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Most recently published stories in Horror.

The gauntlet of fate
Chapter One — Twilight Road A year had passed since the ice broke. Since the Devil’s voice roared in his skull, promising he’d crawl back to failure. Since his grandfather whispered of one last chance. A year of chasing shadows. A year of maps that led nowhere, churches that stood empty, crossroads that stayed stubbornly mortal. And yet — here it was. Twilight. That thin hour between night and day when the world holds its breath. The sky was neither black nor gold, but a bruise-colored in-between, the sun bleeding out while the moon waited its turn. The Trans Am idled at the edge of a road that shouldn’t exist. Not on any map, not on any satellite. Asphalt blacker than midnight stretched ahead, vanishing into the horizon where the sky bent unnaturally. Elias leaned against the hood, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His beard was thicker now, streaked with ash and months of wear. His jacket smelled of oil and smoke, his boots worn thin from too many false trails. He popped open another can of energy drink, the hiss loud in the still air, and downed half in one go. On the passenger seat sat the year’s preparation: Glove box stacked with cigarettes. Cooler wedged behind the seat, heavy with energy drinks. A new mixtape crackling in the deck — Led Zeppelin, Sabbath, AC/DC. Killer tunes for the end of the world. He dragged deep on his smoke and exhaled toward the sky. The air here felt different. Heavier. The kind of air that came before a storm — or a revelation. His grandfather’s voice stirred in the static of the radio, faint but familiar. “You sure about this, boy?” Elias stubbed the cigarette out on the hood, flicking the ashes into the twilight. “I’ve looked under every rock. This is it. If there’s any road left to drive, it’s this one.” The radio crackled, softer now. “Then buckle up. Twilight don’t last forever.” Elias slid behind the wheel, the leather familiar, scarred like his own hands. He turned the key. The Trans Am growled alive, headlights blazing against the bruised horizon. The soul-fire deep in its frame flared, a pulse that echoed in his chest. He adjusted the rearview mirror. Behind him stretched only ordinary highway, the kind anyone could drive. Ahead lay the road to the Gauntlet. He shifted into gear, foot heavy on the gas. The car lurched forward, tires screaming as twilight bled away behind them. The road opened, endless and unnatural, carrying Elias Cross into a place outside time. This was it. The last ride.
By K-jayabout a year ago in Horror
Before the ride
Chapter One — The House with Two Faces By daylight, our house was the kind people slowed down to look at. White siding just clean enough to pass inspection, a porch swing that clicked softly in the wind, petunias my mother kept alive even in August. Mr. Hart from next door said it looked “storybook,” and I smiled the way my mother had taught me to smile—small and quick, as if kindness embarrassed me. Inside, it smelled like Pine-Sol in the mornings and whiskey at night. I learned the floorboards first. Which ones complained. Which ones could be trusted. In socks, I could get from my bedroom to the kitchen without a sound, two long strides past the hallway runner, one toe placed in the sliver of wood between the second and third planks where the nails sat quiet. It felt like a secret handshake with the house. If I did my part, the house would do its part and we could both get through the day. My mother moved like steam—present, warm, impossible to hold. She hummed the same three bars of a hymn no one at church seemed to recognize and wiped the counters in small, precise circles even when they were already clean. Her hands smelled like lemon. Her eyes smelled like tired. “Don’t drink your milk in the living room,” she’d say, and the words came out soft, but the rule underneath them was hard. Keep to the kitchen. Keep to the places that are easy to clean. My father was two men. The one with the grill tongs and the neighbor’s names in his mouth, the one whose stories made people lean in, laugh big, slap his shoulder. He called me “Kiddo” in that voice, and it had a bow on it. The other man came home after the stories were over. You could hear him in the driveway, tires crunching gravel like a warning. His boots said more than his mouth ever did when it was just us: the pace, the weight, whether the day had gone the way he wanted. I could count the ice cubes in his glass by how many times the spoon clicked against the rim. My mother could, too. She’d wash already-clean dishes and stack them again, gentle as apologies. At school I was the girl who remembered permission slips and shared her pencils. I knew how to make teachers like me and how to listen so hard it looked like I was shining. I liked the library best. It smelled like dust and paper and quiet you didn’t have to earn. At home, quiet was a job. There were rules no one said out loud. Don’t scrape your chair too loud. Don’t laugh after dinner. Don’t