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 Man Who Knocked at 3:33 AM Every Night — And Left Me Something Strange
I never thought much about dreams. Until the dream started knocking. It began when I moved back to my childhood home after my father's sudden death. The house sat on the edge of our small town, half-eaten by fog most mornings and wrapped in a silence that felt almost alive at night.
By huzaifa Khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Iron Shadows' Evening
AI-Generated Story The city of Neo-Cairo never slept—not in the year 2147. Neon lights bathed the city in an electric blue glow, and towering skyscrapers pierced the clouds like gleaming monuments to human ambition. From a distance, it was a symbol of progress, beauty, and relentless innovation. But beneath that radiant shell, something far more sinister had begun to stir.
By mahersalem01about a year ago in Horror
I Left the Door Unlocked for a Reason. Content Warning.
They always assume it’s a mistake. The lock. The door. The way it rests ajar with just enough darkness behind it to look accidental. That’s what they tell themselves — that maybe I was in a rush. Maybe I forgot. Maybe I’m just careless. I’m patient. I wait behind that door with the lights off, barefoot, silent, head tilted to listen — not for footsteps, but for hesitation. That beautiful, charged silence where prey wonders whether to enter. They always do. Because I’ve done my part. The grocery bags I helped carry up the stairs. The polite smile at the mailbox. The stutter, the shy wave, the worn hoodie two sizes too big. It disarms them. Wraps around them like wool. You can’t fear the quiet one. The pushover. The kind boy in 3C. They never suspect that I want them to come in. I don’t hunt in alleys or wear a mask. That’s for the movies. No, my kills are soft. Tender. Intimate. I invite them in. And they cross that threshold like a lamb stepping into the slaughterhouse—still thinking it’s a church. Tonight, it’s her. Her name doesn’t matter. I don’t name things I plan to break. She’s new. Moved in a week ago. Wears sunflower earrings and says “sorry” when someone bumps into her. She’s exactly the kind I like: the kind that tries to see the good in people. The kind who would rather doubt herself than trust her instincts. She smiled at me in the elevator. Offered banana bread. I took it, even though I don’t eat sweet things. I only smiled back. I know what kindness does to people like her — it makes them reckless. So I left the door unlocked. I timed it. 11:52 PM. She’s a night owl. Goes out to the balcony with her headphones. The music’s always low enough that she hears what she’s not supposed to hear — footsteps, maybe, or a soft creak. She’s heard me. I know. I let her. And now she’s coming. I hear her pause outside. My heartbeat doesn’t rise — it never does — but I feel something stir. Excitement? Maybe. Hunger? Closer. The knob turns slowly. She whispers, "Hello?" It’s precious. Like a sheep asking the wolf if he’s hurt. “Are you okay?” she adds, stepping in. I almost laugh. But I don’t. Not yet. She doesn’t turn the lights on — how polite. She walks carefully, arms out, whispering my name. My fake name. I move behind her like a shadow. My hand brushes the edge of the kitchen counter. She doesn’t even flinch. So trusting. So terribly fragile. “I heard noises,” she says. I could end it now. A twist. A snap. A soft little sigh as the air leaves her lungs. I could do that. I have done that. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m bored. Tonight, I want to play. So I step into the light just enough for her to see me. “Oh,” she gasps. “I—your door was open and I thought—" “You thought something bad happened,” I say softly. She nods. I smile. “Something did.” She pauses. Her eyes search mine. This is the part I love. The moment doubt flutters inside them — like a moth realizing too late it’s not circling a lamp, but a flame. I tilt my head. “Why would you come in?” “I… I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe you needed help.” “I do,” I whisper. She backs up slightly. “Do you want me to call someone?” “There’s no one to call.” Her voice cracks. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” “But you did,” I say, taking a step closer. She’s trembling now. Trying not to show it. She fakes a smile. I know fake smiles. I wear them better. “I’ll just head back—" “I didn’t say you could leave.” Her breath catches. That sweet little breath. It’s almost a shame. Almost. I close the distance slowly, like I’m walking underwater. She’s frozen — cornered between the counter and the sink. “What do you want?” she whispers. I lean in, voice low. “I want to see what kind of person walks into a stranger’s apartment just because the door is unlocked.” “Please,” she says, “please, I won’t tell anyone.” That’s the part they all say. It’s the *script*. Like their brain can't believe what's happening, so it clings to fairy-tale logic. Mercy. Deals. They beg, they plead, they promise. None of them realize… It was never about the outcome. It was always about the choice. She chose to enter. She chose curiosity over caution. And now, I choose what she becomes. But something shifts. A flash in her eyes. She reaches for the knife block. My hand is already there. I smile as I hold up the blade between us. She doesn’t scream. Not yet. She’s trying to calculate her odds. I let her. “You know,” I say, “it’s funny. People always lock their doors out of fear that someone like me might get in.” I raise the blade slowly. Her eyes widen. “But I don’t break into homes.” I step closer. “I don’t chase anyone.” I raise the knife, just above her trembling chest. “I leave the door unlocked.” I tilt my head. And I wait to see who walks in.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
Cursed by My Own Hands
I am a school principal blessed by Allah with wealth, beauty, power, and children. My husband is a man of status and respect. Life was perfect… until he married another woman.
