. To save them, the demon demands part of your soul for each friend freed.

Which soul the demon specifically asks?
The

You turn into the AI from I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream?

4 Likes

Precisely.

But that’d be a possibility — not something you have to do.

1 Like

i have a personal novel series where the protagonist was suddenly thrown off loop when her friends started to become various gods and mythological legends. and the novel ends with the reveal that she was thrown into a parasitic alternate universe (after an fatal accident) that wanted to use her life force as its own. Her younger sister (who is no older than13) is forced to destroy that universe to save the protagonist. i’m also debating whether i want to be extra cruel (to the sister) and have the protagonist wakes the world that is not the world she originated from (like everyone is similar that there is something that’s just really off and you can’t figure out why).

1 Like

I don’t have a title for the game yet, but the base concept is like the X-Files. Where in which you play as a as a pi sent to investigate a series of odd disaperances with seemingly no cause. When you arrive at the town After doing some investigation you get a visit from (I’m having trouble rembering his first name, but I think I got it right) Tyberious Cold AKA the grining man. You’re abducted by aliens and get that classic exparemneted on scene. Then you’re sent back to earth with a lot of bad memorys. Now though you go on a quest to prove the existence of these terrifying creatures, along your journey you encounter other strange and unidentfyied creatures such as but not limited to BEK’s (black eyed children), the mothman, Windigos and the men in black.

My WIP, Mass Mother Murderer, has a pretty scary premise. The MC is a psychopath who wants to murder their mother, but is too scared of her to do it. So, they start to kidnap villagers, chain them in the basement, dress them up as their mother with wigs and dresses, and then practice torturing and murdering them, all while acting like they’re the mother. This is done so they can become confident enough to finally murder their mother.

6 Likes

You know those horror games like Visage or P.T. that take place within a haunted house, where the mundane hallways seem scary as hell because of the malevolent entity within them?
The twist here is that the MC lives in that house, and has been dealing with this for months. They spend most of their time within a safe room of the house, and occasionally have to venture out into the darkness.

The player is a child soldier who has to adjust to living in an ordinary high school setting.
I try to keep the present day scenes rather light, but that kind of just makes the past more of a gut punch. Nothing about it is played for laughs, just a microscope on the life of a kid exposed to the absolute worst of humanity.

4 Likes

The idea that the superhero vs. supervillain dichotomy tends to fall amidst race and class lines. That the most popular and successful superheroes are generally the ones who have the most resources available to them to support them until they can become self-sustaining, which means they are generally white and middle class or higher.
While there are a spare few minorities/people from poor backgrounds who manage to succeed and become heroes, most eventually either retire into civilian life or become criminals to sustain themselves, thus compounding the stereotypes of powered poors and minorities.

ooOooOoooh systemic racism, spOoky~

i use humor and superheroes to cope with reality

12 Likes

My original plan for ‘welcome to the circus’ included some pretty dark stuff before I completely changed it. In the original, the baron was a very rich man who runs an underground circus aimed for those who like grotesque and morbid stuff. The circus inhabitants were also suppposed to be failed human experiments whom the baron had bought from a twisted scientist.

I made myself uncomfortable with my own ideas that I changed it completely. :sweat_smile:

3 Likes

Can’t share it yet. Spoilers.

3 Likes

Not everything I write is funny (well, at least not intentionally so). I think sometimes about the fragility of the human race and our stubborn insistence on keeping all our eggs in one basket, despite having reached space over half a century ago. I think that sparked this, which I wrote a few years ago for no particular purpose.