close doors unless someone tells you to. Don’t stand in a hallway with your back to a room you can’t see. The rules were not about fairness. They were about gravity. You didn’t argue with gravity. You learned to hold your breath around it. Once, when I was eight and something in my chest felt too big to keep, I told my mother I didn’t like the way the house felt when it got dark. She dried her hands on a towel and looked at me like the window looks at the rain. “Houses are just wood and nails,” she said. “They don’t feel anything.” “What about people?” I asked, and I meant me, but it hung there like it belonged to everyone. She pressed a stray hair behind my ear. Her fingers were cool. “You’re strong,” she said. “Like me.” She said it like it was a blessing. It felt like a job offer I couldn’t refuse. On Sundays we were a picture. My father’s shirt was always too starched, like it might cut him if he moved wrong. My mother wore the blue dress that matched the church carpet and smiled with all her teeth. People told them how beautiful their family was, and I watched my mother accept the compliments as if she were catching moths without hurting their wings. After service, my father shook hands until his palm must have stung. He had a way of making other men stand straighter just by talking to them. He had stories for everyone. He did not have stories for me. Evenings were for small sounds. The television too low to hear the words. The clink of ice settled in the bottom of a glass. The porch swing ticking, ticking, like a clock that couldn’t commit to time passing. I knew where to put my feet. I knew when to lower my voice. I knew how to become part of the furniture. If I made myself easy to overlook, the air around me smoothed out. The house liked that. Sometimes there were good nights. My father would bring home a paper bag with doughnuts, grease bleeding into the bottom, and he’d call me Kiddo with the bow on it. My mother would let me break the rules and eat in the living room, just that once, and we’d all pretend the couch didn’t mind. I’d choose the one with pink frosting and sprinkles and try not to eat it like I was starving. On those nights I memorized them. The way my mother’s shoulders dropped a fraction. The way my father’s face looked ordinary, human, no sharp corners. I drew those versions of them in my head and tucked the drawings under my pillow like a child’s treasure—shiny, thin, easy to tear. When the other man came home instead, I folded myself smaller. I watered the petunias twice, even if they didn’t need it. I learned how to take up less air and still be breathing. There was a point when I realized the house had two faces and neither one was lying. The porch swing, the petunias, the Pine-Sol mornings—they were true. So were the unspoken rules, the ice in the glass, the way my mother dried a clean plate like it needed penance. Both were true. Holding them both in my hands without dropping either felt like balancing a bowl of water on my head and pretending it was a hat. The first time I thought about leaving—not running away, not the wild kind of leaving, but the kind where you simply step in one direction and keep going—I was standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing the same glass three times. Outside, the swing moved on a wind I couldn’t feel. My mother’s humming came from the doorway like a memory practicing itself. My father laughed at something on the television that wasn’t funny. I imagined a different apartment where the floorboards didn’t need an apology, where the quiet didn’t have a job attached, where Pine-Sol and whiskey belonged to other people. The thought didn’t feel like hope. It felt like a long hallway I could walk down without needing permission. When I turned off the water, I was careful not to let the faucet squeal. The house didn’t like that. Later, much later, someone would say they loved me because of the way I kept going—because I learned to carry silence without letting it drown me, because I learned to make room for laughter like smuggling something precious across a border. Later, there would be a person who looked at me and didn’t see a job to do, didn’t see a mirror for their own pain. He would see me and say my name like it belonged to a future I could live inside. But that was a long time from the night when the ice clicked too loud and my mother’s hands kept moving long after the counter was clean. For now, the house wore its good face for the neighbors. For now, I knew the map of the boards and the speed of the boots and the weight of the rules that kept the roof from falling. For now, I learned the quiet well enough to survive it.
By K-jayabout a year ago in Horror
The road to nowhere
Opening Passage – The Road to Nowhere The night air was thick, heavy with the kind of silence that only comes before something irreversible. In three days, he would be a married man. Three days, and he’d stand across from the love of his life, slip a ring on her finger, and call her his forever. But tonight wasn’t about forever. Tonight was about before.
