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Art that’s as dark as it is evocative; discover horror-inspired artwork, from twisted mutations of classic paintings, chilling sculptures, spooky photography and more.
Confirmed: The Amytiville Horror franchise will add a new movie
To the delight of horror fans, The Amytiville Horror franchise has decided to add a new film to the legendary saga. It should be noted that this fictional universe has more than thirty films, including prequels, spin-offs, and sequels. Not all of the stories are connected chronologically to the original 1979 film, The Amytiville Horror, but they belong to the same universe.
By Ninfa Galeanoabout 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 Slasher Problem. Top Story - September 2025.
Imagine you're reading a story about someone who's trapped in a room with a hungry tiger. As a normal, comparatively weak human being they have no hope of besting the tiger in a fight. However, in the far corner of the room is a high-caliber hunting rifle: the perfect defense against a dangerous predator, if they could only get to it. Through trickery and careful maneuvering, the protagonist finally manages to secure the rifle. They turn it on the tiger, aim, fire, and the shot hits the animal directly between the eyes. The tiger immediately falls to the ground. It's a wound deadly enough to kill anything, after all.
By Daniel Bradburyabout a year ago in Horror
The Train That Waited
The station was nearly deserted that winter night. Midnight had passed, and the fog wrapped around the platforms like a heavy blanket. The last train stood waiting, its headlights glowing faintly, hissing steam into the cold air. The few remaining passengers had already boarded, but one young woman remained seated on a wooden bench, clutching her suitcase. Her name was Hana. She had bought her ticket hours earlier, but she hadn’t stepped onto the train. Instead, she sat frozen, her coat pulled tight around her, her eyes staring at the ground as though answers might appear between the cracks of the platform. Three weeks had passed since her father died, but grief still felt like an open wound. The apartment they shared together was no longer a home—only an echo of silence. Her relatives had told her to move away, start fresh in another city, escape the emptiness that clung to her like shadow. This train was supposed to be her escape. And yet, as the whistle blew faintly, Hana’s legs refused to move. Her father’s memory lived in every corner of the city. He used to meet her at this very station when she was a little girl, always waiting with a thermos of hot tea. She remembered his voice so clearly, “Trains may come and go, Hana, but the people who wait for you—that’s where home is.” Now there was no one left to wait for her. The thought pressed against her chest like a weight she couldn’t carry. She wondered if leaving would mean betraying that memory, leaving behind the only proof that he had been there at all. The station clock ticked loudly. The conductor leaned out of the train, his breath misting in the air. He glanced toward her, almost expectantly, as if he, too, was waiting for her choice. Minutes passed, but the train did not move. Hana blinked through her tears. Trains were meant to run on schedule, yet this one lingered. It sat there as though it had all the time in the world, patient and silent. In the stillness, she felt something stir—a strange comfort, almost as if the train itself was waiting for her heart to decide. She looked down at her suitcase. Inside were only the essentials: a few clothes, her father’s old watch, and a framed photo of them together. The watch had stopped ticking years ago, but she kept it because he had once said, “Even broken clocks remind us of time well spent.” The air grew colder, biting at her fingers. Hana finally rose to her feet. Every step toward the train felt heavy, like wading through water. She reached the door, her hand hovering over the cold metal handle. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the window. She didn’t look like someone ready for a new beginning—she looked like someone terrified of forgetting. Her lips trembled as she whispered, “I’ll carry you with me, Baba. Wherever I go.” With that, she pulled the door open and climbed aboard. The train doors closed softly behind her, and the engine roared to life. The platform slipped away into the fog. Hana sank into a seat by the window, clutching the suitcase against her chest. She didn’t feel like she was running anymore. She didn’t feel like she was abandoning her father’s memory. Instead, she realized she was carrying him with her—his voice, his love, and his light. Outside, the darkness stretched endlessly, but the train surged forward, cutting through the night. For the first time since her father’s passing, Hana felt something shift inside her: not the end of grief, but the beginning of healing. The train hadn’t left without her. It had waited, just as her father once did. And in that waiting, it gave her the courage to move forward.