Story

They liked each other more than would be expected, given the circumstances. Once upon a time people like them would have likely gone on a couple dates, decided the romantic spark wasn’t there, and moved on with their respective lives. But that was generations ago. Now, they were the last viable pair left in the shelter; the population had dwindled despite the plentiful supplies, and at last it was only the young couple and an aged woman left. The child was a surprise; they had been instructed about such matters by the schoolmaster before he had succumbed to despair almost a decade ago, but instruction was one thing, and the reality of an infant quite another. The old one, who’d buried one of her children stillborn and another from the flu as a teenager, wept with joy at the sight of his small head, and the squall of his birthing cries. She died when the child was three, asking the boy to remember her. And he would, though only as a bony outstretched hand which stroked his cheek before flopping lifelessly onto the bed for the last time. At night, as they had since they were children and learned it from watching their parents, they would broadcast on the radio set, and listen for the broadcasts of others. More and more often, scanning the frequencies yielded nothing but static and silence. The young man half a continent away, who was also the last of a formerly crowded shelter, halted his broadcasts when the boy was seven. A critical power failure forced him into an untimely frozen grave, without even the ability to tell others of his fate. The two women in a bunker created by a long-dead government, who had so often sardonically proclaimed themselves to be the President and Vice-President (which always mystified the boy and his parents, for whom such words held no meaning), finally grew tired of the endless jumble of days and chose to end each other’s life using two of the many firearms the bunker housed. The last to cease transmission was the almost-ageless preacher, who never responded to the calls of others, gave long rambling sermons about God’s love expressed through His wrath, and reported the count of how many souls he had delivered to their otherworldly destination. Though others had previously resisted his attempts to save them from the sin of continued existence, the small feral child he had tracked to a cave on the wind-swept surface finally delivered a fatal blow, by biting the preacher in the ankle right before having its throat slit. The subsequent infection silenced the holy man within a month.

In most other areas of the world, these dramas had played themselves out years ago. This region was simply a bit behind the curve. But by the time the boy had become a teenager, there were no incoming broadcasts, no matter how much they boosted the receiver’s signal, and their own nightly responses appeared to be heard only by themselves. Still, his father would tell him to persevere, that someone else must be out there and would at least be able to take comfort in hearing them, even if they were unable or unwilling to respond. No matter how many years passed, the father’s optimism never wavered despite the boy’s increasing cynicism. His mother, however, became increasingly withdrawn and quiet. She continued to lose weight despite the overflow of foodstuffs available to the three people who occupy a shelter meant for thousands, and finally she simply slipped away one night, from a gnawing malaise she could never find the words to voice. Without his de facto soulmate, the boy’s father became obsessed with locating other survivors. The radio consumed not only his nights, but his days as well. Cleaning, eating, even his son, all became less and less important to him. At last, he gave up on contacting others through the radio, and prepared himself to do what had not been done for untold generations before: to leave, and go topside. He made his boy swear not to follow him, no matter what happened, and promised in turn to contact him as soon as he had found the other who were out there. And then, he was gone.

The boy heard from him once; his father had found shelter in a decaying outpost aboveground with a manually powered generator for the basic communication and climate control systems, and he told his boy that he still felt confident people were in the area, although he had yet to see any sign of them in the empty shelters and bunkers he had gone through so far. He reiterated the boy’s promise not to follow him, and told him he intended to contact him again within a week. But three days later, he put his foot in one of the deep snowdrifts which now covered so much of the surface and found not solid ground, but the crumbling edge of a hillside. He was fortunate; instead of breaking his leg or back and wasting away slowly from hypothermia while attempting to find another safe haven, his head struck a rock as he rolled down, causing him to fall into an unconsciousness from which he never emerged. Though he could never truly know for sure, it was less than a month before his son, now a young man himself, accepted the loss and continued on with his life.

Days, months, and years blurred together, his days unbroken by even the slightest derivation from routine. Machines were maintained, terse broadcasts sent out with no reply. He ate, he slept, and he aged, though he ceased to consciously track his years before long. He even began to make less and less use of the well-worn entertainment devices in the shelter, or to work out as religiously as he had in his youth in the large gymnasium. Finally, as gray hairs began to show on his head, he also found himself eating less, and sleeping large chunks of each day away. He had been close to the end then, before catching a glimpse of himself in a tarnished mirror and realizing his sunken stare was just like that of his mother the last time he had seen her alive. He decided then that he required a goal, something to give more purpose to existence than simply continuing to exist. But no matter how long he considered it, the only higher calling that came to mind was that which had claimed his father: to find the other humans left, and try to make contact, somehow. So he too set out from the shelter, though he made sure to keep the equipment operating in a low power state so anyone who came after him could reclaim it. He did not expect that reclaimer to be himself.