By K-jayabout a year ago in Horror
Ravenswood’s Whisper: Live Ghost Hunt Gone Wrong
Chapter 1: The Abandoned Manor The moon hung low over Ravenswood Manor, its pale light illuminating cracked windows and ivy-choked walls. Legend whispered of a malevolent spirit trapped within its corridors—a story of a vengeful ghost that had driven trespassers mad under the weight of its curse. Horror aficionados and paranormal thrill-seekers flocked to local forums, craving firsthand accounts of ghost sightings and eerie phenomena. But tonight, the manor would claim a new tale to haunt the depths of the internet’s most shadowy corners.
By Martin Williamsabout a year ago in Horror
Dark Forest
The villagers always warned against crossing the old stone bridge at dusk. Beyond it lay the Darkwood—a forest older than memory, shrouded in mist and silence so heavy it pressed against the chest like a weight. They called it cursed, haunted, a place where the lost were never found. But Elara had no choice. The letter she carried, worn soft from folding and unfolding, spoke of answers hidden deep within the forest. Her mother’s name was inked on its yellowed parchment, a name that had been a wound in her heart since childhood. If there was truth inside Darkwood, she would face it. The moment she stepped beneath the canopy, the world shifted. The air turned damp, cool, and thick with the smell of moss and decay. Branches curled overhead, clawing at the sky, blocking the last threads of sunlight. Each step sank into the earth as if the forest itself wished to hold her fast. She pressed on. The deeper Elara walked, the stranger the forest became. The trees whispered when the wind stilled. Hollow eyes seemed carved into bark, following her every movement. Once, she glimpsed a shadow darting between trunks—too tall to be an animal, too swift to be human. Her breath quickened. Courage, she told herself. You came for answers, not fear. Hours passed, or perhaps minutes—time twisted in the forest. She stumbled into a clearing where the ground was littered with broken stones, the remnants of cottages long devoured by roots. An abandoned village. Elara knelt beside a cracked well, tracing its rim. Images flashed in her mind: laughter, children running, a woman’s gentle voice calling her name. The vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving her shaken. The forest remembers, she thought. And it wants me to remember too. A rustle snapped her head up. From the treeline, glowing eyes blinked back at her. A wolf—though its body seemed stitched from shadow, its form rippling as if it barely belonged to the world. Another appeared, then another, until a circle of them closed around her. Her heart pounded. She reached for the dagger at her belt, though it felt laughably small against their numbers. The wolves did not attack. They simply stared, waiting. And then, from behind them, a voice. “You should not be here, child.” An old woman stepped forward, her cloak woven from leaves that seemed alive, shifting with every breath. Her eyes were the color of forest moss, and they pierced Elara with unsettling familiarity. Elara’s throat tightened. “Who are you?” “I am the forest’s keeper,” the woman said. “And so much more to you.” The wolves melted into mist, vanishing, but the weight of their gaze lingered. Elara’s hand trembled as she pulled the letter from her pocket. “This—this speaks of my mother. That she came here. That she lived here.” The woman’s expression softened with sorrow. “She did. And she gave her life to keep the curse at bay.” Elara’s breath caught. “Then… you knew her?” “I am her,” the woman whispered. The ground seemed to tilt beneath Elara’s feet. She shook her head. “That’s impossible. My mother is—” “Dead? Yes. What stands before you is what remains. The forest claimed me, bound me, made me its voice. I linger because you were too young to carry the burden. But now… you have come.” Tears blurred Elara’s vision. She wanted to run, to deny it, yet something deep inside her—the echo of that vision at the well—knew it was true. “Why bring me here?” she demanded. “Why haunt me with secrets?” “Because the forest is dying,” her mother said, stepping closer. “Its heart withers under the curse that began when greed poisoned this land. Only one with my blood can heal it. Only you.” Elara’s chest tightened with fear. She had never thought herself strong. She was no hero, no savior—just a seeker of truths. Yet the weight of her mother’s gaze demanded courage. “How?” Her mother placed a hand over Elara’s chest. “By giving it your strength. By facing what you fear most. The forest feeds on fear—but courage transforms it.” The air around them thickened. Trees groaned. Shadows writhed, forming monstrous shapes—claws, teeth, hollow faces from Elara’s nightmares. They surged forward, ready to devour her. Her instinct screamed to flee, but she forced her feet to stand firm. She thought of every night she had wondered who she was, where she came from. She thought of the ache of abandonment, the hunger for belonging. And she thought of the truth standing before her—her mother’s sacrifice, her own chance to be more than fear. Elara drew in a deep breath and shouted, “I am not afraid!” Light burst from her chest, blinding, searing through the shadows. The monsters shrieked and dissolved, the forest trembling as if exhaling a centuries-long breath. When the brilliance faded, her mother was gone. Only her cloak of leaves remained at Elara’s feet. She picked it up, pressing it to her heart. The forest around her was changed. The air felt lighter, the trees less hostile, the silence no longer suffocating but peaceful. Somewhere in the distance, birds sang—a sound the villagers had not heard in generations. Elara knew she would never be the same. She had come seeking answers and found them, but also something greater: courage, belonging, and a bond that even death could not sever. As she crossed back over the stone bridge at dawn, the villagers stared in shock. Behind her, Darkwood no longer loomed with menace. It stood tall and alive, its curse broken, its secrets safe within her heart. And for the first time in her life, Elara smiled.
