halloween

Get into the Halloween spirit; all about trick or treating, spooky costumes, Halloween decorations and haunted houses for October 31st and all year round.

The Whispers in the Walls
It began with the scratching. At first, Daniel thought it was just mice. The old countryside house creaked at night anyway, so a little rustling between the walls didn’t seem unusual. But this was different. The sound didn’t come in short bursts like rodents scurrying—it was slow, deliberate… almost like fingernails dragging along wood. Daniel had inherited the house from his late uncle, who had died alone. The family never talked about him much, except to say that he’d become “strange” toward the end. But Daniel didn’t care; the house was free, and he needed a fresh start. On the third night, the scratching turned into whispers. They were faint, almost lost beneath the hum of the refrigerator. He couldn’t make out the words, but they seemed to be coming from behind his bedroom wall. Whenever he pressed his ear to the plaster, the whispers stopped, as if they knew he was listening. By the end of the week, the voice—if it was a voice—had grown bolder. Sometimes it laughed, a low, rattling chuckle that made the hairs on Daniel’s neck rise. He tried ignoring it. He turned the TV up loud, wore earplugs, even slept on the couch downstairs. But the sound followed him, drifting through vents and doorways, never letting him rest. One night, at exactly 3:17 a.m., the whisper became clear enough to understand. "Daniel… let me out." The voice was wet, as though it came from a throat filled with thick fluid. Daniel froze in bed. “Who are you?” he whispered back before he realized how insane it was to talk to a wall. There was a pause. Then—"You know me." He didn’t. He was sure of it. But the way it spoke, like they shared a secret, made his stomach twist. The next day, he searched the attic. Dust clung to his hair, cobwebs brushed his face. In the far corner, he found something odd—two planks of the attic floor were newer than the rest, nailed down sloppily. Curiosity overpowered caution. He pried them up. Inside the hollow space was a small box. Its wood was blackened, as though scorched, and it reeked of rot. Daniel’s skin prickled. He lifted the lid. Inside were human teeth. Not in neat rows, but loose and rattling, some yellowed, some brown with dried blood. On top of them lay a folded note. It read: "Never open the wall." That night, the whisper was closer. "You found my teeth, Daniel… Now find me." He didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. The voice had moved from the wall to directly beside his bed. It breathed in his ear. Sometimes it hummed an unrecognizable lullaby. By morning, Daniel was pale and shaking. He called a handyman, desperate to check inside the wall. The man arrived, took one look at Daniel’s sunken eyes, and hesitated. “What exactly am I looking for?” Daniel lied. “Maybe mold. Just… something in there.” The handyman cut into the plaster. The smell hit them instantly—sweet, foul, unmistakable. Something had died in there. But when the section of wall came down, there was no animal. No body. Just darkness, stretching far deeper than the physical dimensions of the house should allow. The handyman swore and backed away. “I’m not touching this.” He left without even collecting payment. Daniel stood before the opening, his breath shallow. The blackness seemed to pulse, like it was breathing. And then… something moved. A pale hand, too long and too thin, slid from the darkness, resting on the edge of the wall. Its nails were cracked and bleeding. The voice came again, clearer than ever: "Thank you for opening the door." The hand gripped the plaster and another appeared, pulling the thing forward. Its head emerged—bald, skin stretched tight over bone, mouth split wide with missing teeth. Its eyes were pits of oozing black. Daniel stumbled backward. “Stay away!” It crawled out slowly, like it had all the time in the world. “I waited for you,” it rasped. “Your uncle kept me here, but you… you’re kinder.” Daniel turned to run, but the thing was fast. It seized his ankle, cold fingers digging into flesh. He kicked, screaming, but its grip was unbreakable. It pulled him toward the hole in the wall. “No! Please!” His nails scraped the floorboards, leaving desperate grooves. The blackness inside the wall seemed to swallow the light around it. The creature’s mouth split into something like a smile. “Home.” And then Daniel was gone. The house was silent again. For three weeks, nothing happened. The neighbors assumed Daniel had moved. The house sat empty, its windows dark. Until one night, a new sound came from inside. Scratching. Followed by a whisper. "Let me out."
By Muhammad Bilalabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Step
He loved the sound of trains. Tyrus loved trains. Not in the casual way most kids say they do—he lived for them. He could name every model from memory. He copied the sounds so precisely that even my father, a retired conductor, once stopped mid-coffee and said, “That boy has an engine in his chest.”
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Horror
The Man Who Stood Outside My Window for Three Nights
It was the third night in a row I couldn’t sleep. My small apartment was usually peaceful, but lately, something about the stillness of the nights had begun to feel… wrong.