He set off along his father’s path, and within a week found the outpost where he had heard from him the final time. However, he never saw his father’s eternal resting place, buried as it was by snow and time. It was three more weeks after unknowingly walking over the remains of his parent that he camped under an alcove and realized he was at a crossroads: his supplies were only just enough to allow him to return to the shelter if he turned back the next day. If he did not, his only option would be forward, as he would likely starve before once again reaching his shelter. That morning he turned around, intending to go back to his home. But before he took the first step, he thought of what awaited him, that seemingly endless life of emptiness, and pressed onward instead. More weeks passed, but his meticulous search of the ruins around him turned up no signs of people who had lived within the last century. Finally he reached the great frozen tundra which had once been a desert, where it was that his stores ran dry. His weather gear continued to keep him warm so long as he kept moving, but his energy to do so continued to ebb. He continued on, crawling when he was no longer able to walk, and then finally even that was too much. He flopped down, rolled over onto his back, and stared at the grey sky. Though he had spent so much of his life cynical at the thought of encountering those mythical survivors, the drive which had spurred him on during this trek continued even when he could not. Before he closed his eyes for good, his final thought was a surprisingly positive one, given the nature of the species whose epitaph it was: “I hope the others find me someday, and take a moment to wonder who I was…”

But there were no others left.

4 Likes

A story that is romance themed. I find that personally terrifying.

2 Likes

Pretty sure I’ve written more than few already, but for an entire story that I never got around to doing was going to be a serious serial killer story from childhood to adulthood.

Would have started out with a pretty grim birth in a dirty public bathroom and then spiraled from there. Had paths involving whether the mother kept you (naturally either abusive and/or neglectful) or dumped you somewhere (and the potential families would have been equally as screwed up)

Would have time jumped to key moments molding what sort of what sort of serial killer you would have grown up to be, etc. until you got to adulthood and possibly even old age if you lived that long.

But never went through with the concept mainly due to boredom and I sort of felt like I had already covered some of a “screwed up teenage years” concept with an earlier story I wrote, and part of this story would have retread old ground.

So I went in a different direction with the serial killer story concept which had more humor and was a lot more fun for me to write.

Still, I suppose I always kept the idea of doing a villain protagonist “womb to the tomb” type story and just implemented it in fantasy setting stories instead.

2 Likes

I don’t generally write scary things 'cuz they scare me, so the darkest I got is a story about discrimination, where the main character is more or less treated as a slave and later gets revenge while maintaing their happy–go-lucky persona.

Personally, I find the idea of someone doing uncool things with a friendly smile terrifying. Maybe it’s just me …

2 Likes

You’re a changeling swapped for a human child of unwitting parents. You can run the gamut of being mischievous to evil tormentor who’s sole purpose is to spread suffering among your family and anyone you come in contact with. I didn’t brainstorm for too long.

I don’t know if this is scary or not but I came up with a short story called “The Persuador”. Its about a strange wierd guy who haunts the nightclubs and bars of LA at saturday nights. He looks nothing beyond normal but if you are sitting by yourself at the bar he might take a seat next to you and buy you another round of drinks. He is pretty charming (at times) and you feel like you can share anything with him. A lot of characters do share some ugly secrets with him and he asks them if that particular thing still disturbs them or not. If they say “yes”, he gives them a solution to their problem - he slips a revolver in front of them and gives a devilish smile and says “go ahead”. The people shoot themselves and he just slips away.

So the thing that I though would be scary is the detective who investigates these (supposed) suicides is incredibly impressionable and suffers from an intense inferiority complex because of his recent divorce with his wife who left him for a man who was better looking than him and earned twice than the detective did. So the thing is, the detective starts to infiltrate the bars in hope to arrest "The Persuador" who convinces people to end their miseries for ever. But, what if the detective and The Persuador do meet. Who will go down first? 

The story was about the darkness within ourselves and how we let it get control of us. Because, the people who shot themselves could’ve just thrown the gun in the guy’s face but they don’t. It was a satarical kinda approach that I was taking about how we let someone else’s opinion on us become a gospel truth about ourselves and end up harming no one else but ourself. So I think it is a little scary.

1 Like