By AHAD Barki about a year ago in Horror
The Creepy Friend Request That Changed My Life Forever
It all began with a single friend request. The profile picture was bizarre—something about it unsettled me. Normally, I never accepted requests from strangers. But that night, for reasons I still can’t explain, I clicked “Accept.” At first, nothing happened. Days passed in silence until suddenly, a message appeared. My heart pounded as I opened it. A photo of a man dressed as a clown popped up, followed by chilling words: *“I’ve missed you, Emily. The countdown has begun. Soon, you’ll be mine.”* I froze. *Missed me? Mine?* Who was this person? I typed quickly: *“Who are you? And what is this picture?!”* Almost instantly, he replied. This time, it was a picture of my fiancé, with a caption underneath: *“He’s the one who’s coming for you… soon.”* Terror crawled through my veins. *“Are you insane?!”* I typed back. His reply made my blood run cold: *“I am your fiancé. Ask your mother.”* --- Shaken, I ran to my mother, who was sitting quietly reading the Qur’an. My hands trembled as I showed her the messages. Her face went pale. “Close your phone, Emily,” she whispered, fear in her eyes. “Don’t answer him again.” “Why?!” I cried, tears welling up. “Who is he? Why would he say to ask you?” Her silence broke me more than his words. Finally, with tears streaming down her face, she confessed: “That man… he is not a stranger. He’s been bound to you since before you were born.” My stomach twisted. “What are you talking about?!” She sobbed. “The night you were born, I was dying. I went to a woman… a fortune-teller. She promised to save your life, but in return, you would be tied to a spirit—your so-called ‘fiancé.’” --- Before I could speak, my phone rang. The name flashing on the screen was his strange profile. Against my mother’s pleas, I answered. A distorted laugh seeped through the speaker, mixed with the sound of weeping. Then a low voice: *“You’re late, Emily. I’ve waited for years. Soon, nothing will keep us apart.”* I whispered, terrified: *“What do you want from me?!”* His answer shook me to the core: *“I told you. I am your fiancé. Ask your mother what she promised the night you were born.”* My mother’s cries filled the room. “Hang up, Emily! Please!” But his voice continued: *“Do you remember waking as a child to screams in the house? That was me. I’ve been watching you since your first breath. And now, the time has come.”* Suddenly, the lights in the house flickered and went out. The air grew heavy with an unnatural silence—until the clown’s laughter filled every corner. --- At that moment, the door burst open. It was my uncle—our neighbor, a religious man. His eyes widened at the atmosphere, and without hesitation, he began reciting verses from the Qur’an. With each verse, the laughter grew weaker, distorted, as if in agony. My phone buzzed violently, and the clown’s image stretched across the screen before vanishing completely. Moments later, the lights returned. Silence filled the room, but this time it was peaceful. My uncle looked at me and said firmly: “By God’s will, the curse has been broken. No spirit, no pact, no darkness can overpower His words.” --- I collapsed to the floor, sobbing with relief. My mother held my hand tightly, whispering through her tears: “Forgive me, Emily. The biggest mistake of my life was turning to anyone other than God. But He is merciful. He freed you.” I hugged her, tears mixing with hers. “I forgive you, Mom. What matters is that it’s over.” From that day, I deleted my accounts, stepped away from social media, and most importantly—I felt free. The heavy shadow that had haunted me for years was gone. I had learned something I would never forget: *no curse, no spirit, no deal is stronger than God’s will.* My mother changed too—devoting her days to prayer and repentance. And me? I felt as though I had been given a new life. A second chance. And I promised myself one thing: I would live it without fear. Faith is the only shield, and no darkness can conquer the light of God.
By محمد السبكيabout a year ago in Horror
The Time I Yelled Out No to Him
The house was never quiet. Even in the dead hours, when the world outside seemed frozen, the old beams whispered to themselves, sighing under the weight of history. Tonight, though, the sounds were different. The creaks weren’t idle, they were deliberate like footsteps circling the edges of my awareness.
By Romeo Fordabout a year ago in Horror
The Queen of Shadows: When a Human Office Turns into a Playground for Jinn. Content Warning.