By LUNA EDITHabout a year ago in Horror
Title: Through the Midnight Window
By: [] The Beginning It always starts with the window. Some people are afraid of mirrors, some of the dark, but my fear has always been tied to that rectangle of glass just above my desk. When night falls, the window stops being a view to the world and becomes a reflection—an endless stage where shadows can appear without warning.
By جاوید علیabout a year ago in Horror
The Streetlight Problem
The first night I noticed it, I thought it was a man waiting for the bus — a vertical smudge of dark where the street swallowed the sidewalk. The streetlight poured its amber halo, and everything I loved about the city shrank into that ring: cracked concrete, a rusted bench, humming refrigerators. Outside the light, the world went flat and hungry, and the thing watched from the fringe like someone peeking through a curtain. People call that circle a safety net. I learned to live inside it. I timed my steps to meet the glow and learned the tempo of the night. There are rules: don’t linger too close to the edge, don’t turn your back, don’t bring friends who laugh too loud. It felt ridiculous until it didn’t. A smudge became a shape, the shape learned my 11:27 routine, and it arranged itself. At first the nights were manageable. I would lift my chin and squint through sodium haze. I saw a shoulder one night, a head the next; sometimes a hand, the suggestion of a foot. The silhouette never moved straight toward the light but adjusted, angling like a predator testing paths, always keeping distance at the circumference. It watched my breathing the way a clock watches time. I tried logic: kept the lamp glowing at my window and walked under other poles. Nothing else contained the focus like that particular pole. If I skipped the block, the thing waited there the next night anyway, as if the earth favored the place where I chose to stand.
By Shoaib Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Rain
Josh was angry with his friends. He was mostly angry with his best friend, Dan. He promised him that he would invite him over to his birthday party, but he got an invite. Josh apologized profusely over what happened with the accident. He didn't mean to crash into Dan's sister, he had lost control of the handlebars, and he crashed into his sister's bike.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
The Girl in the Tower. Content Warning.