By Ahmad shahabout a year ago in Horror
The Brothers Who Dined on Corpses. Content Warning.
Family and Tragedy Origins: Who Were These Brothers?: In a quiet village Darya Khan in northern Punjab, Pakistan, two brothers, Farman Ahmad (35) and Muhammad Arif (31) lived a troubled, volatile life. Their family endured hardship: their mentally ill sister, Nusrat, and two broken marriages left them isolated. According to villagers, Farman was addicted to drugs; Arif reportedly had mental health issues. Their unstable family environment laid the foundation for a horror few could imagine.
By Zia Ul Islamabout a year ago in Horror
Room 404: Do Not Enter
Part 1: The Check-In The Fairhaven Hotel was old but elegant—an aging five-story building nestled quietly in a forgotten corner of the city. Its marble floors, vintage wallpaper, and brass chandeliers whispered of a long-lost golden age. Ethan, a travel blogger known for reviewing haunted and abandoned places, had heard about Fairhaven from an obscure Reddit thread. One comment caught his eye: > “Don’t ask about Room 404. Trust me. Just… don’t.” Naturally, that made him curious. At check-in, Ethan wore his usual polite smile. "Hi. I’m here for three nights. Ethan Keller. Reservation under that name." The elderly receptionist scanned her logbook, her face pale and tired. “Room 405,” she said after a moment. “Fourth floor. Elevator’s to your right.” Ethan leaned in, lowering his voice. “What about Room 404?” Her hand froze on the key. “There is no Room 404.” He arched a brow. “But isn’t that standard in tech buildings? Hotels don’t usually skip that number.” The woman’s eyes turned cold. “There is no Room 404,” she repeated. “Do not ask again.” Part 2: The Missing Room That night, curiosity gnawed at Ethan. He paced the hallway of the fourth floor. Room 401, 402, 403... 405. No 404. Just a plain wall between 403 and 405. He knocked on it, lightly. Hollow. There was a door once—he could see faint seams in the paint. As if it had been sealed. He brought out his phone and used the flashlight. Something was scratched faintly into the wallpaper, almost invisible. Letters: "D O N O T E N T E R" His heart thumped. A challenge. By the next morning, Ethan had bribed a janitor with $100 to talk. “You didn’t hear this from me,” the janitor whispered. “Room 404 was closed in the ‘90s. A woman named Violet stayed there. She was... odd. Came in every night with fresh lilies, always talking to someone who wasn’t there.” “What happened to her?” Ethan asked. The janitor hesitated. “One night, the guests on either side reported screaming. When staff opened the door, they found Violet sitting on the bed... rocking... talking to a mirror. There was blood everywhere. Hers. Others'. But no bodies.” “They closed it?” “They sealed it. Management doesn’t even keep records anymore. But... sometimes guests on the fourth floor hear knocks. And whispers.” Part 3: The Door Opens That night, Ethan set up his camera in front of the blank wall. He started recording, whispering updates to his followers. At 3:04 a.m., something happened. A soft click. A seam in the wall slid open. There it was: Room 404. The door was old, wood cracked and stained. It swung open without a sound. Ethan, breathing heavily, stepped inside. The air was freezing. Inside, the room looked untouched since the 1990s—rose-colored wallpaper peeling at the corners, an old rotary phone, a broken lampshade, and a huge cracked mirror above the bed. Ethan whispered, “Hello?” The door slammed shut behind him. Part 4: The Reflection The mirror drew him in. Something was wrong with it. In the reflection, the room looked... cleaner. Brighter. But there was a woman on the bed—sitting, rocking. Violet. She turned, slowly. Her eyes were pure white. "Finally... someone to talk to," she said. Ethan spun around. No one was there. But in the mirror—she stood, inches behind him. He tried the door. Locked. The rotary phone began to ring. Riiinnng... Riiinnng... Trembling, he picked it up. A voice whispered: "You're next." Then a sharp pain hit his chest—he collapsed. Part 5: The Cover-Up Three days later, police arrived after Ethan’s followers reported him missing. The hotel staff claimed he left early. Paid in full. Nothing unusual. His camera was never found. His room was empty. But every so often, a guest in Room 405 complains. They hear... knocking. Soft crying. Sometimes a man’s voice begging, “Let me out...” And when they look into the hallway mirror outside Room 405… They see a second door. Right where Room 404 used to be. --- The End. Or is it?