I had just opened the door to my apartment when a message popped up. I looked at my phone in surprise—no one ever texts me. Nobody knows me except at work. But the shock came when I saw who sent it… the manager. And not just one, but two messages. I opened the chat quickly, only to find he’d sent me a picture of myself… Eating something that looked like an insect. And he wrote: “I was reviewing the cameras, girl, and I saw you eating that bug… disgusting!” For a moment, I froze. How? How was there even a picture like this? I typed back quickly, hands trembling: “Girl? Bug? No way… there must be some mistake! What bug would I eat?!” His reply came instantly, as if he’d been waiting: “Yeah, girl. What else should I call you? I’ve never trusted you from the start. You appear out of nowhere and then vanish. Consider yourself fired.” I stood there, motionless. Fired? Just like that?! How?! I snapped, typing back with trembling fingers: “Do you even mean that…?” He replied with an icy calm: “Yeah… you think I’d be afraid of some filthy animal like you?” That was it. Those words weren’t just an insult… they were the key. The key that broke the barrier I’d been struggling to keep intact ever since I entered your world. He didn’t understand. Didn’t realize that my presence here wasn’t an accident. I wasn’t just some random employee in his pathetic company. I was Hour, Queen of Dimora, one of the realms of the Jinn. I had borrowed the body of a human girl to take form here, to escape the curse that hunted me in my own world. But now? He was the one who started this. My phone vibrated again in my hand—another message. “I still have the video. I’ll show it to everyone. Let’s see what you’ll do then, you freak.” I smiled faintly… but it wasn’t the smile of a human. The air in my apartment shifted. A faint smoke rose from the ground, filling the room. I whispered as I stared at the screen: “When you play with the jinn… you pay the price.” Meanwhile, in his office, the manager typed on his keyboard, laughing cruelly. But his laughter faded the moment the lights flickered, and his computer screen began to tremble like it was about to burst. He opened the camera feed like he always did… But this time, what he saw was impossible. The camera facing his office showed… his own office. But there was someone standing behind him. A figure with long hair and glowing red eyes. He froze. Whipped around. Nothing there. Looked back at the screen— The figure was still there. And the image began zooming in on its own, closer and closer to him. He cursed, trying to shut the computer: “What the hell is this…?!” But the mouse didn’t work. The keyboard froze. And then one sentence appeared on the screen in giant letters: “You played with the Queen of Jinn.” Sweat dripped down his face. His heart pounded. He grabbed his phone to text someone—anyone. But WhatsApp was already open by itself. A new message waiting: “You think I’m your employee? No… I’m a Queen. And you… are a sacrifice.” The phone slipped from his hands. He started hearing strange whispers all around the office. Footsteps… laughter… circling his chair. The lights dimmed even more, the room sinking into shadow. He looked at the small mirror on the wall— But instead of his reflection, he saw me. Not my human face. Half human, half twisted with jinn features. He screamed at the top of his lungs: “Stay away from me!!!” But the reflection didn’t move. Instead, I smiled wide, baring sharp, unnatural teeth. The mirror cracked—each fracture echoed with a scream. He collapsed, crawling on the floor to escape. But the office door slammed shut, locked from the inside. And my voice filled the air around him—not from the phone, not from the computer, but from the air itself: “I told you… when you play with the jinn… you pay the price.” His whole body shook. Every time he neared the door, it slammed harder, as though unseen hands held it shut. The phone lit up again by itself. A deep, inhuman female voice boomed from it: “Your blood is the price.” He clutched his chest, heart racing, drenched in sweat. He stomped the phone, trying to smash it— But it didn’t break. Instead, it split open, releasing a thick, black smoke that crawled across the floor. The smoke wrapped around his legs as he shrieked: “Leave me alone!! I didn’t do anything!” A wild, inhuman laughter filled the room. The chair spun on its own to face the camera feed again. On screen, my true form appeared. My eyes weren’t human anymore. They glowed, blazing red, storms of darkness swirling within. My skin was shifting, half human, half dark scales. I said to him: “I’m not your employee… I was never part of your world. I am Hour, Queen of Dimora, realm of the Jinn. I borrowed this girl’s body to walk among you… But you, in your stupidity, awakened the curse I kept buried.” The manager fell to his knees, trembling hands outstretched: “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean it… I swear I didn’t know…” I smiled coldly. “Those who touch the secrets of the jinn… there is no forgiveness.” Darkness swallowed the office. The windows shattered, wind roaring like a storm. Files flew through the air—papers swirling like blades, slicing his skin. He crawled under the desk, but the ground itself cracked open. Black fissures spread like a web. From them, long, shadowy hands reached out, grabbing his legs, pulling him down. He screamed one last time— Then silence. The floor swallowed him whole. The room returned to normal. And me? I was standing before my mirror in my apartment. My reflection wasn’t human anymore. I was myself again, Hour the Queen, with a black crown upon my head, my face surrounded by mist. I whispered: “The first sacrifice is done… But the greater ones are yet to come.” My eyes returned to human form. My appearance normalized. I picked up my phone calmly, as if nothing happened. For me, it was finished. But no one knew… This was only the beginning. Because every human who crossed my path… Would become part of my curse.
By محمد السبكيabout a year ago in Horror