By Muhammad Kaleemullahabout a year ago in Horror
The Lost Floor of St. Damien’s Hospital. Content Warning.
St. Damien’s Hospital had been dying long before the city decided to put it out of its misery. Whole wings were abandoned. Wallpaper peeled like sunburned dead skin. The air reeked of bleach and mold. A hospital that once saved lives now hoarded silence like a secret. The emergency ward had shut down over fifteen years ago. No one came here anymore. No one stayed. Except for Eloise. A fourth-year med student on a public health research grant, she was tasked with combing through decades-old records to trace tuberculosis outbreaks. It was cold, tedious work—hours spent in the forgotten bones of the south wing, surrounded by filing cabinets and shadows. Until she found the elevator. It was tucked behind a rusted metal door marked “Maintenance Access Only.” She'd been searching for a bathroom when she stumbled on it — a hallway with no lights, no sound… except the soft mechanical hum of heavy machineries. The elevator looked old. Brass-framed, dented. And somehow, still powered. Its display glowed faintly: B1 There was no B1 on her hospital blueprint. No basement level. Nothing. She pressed the call button. The elevator groaned awake, gears grinding like bones. When the doors opened, a blast of cold air spilled out — sharp and unnatural, like a morgue had exhaled. Eloise hesitated. Then stepped inside. The panel inside had the usual floors: 1 through 6. And one more. A circular button, unlit, marked only with a single carved letter: B It wasn’t on the diagram. It wasn’t in the system. Curiosity consumed her. she pressed it. The elevator jerked downward, and the light inside flickered. It descended far too long. No music. No announcements. Just the mechanical drone of descent and a growing sense of wrongness. The air got colder, heavier. Her breath fogged, despite the sealed interior. She counted looking at her watch. Thirty seconds. A minute. Then more. Ding. The doors slid open. What she saw didn’t belong in a building abandoned for decades. A hallway—clean, white, brightly lit. Pristine tile floors. Doors on both sides, all closed. A faint hum of electricity. As if this floor had been waiting. Her footsteps echoed too loudly. At the nurses’ station, a single lamp glowed. Files sat stacked neatly on the desk. She opened one. Patient: Lydia Bram. Age: 9. Diagnosis: Persistent Unresponsiveness Following Experimental Procedure #12. Below that: Observation Terminated. RETURN: DENIED. She flipped through another. Then another. All the same ending. RETURN: DENIED. No discharge dates. No signatures. Just blank observation logs that trailed off into nothing. Her hands trembled. This floor… wasn’t archived. It was erased. A sound broke the silence. Soft. Wet. Footsteps. Then, a child's giggle. Sharp and bright, echoing down the corridor. Like glass shattering underwater. Eloise spun around. No one. Empty hallway. A flickering light overhead. She turned back toward the elevator — and stopped. It was gone. The hallway was smooth. Seamless. No seams, no doors, just cold white walls. She stepped forward—hesitated. Turned. The corridor now stretched in both directions. Longer. Narrower. The air pressed against her chest like a weight. Whispers bloomed. Low at first. Then rising. Dozens of voices overlapping, speaking in a language she almost understood. She pressed her back to the wall, breathing hard. The air was sterile, choking. Lights flickered overhead. A door creaked open behind her. Room 13B. She didn’t want to look. But she did. Inside was a single hospital bed. Straps. Machines. A mirror on the far wall. But the mirror didn’t reflect her. It showed her lying in the bed — eyes wide, mouth sewn shut. Twitching. Alive. She took a step back—and the lights dimmed. Behind her, the whispers stopped. Something was listening. She ran. Down the too-long hallway. Past doors slowly opening one by one. Past cold hands brushing her sleeves. The whispering sharpened: "You’ve already returned.” Then, at the far end — the elevator. It was back. Its doors open, waiting. She ran. Slammed the 6 button. The doors shuddered closed just as something tall and pale turned the corner behind her. Its eyes were wrong. Its face was— She didn’t breathe. The doors opened to daylight. Dust in the air. Broken windows. The ruined sixth floor. She was back. She ran to the filing room, grabbing her coat, phone, anything to tether her back to reality. Then she saw it. A manila folder lying open on the desk — one she hadn’t touched. Patient: Eloise M. Vance Date of Admission: 08/05/2025 RETURN: DENIED Her heart stuttered. The window beside her? Gone. Replaced with white wall. The lights above? Fluorescent again. Buzzing softly. No noise outside. No sirens. No wind. No world. She looked down. There was a band around her wrist. ELOISE VANCE. FLOOR B. She had never left that floor~
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
The Loyalty of the Lion King
Deep in the heart of the golden savannah, where the sun kissed the earth and the wind whispered through tall grass, ruled a mighty lion known as Zahir the Lion King. His mane glowed like fire, his roar shook the heavens, and his heart beat with wisdom, courage, and most of all—loyalty.