By Ubaid Khanabout a year ago in Horror
I Bought a Haunted Mirror Off Facebook Marketplace — Now It Won’t Let Me Sleep
It started with a Facebook Marketplace listing. > “Antique Victorian mirror — $30 OBO. Must pick up. ASAP.” No details, just a grainy photo and a location only twenty minutes away. I’d just moved into my new apartment and needed something to fill the blank wall in my hallway. I messaged the seller. She responded in seconds. > “If you come today, it’s yours.” That should have been my first red flag. --- The house was old — weathered wood, flaking paint, and a porch that creaked under my feet. A woman in her late 60s opened the door. Her eyes were bloodshot, like she hadn’t slept in weeks. She didn’t smile. She led me straight to the mirror without saying much. It stood nearly six feet tall, framed in dark oak with ornate carvings of twisting vines and faces—yes, actual carved faces. The glass was flawless, despite its age. I reached for my wallet. > “No,” she said. “Just take it.” > “Are you sure?” She stared past me. “It doesn’t want to stay here.” I laughed awkwardly, thinking she was joking. But her hands were trembling as she helped me carry it out. --- I set the mirror in the hallway, directly across from my bedroom. It looked stunning. Heavy. Regal. I remember thinking how lucky I was to score something so vintage for free. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Not from fear—just unease. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the hallway in my mind. The mirror, waiting. At 2:13 a.m., I got up for water. As I stepped into the hallway, I glanced at the mirror and froze. I was in it. But I wasn’t moving. My reflection just stood there, arms at its sides, watching me. Then—blink. The reflection blinked, but I hadn’t. I staggered backward, heart hammering in my chest. When I looked again, it was normal. Just me. Tired. Shaken. I told myself I was overtired. Stress. Shadows. Head games. I went back to bed and left the lights on. --- The next night, it got worse. Every time I passed the mirror, I could feel something watching me. Not just from the glass—from behind it. I covered it with a bedsheet, but it didn’t help. At 3:06 a.m., I woke to the sound of fabric sliding. I stepped into the hallway. The sheet was on the floor. I didn’t sleep after that. --- On night four, I dreamt of water. Drowning. Gasping. But not in an ocean—in a mirror. I could see my own face, pressed against the glass from the other side, screaming silently. When I woke, my pillow was soaked with sweat—and tears. That morning, I noticed something else. In the mirror’s reflection, the hallway was different. Subtly. The shadows stretched the wrong way. The picture frames on the opposite wall were crooked in the glass, but perfectly straight in real life. And in the very back of the reflection—at the end of the hallway—I saw a figure. Small. Female. Pale face, long hair. But when I turned around, the hallway was empty. --- I tried to move the mirror into the garage. It wouldn’t budge. No matter how hard I pushed or pulled, it stayed locked in place. Like it had rooted into the wall. I even tried to break the glass. The hammer bounced off. No crack. Not even a scratch. When I looked into the mirror afterward, I swear I saw it smile. --- That night, I left the apartment. Booked a hotel. I needed sleep, even just one night. It didn’t help. The mirror came with me in my dreams. It stood at the foot of the hotel bed. My reflection sat up on its own, turned to look at me, and whispered one word: > “Stay.” --- Back home the next day, I noticed the hallway light flickered constantly. Bulbs died faster than I could replace them. My dog, Penny, refused to go near the hallway. She’d sit outside the bedroom, whining, tail between her legs. On day ten, I found claw marks inside the mirror frame. Deep gouges along the bottom edge, as if someone—or something—had tried to crawl out. And that night, I saw her again. She was in the hallway. Not in the mirror—in real space. Pale skin, matted hair, no eyes. Just