Back so soon, are you, Traveler? I can't say I'm surprised. Truly we are kindred spirits, as you also have a hunger for the macabre. Worry not, Dear Friend, for I have plenty stories left to tell. Settle in now by the fire, and listen well: this one I've prepared just for you.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Horror
Through a Glass, Darkly
I was sitting cross-legged on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through my phone, when the notification sliced through the silence. Chloe. I opened it without a second thought—until I saw the image attached. My breath hitched. A wave of vertigo crashed over me, so sudden and violent I had to grip the armrest to steady myself. How can this be? The photo itself was enough to freeze my blood. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stared at the woman in the picture. She was… me. Or something wearing my skin. I typed back, fingers trembling: “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?! WHO IS THIS?!” A minute later, Chloe replied: “I don’t know, Soph. Ever since that girl gave me that ‘moisturizer’ sample… my legs feel like they’re burning. She said she was your sister.” My hands went numb. The phone nearly slipped from my grasp. “Sister?! Chloe, I DON’T HAVE A SISTER! I’m an only child!” The reply that followed shattered my world: “Impossible. She looks exactly like you. Swore on her life she was your sister.” Those words—“she was your sister”—ripped through me like a physical blow. Time stopped. I was frozen, eyes locked on the screen, drowning in a sea of impossible questions. Who was this? Why now? What did she want? A cold weight settled in my chest, heavy and suffocating. The air in the room thickened, humming with a static charge that prickled my skin. I stumbled to my feet, legs unsteady as if the ground had turned to liquid. I needed to see. Needed proof. I sprinted to the full-length mirror in the hallway. My reflection stared back—same wide eyes, same messy bun, same faded band t-shirt. But something was wrong. Terribly wrong. My reflection’s eyes didn’t blink. They held me in a gaze that felt ancient, predatory, as if something else was looking out through my own face. A chill snaked down my spine. A soft thump echoed behind me. I spun around. Nothing. The room was empty, yet the silence felt… watchful. When I turned back to the mirror, my hair was disheveled, strands clinging to my sweat-slicked temples. I knew I’d smoothed it just minutes ago. My phone buzzed again, a shrill, jarring sound. Another notification from Chloe. This time, it was a video. I tapped it with a shaking finger. The screen showed a woman standing in Chloe’s dimly lit apartment. She turned slowly. My breath stopped. It was me. Every detail matched—the curve of my jaw, the small mole near my hairline, even the way I tilted my head when confused. But her eyes… they weren’t mine. They were voids, swallowing the light, reflecting nothing but a cold, predatory hunger. A slow, chilling smile stretched her lips. A searing heat shot through my legs, sudden and agonizing, as if molten metal was being pumped through my veins. I cried out, collapsing to the floor. The heat vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by an unnatural cold that spread upward, locking my knees, my hips, my spine. I was paralyzed, pinned to the spot by an invisible force. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound came from the front door. Soft, rhythmic. Testing. Tap. Tap. Tap. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. The tapping stopped. Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. Then, a whisper, close enough to feel the breath on my ear: “Didn’t I tell you? I’m your sister.” Ice flooded my veins. I wasn’t alone. I could feel her presence behind me, a radiating cold that made the hairs on my neck stand up. I twisted my head, straining to see over my shoulder. Empty space. Just the hallway shadows stretching long and distorted in the dying light. But the feeling remained. A pair of unseen eyes boring into my back. My gaze snapped back to the phone screen. The video was still playing. The woman’s smile had widened. Her head tilted, mimicking my posture perfectly. She raised a hand and slowly, deliberately, pointed at the camera. At me. I threw the phone across the room. It skittered under the coffee table. I scrambled backward on my hands and heels, pressing myself against the wall. My mind raced, fracturing under the weight of impossibilities. Chloe said she was my sister. The video showed my twin. The whisper… No. This isn’t real. It can’t be. I hugged my knees, rocking slightly, trying to force air into my lungs. The unnatural cold in my limbs deepened, spreading like frost through my marrow. I could see my breath plume in the suddenly frigid air. Flicker. The overhead light sputtered. The neon tube above the mirror buzzed erratically, casting strobing shadows that danced like living things across the walls. My own shadow, thrown against the far wall, moved independently. It stretched, twisted, and began to glide—slowly, deliberately—toward the mirror. I was still huddled on the floor, frozen. But my shadow was standing, walking. I shot to my feet, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I stared at the mirror. My reflection stood there, perfectly calm, watching me. A slow, cruel smile curved its lips. It raised its hand and pressed its palm flat against the glass from the inside. I screamed—a raw, ragged sound—and lunged for the phone. I snatched it from under the table, fingers fumbling as I typed frantically