By Ahmad shahabout a year ago in Horror
Season 5 - EMILY ROAN : The Nomen Child
Chapter 15: Echo Burial Location: Sablepine Grove - Hidden Sect Grounds, 4 miles southeast of Tallowridge Date: November 27, 1985
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
The Whispers Beneath the Floorboards
The village of Darnwood had always been an eerie place, wrapped in perpetual fog and silence that clung to its crooked cottages like a curse. Few dared to stay there long, and those who did often carried hollow eyes and voices that trembled. Among them was Arthur Gray, a middle-aged man recently widowed and desperate for solitude. He purchased an old, rotting house at the edge of the forest — a place the villagers called Hollow House. They warned him, of course. “Things live beneath,” old Marnie at the bakery whispered with eyes glazed in dread. “You’ll hear them scratching. Don’t answer them.” Arthur, lost in grief, only chuckled. Ghost stories didn’t scare a man who had watched cancer drain his wife’s life away, day by agonizing day. The house groaned as if alive. Floorboards creaked even when no one walked. Cold drafts snuck through sealed windows. And then, there were the whispers. It began on the third night. He was reading by lantern light — the electricity had failed again — when he heard it: a soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap beneath the wooden floor. He paused. It continued, more insistent. Then came the whisper, faint but clear. “Arthur…” He froze. The voice was soft, broken — like a child weeping in the dark. He leaned down, pressing his ear to the floor. “Arthur… I’m cold… so cold…” He jerked back, heart pounding. Was someone beneath the floorboards? He tore at the wooden planks with a crowbar, desperate to uncover the source. But there was nothing beneath except earth and the old, crumbling stone foundation. The next day, the villagers avoided him. No one spoke when he passed. Even Marnie shuttered her windows as he approached. That night, the voice returned. This time, it wasn’t just whispers. It sang. A lullaby, broken and warped, coming from beneath his bed. The lyrics were wrong — words twisted into nonsense, but the melody was familiar. His wife used to hum it in her final days. “Who’s there?” Arthur demanded, voice cracking. “Join us…” the voices echoed in chorus now — dozens of them. “It’s warmer down here…” He smashed the floor again, ripping out plank after plank, deeper into madness. Dirt filled the room. Fingernails shredded. Still, nothing. And then he found the trapdoor. It was hidden beneath a false section of flooring near the fireplace. Thick chains wrapped around it, sealed with rusted iron. A smell seeped out — old, rotting, alive. The chains rattled when he touched them, though he hadn’t yet pulled. That night, he dreamed of a woman in black, her face covered in a veil of crawling insects. She hovered over him, whispering in his dead wife’s voice. “You opened the house. Now the house opens you.” He awoke screaming. In the morning, Arthur found bloody footprints leading from the trapdoor to the edge of his bed. Muddy handprints clawed the walls. The whispering never stopped. It came from the kettle, from the attic, from behind the mirrors. Then came the scratching. At first gentle. Then furious. Desperate. Something was beneath the floor — many things. The boards bent upward. Nails popped from the wood. And that voice — that same pitiful whimper — called his name over and over. One final night, Arthur gave in. He unchained the trapdoor and opened it. The darkness beneath pulsed like a living wound. The smell hit him — rot and sorrow, soaked in blood. He saw eyes staring back. Dozens. Hundreds. And then — fingers. Long. Broken. Bone-thin. They reached for him, not with violence, but need. “Cold… so cold…” The first hand touched his cheek, tender as a mother’s touch. Another grasped his wrist. A child’s voice whispered, “Don’t leave us alone again.” And Arthur, mad with grief and guilt, whispered back, “I won’t.” He stepped down. The trapdoor slammed shut behind him. They found the house weeks later, the front door wide open. No sign of Arthur, but every floorboard had been pulled up. Scratch marks — deep and jagged — covered every wall. The villagers sealed the house with bricks and prayers. They never spoke of Arthur again. But on foggy nights, if you press your ear to the ground, you might still hear the lullaby, drifting up from the dark: “Come sleep, come sleep, beneath the floor, The cold will hurt your bones no more…” And if you’re very unlucky, the house might learn your name too.
By Muhammad Bilalabout a year ago in Horror
The Shattered Veil
The Shattered Veil A Descent Into Light and Madness The personality changes again—just like that. Not in weeks or months, but in moments. One moment calm, the next unraveling. A transient soul, flickering between forms, between thoughts. There is a strange comfort in the instability. A familiarity in being lost.
