celebrities
From Hitchcock to Stephen King, a roundup of the who's who in horror; all about celebrities flaunting their loudest screams and most nightmarish scenes.
SEASON 2 : The Black Lung Communion: How a Surgeon’s Journal Sparked a Demonic Outbreak
CHAPTER 3: THE INTRAVENOUS CONFESSION The iron door to the old wing was cold, its surface pitted with rust and something darker that looked like old bloodstains. The master key felt alien in Liam’s hand, a sliver of cold metal that seemed to pulse with a malevolent life of its own.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
The Black Lung Communion: How a Surgeon’s Journal Sparked a Demonic Outbreak
CHAPTER 1: “THE BREATHING X-RAY” The air in St. Hedwig’s records room smelled of yellowing paper and regret. It was a scent Dr. Liam Evans had grown accustomed to over twenty years of service, but tonight, it felt different. Thicker. As if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
Firbargad: The Flame of the Mountain
In the highlands where mist clung to the cliffs and the sky split often with thunder, there rose a mountain the people called Firbargad. To travelers, it seemed only a jagged crown of stone, but to those who lived in its shadow, it was something far older and stranger—a sleeping guardian whose breath steamed in vents of smoke, whose heart glowed beneath the rock, and whose voice could be heard in the deep groans of the earth.
By Princess Ladlyabout a year ago in Horror
The Room With No Windows
When I first moved into the old apartment building downtown, the landlord gave me one rule: “Don’t go near Room 6B.” I thought he was joking. The place was falling apart anyway—peeling wallpaper, flickering lights, and creaky wooden floors that groaned under every step. Why would one room matter more than the rest?
By subah alenziabout a year ago in Horror
The Taxi Ride I Wish I Never Took
I had always taken late-night taxis in the city, but something about that night felt wrong from the start. The rain poured in thick sheets, and the streets were almost deserted. When the old yellow taxi stopped for me, I felt a chill crawl up my spine, but I forced myself inside.
By subah alenziabout a year ago in Horror
The Abode at the End of Hollow Lane
🔥 --- # The Abode at the End of Hollow Lane The abode had no address. That was the aboriginal affair bodies noticed. On maps, Hollow Lane concluded bisected a mile earlier, yet the burst alley continued, swallowed by roots and shadows, until it led to a abode no one remembered actuality built. Children dared anniversary added to run to the porch, blow the door, and acknowledgment afore dusk. Most never fabricated it accomplished the decayed adamant gate. The air itself acquainted added abreast the property, blubbery with a blackout that wasn’t natural. Dogs banned to go near. Birds abhorred the copse about it. And at night, a ablaze flickered in the high window, admitting no electricity curve had anytime been laid that far. It was abandoned a amount of time afore concern won. ### The Journalist When I aboriginal heard about the house, I anticipation it was aloof addition apparition adventure recycled to alarm teenagers. I’d been a announcer for years, and I knew how ballad worked—repeat article enough, and it becomes accurate in the retelling. But the abode on Hollow Lane was different. Neighbors told me stories: a babe who vanished afterwards abnormality inside; a hunter whose anatomy was begin on the balustrade with eyes advanced open, aperture arctic in a scream; aberrant chanting heard abreast the treeline admitting the abode had been abandoned for decades. I laughed politely, took notes, and promised my editor article air-conditioned for the Halloween issue. On a gray October morning, anthology in hand, I collection bottomward the lane. ### The Aboriginal Sign The aboideau afraid accessible as if assured me. Beyond it, weeds grew waist-high, crimper about a aisle that should accept burst continued ago. The air grew colder with every step, admitting the sun was still arresting aloft the trees. Inside, the abode smelled of clammy copse and iron. Dust should accept coated everything, yet the floorboards were swept clean, as if addition had aloof larboard the room. The blackout apprenticed adjoin my aerial until I realized—I couldn’t apprehend my own footsteps. I wrote that bottomward quickly, easily trembling. *Silence unnatural. No footsteps.* ### The Admiral Window I climbed the staircase, anniversary footfall angle but never breaking. The admiral alley continued best than the abode itself should accept allowed, lined with doors on either side. Halfway bottomward the corridor, a complete bankrupt the silence. *Whispering.* It came from abaft the aftermost door, the aforementioned window area neighbors claimed to see the light. I apprenticed my ear adjoin the wood. The choir were low, chanting in a accent I couldn’t recognize. When I opened the door, the complete chock-full instantly. The allowance was empty—except for a distinct armchair adverse the window. I sat, adjoin my bigger judgment. My absorption in the bottle stared aback at me, but abaft it… there were others. Dozens of anemic faces in the reflection, bottleneck the black area I sat alone. I ran. ### The Trap The aperture I had entered through no best led to the hallway. It opened into addition room—an exact archetype of the one I had aloof left. Aforementioned chair. Aforementioned window. Aforementioned absorption with the bashful army abaft me. I approved addition door. Aforementioned result. Every avenue led aback into the aforementioned room, as if the abode had bankrupt into itself. The chanting returned, louder this time, cavernous through the floor. I screamed, airtight the armchair adjoin the window, atrocious to breach it—but the bottle didn’t crack. My absorption confused a additional slower than I did, its aperture crimper into a beam abundance did not. Then the faces abaft me began to turn, one by one, until their eyes bound assimilate mine. ### The Aftermost Note They begin my anthology weeks after at the basal of the staircase. The aftermost folio concluded mid-sentence: *"The apple tilts forward, the allowance bends, and I see them continuing aloof beh—"* No one has entered the abode since. But every night, at absolutely midnight, a ablaze flickers in the admiral window. Some say it is aloof adulterated wiring. Others affirm it is the afterglow of a anthology page, endlessly turning, accounting by a duke no best human. And if you cartel to angle at the gate, you can apprehend the whispers agitated on the wind. Sometimes they chant. Sometimes they laugh. And sometimes—if you’re unlucky—they say your name. ---
By YOGANATHAN KIRUSHANTHANabout a year ago in Horror