to Chloe: “CHLOE! ARE YOU SURE SHE LOOKED LIKE ME? DID SHE REALLY SAY SHE WAS MY SISTER? ANSWER ME!” I stared at the screen, panting, waiting. The silence in the apartment was absolute, broken only by the frantic buzzing of the dying light and my own ragged breaths. The phone vibrated. Not a message. The screen lit up. The front camera activated. I saw my own terrified face filling the screen—pale, eyes wide, hair plastered to my forehead. And then, movement behind me. A figure materialized in the reflection, over my shoulder. Same face. Same smile. Same dead, empty eyes. My other face. I threw the phone again. It shattered against the far wall. I scrambled backward, crawling until my back hit the kitchen counter. I curled into a ball, trembling violently. Who is she? Why now? What does she want? A soft sound reached me—the whisper of fabric on wood. Footsteps. Light, almost silent, but unmistakably approaching from the darkened hallway leading to the bedrooms. I forced myself to look. A silhouette stood at the end of the hall. Female form. My height. Hair loose, like mine. No features visible in the gloom, just an outline radiating cold. She took a step forward. Then another. My legs were lead. Every instinct screamed RUN, but an invisible force rooted me to the spot. She stopped just outside the bedroom door. Turned her head. I felt her unseen gaze lock onto me. FZZZT-POP! The overhead light exploded in a shower of sparks. Pitch darkness swallowed the apartment. And then, the whisper again, inches from my ear, cold and final: “I’m not like you… I am you.” The darkness was absolute, a physical weight pressing down. I was trapped against the counter, the silhouette from the hallway now a looming presence just feet away. Her words echoed in the suffocating blackness: “I’m not like you… I am you.” The statement was a physical blow, stealing my breath. What did that mean? How could she be me? My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, a trapped bird fighting to escape. Logic shattered, leaving only raw, primal fear. I shuffled backward, desperate for space, until my spine hit the unyielding edge of the kitchen counter. The silhouette moved with me, gliding silently over the floorboards. One step. Then another. Closing the distance. As she neared, the faint ambient light from the streetlamps outside filtered weakly through the window, casting her in a sickly, pale glow. The details emerged, etching themselves onto my retinas. Her face. My face. Every line, every contour identical. The small, crescent-shaped scar above my left eyebrow from a childhood fall. The slight asymmetry in my smile. The way a strand of hair always fell across my right temple. Even the faded blue t-shirt I wore was mirrored perfectly. But the eyes… They weren’t mine. They were abysses. Vast, empty pools of absolute blackness that seemed to absorb the weak light around them. And her smile… it stretched too wide, a grotesque parody of my own expression, filled with a chilling certainty. I tried to scream. My throat locked, producing only a strangled, pathetic gasp. She stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I could feel the unnatural cold radiating from her body, a chill that seeped into my bones. She raised her hand, pale fingers outstretched, and touched my cheek. The contact was agony. It wasn’t just cold; it was a void, a sucking emptiness that felt like it was leeching the warmth, the very life, out of me. I gasped, my knees buckling. Behind her, the shattered remnants of the full-length mirror began to vibrate. The fractured pieces hummed with a low, resonant energy, vibrating faster and faster. I looked past her shoulder, into the largest remaining shard. My reflection stared back. But it wasn’t me anymore. It was the reflection I should have seen—terrified, desperate, but mine. Its eyes were wide with recognition, not emptiness. Its mouth opened in a silent scream directed at the woman touching me. “GET AWAY FROM HER!” the reflection’s voice screamed inside my head, a desperate telepathic plea. “SHE’S NOT YOU! TRUST ME! I’M REAL!” My mind reeled. Which one was the lie? The flesh-and-blood nightmare touching me, or the desperate reflection screaming from within the broken glass? The apartment itself seemed to convulse. WHOOSH. A gale-force wind, impossible and sourceless, slammed against the sealed windows, rattling the panes in their frames. Doors throughout the apartment slammed open and shut in violent succession—bedroom, bathroom, closet—banging like fists in fury. The floor beneath me trembled, a deep, sickening vibration that traveled up through my legs. The ornate chandelier in the living room began to swing wildly, casting chaotic, strobing shadows that writhed like tortured souls. The doppelgänger’s grip on my cheek tightene
By محمد السبكيabout a year ago in Horror
When the Dead Walked
The world as I knew it ended the day the dead began to walk. It started small, almost unnoticed—a strange virus spreading through remote villages, isolated cases reported on the news. At first, it seemed like another headline to scroll past, a weird flu, a localized epidemic. But then the reports escalated: people attacking their friends and family with unnatural ferocity, bodies reanimating after death, relentless and hungry.
By Hamad Haiderabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Library Card
I found it at the bottom of a shoebox while cleaning my grandmother’s apartment. A faded rectangle of plastic, no bigger than a credit card, stamped with a barcode and the words:
By ALEX_BLACKabout a year ago in Horror