By Saeed Ullah about a year ago in Horror
Whispers in the Floorboards
It was supposed to be a restoration project. Eli and Marla Winslow had bought the derelict house on the edge of Briar Hollow for next to nothing. Newly married and full of ambition, they saw potential in the century-old Victorian with its ornate woodwork and wide, echoing halls. It was their dream home, a fixer-upper with history and character. The townspeople, however, gave them strange looks when they mentioned the address.
By Atif khurshaidabout a year ago in Horror
Whisper beneth the floorboards
When Eleanor Bradford inherited her grandmother’s Victorian house in the quiet town of Black Hollow, she thought it was a blessing. Tired of city life and a string of failed relationships, she welcomed the isolation. The creaky house sat at the edge of a forest, flanked by fog-covered hills and surrounded by whispers of the past. Locals avoided it. They whispered about strange sounds, about Eleanor’s grandmother going mad before her death. Eleanor dismissed the stories as small-town superstition. Her grandmother, Margaret, had lived alone for nearly forty years. Isolation could crack anyone’s mind. The first night was uneventful, save for the occasional groan from old pipes and the wind brushing against cracked windowpanes. It wasn’t until the third night that Eleanor heard it: a whisper, faint and raspy, drifting from beneath the floorboards. She sat up in bed, heart pounding. "Hello?" she called into the dark. Silence. She waited, clutching the edge of her blanket like a child. Just as she started to lie back down, she heard it again—closer this time. “Let me out…” The next morning, she convinced herself it had been a dream. The floorboards were old, the house made noises. Nothing unusual. But the whispering continued. Every night. The sounds became clearer—pleading voices, crying, the occasional guttural growl that made her blood run cold. It wasn’t just one voice anymore. There were many. By the end of the week, Eleanor was sleep-deprived and jittery. She scoured the library for anything on the house’s history. An old clerk hesitated before pulling out a faded book. “Bradford House, eh? That place... there's a reason we keep quiet about it,” he muttered, sliding the book across the counter. The entries were disturbing. In 1923, three children went missing near the property. In 1951, a man claimed he heard voices and tore up the floor trying to “free them.” He disappeared before he could finish. Her grandmother, according to town records, had been institutionalized briefly in the 70s after complaining about “things beneath the house.” Eleanor rushed back home, determined to prove this was all a case of suggestion. Yet when she entered the living room, something had changed. The floorboards—particularly under the rug—looked disturbed, slightly raised. Her breath caught. Grabbing a crowbar from the shed, Eleanor returned and peeled the boards away, one by one. The wood shrieked and cracked under her force, revealing a narrow crawlspace beneath the floor. And there, staring up at her, were eyes. Not human eyes. Dozens of them. Embedded in pale, leathery flesh that stretched like a membrane under the house. Some blinked, others wept blood. Frozen in horror, Eleanor stumbled back. Then came the voices. “You see us now.” “We are hungry.” “She fed us.” Before Eleanor could process the words, the boards slammed shut. Something beneath surged upward, slamming her into the wall. The house trembled violently. She awoke hours later, sprawled across the room. Her ears bled, and her vision was blurry. But the whispering had stopped. For now. She tried to flee, but the front door no longer opened. Windows wouldn't break. The house had become a prison. Over the next few days, the house began to shift—walls pulsing like breathing flesh, shadows crawling against the grain. The whispers returned, now speaking in unison. “She kept us quiet. You set us free.” In her delirium, Eleanor found her grandmother’s journal, hidden beneath a loose tile in the fireplace. The final entries were erratic: “They are not ghosts. They are older than memory, older than God.” “I fed them animals… then strangers… It was never enough.” “If I die, they’ll need another.” The last page was a handprint in dried blood. Eleanor understood then. Her grandmother had been a warden. Now, it was her turn. The house would not let her leave. And the voices—the things beneath—were growing stronger, louder. They wanted more. And one night, when a hiker wandered too close to the edge of the forest, the floorboards opened once more.
By Samiullah about a year ago in Horror
The House That Remembers: Beneath the Wallpaper
After Nora was found in the woods, she was placed in a psychiatric facility two towns over. No one believed her story. Authorities assumed she’d suffered a breakdown, perhaps triggered by her brother’s disappearance and the isolation. She spoke rarely, and when she did, it was always the same thing:
By Atif khurshaidabout a year ago in Horror
The Hollow House
The village of Grendale had always been quiet, wrapped in the mist of old folklore and superstitions. It was a place where people whispered more than they spoke, and they spoke most often about the Hollow House.
By Malik BILALabout a year ago in Horror