empty sockets leaking dark liquid down her cheeks. I ran. Locked myself in the bathroom. From the hallway, I heard knocking. Slow. Deliberate. Then a voice, hoarse and wet: > “Let me in.” --- The next morning, the hallway was empty. The mirror reflected only me. But I looked… wrong. Thinner. Paler. My eyes had a shadow to them, like something was pressing against the back of my skull. I posted the mirror back on Facebook Marketplace. > “Antique Victorian mirror — FREE. Must pick up today.” A girl messaged me within minutes. > “I’ve been looking for something just like this!” I responded immediately. > “Come quick.” She arrived that afternoon. As she pulled away with the mirror strapped in the back of her SUV, I felt like I could breathe again. The hallway seemed brighter. My dog wagged her tail for the first time in days. That night, I slept. For the first time in nearly two weeks. --- But I still hear it sometimes. The knocking. The whisper. > “Stay.” And last week, I woke up with my phone open to Facebook Marketplace. Scrolled down. Heart racing. There it was. > “Antique Victorian mirror — $30. Must pick up ASAP.” Same grainy photo. Different seller. Different town. But the mirror… is the same. --- [The End] ---
By Habibullah. Shoukat Aliabout a year ago in Horror
The Lantern Path. Content Warning.
They told us never to follow the lights in Barlow Wood. Not that anyone warned me directly. I wasn’t from here. I came with Delilah—my partner—after her mother passed. The cabin was part of her inheritance, buried somewhere between the dying pines, shrouded in mist thick enough to choke on. She called it a “quiet place to grieve.” But the forest never felt quiet. It listened. We stayed three nights before it began. --- The first light came at midnight. I woke to a pale blue glow flooding through the window, rippling like breath against frost. Delilah was gone. Her side of the bed was cold, the sheets undisturbed. I called her name once. The house didn’t echo. Stepping outside, the forest was alive—not with birds or wind—but with silence so heavy it rang in my ears. The trees loomed black, stretched too tall, their trunks thinned to bone. And there it was: the light. Hovering just above the ground, a bluish orb pulsing between the trees. I should’ve gone back inside. Instead, I followed. They say the lights are lures—will-o’-the-wisps that feed on sorrow. They mimic lanterns from faraway homes, the voices of lost loved ones. But I didn’t know that yet. I only knew the forest had swallowed Delilah. The path beneath my feet was soft with rot, slick with dew, and threaded with roots that tugged at my ankles. The deeper I went, the thicker the mist grew, like old breath held too long. I saw her, eventually. Or something like her. She stood beneath the moonlight, barefoot, hair dripping with moisture. Her eyes—wide, glassy, locked on me—didn’t blink. “Delilah?” I whispered. She smiled. The light above her head flickered—and dove into her mouth. She opened wide to receive it. I ran. Branches clawed at my face. The trees groaned. I didn’t stop until I stumbled back into the cabin, breathless, mud-streaked, shaking. The door slammed behind me without my touch. She was there. In bed. Sleeping. When I touched her shoulder, she stirred and turned. “You’re freezing,” she murmured. “Come back to sleep.” I didn’t sleep. I watched her all night, waiting for her to open her mouth and let the light back out. The next day, I searched for answers in town. Locals looked through me, like my questions were fog. But one old man, blind in one eye, whispered a single word when I asked about the forest: Lanternpath. He said it hadn’t been called Barlow Wood in generations. Not since the fire. Not since the children disappeared. “They don’t kill you,” he rasped. “They replace you.” That night, I found the journal. Delilah’s mother had hidden it under a loose floorboard. The pages were warped, stained, filled with frantic handwriting. Notes on “the watchers,” on dreams that bled into waking. A passage repeated again and again: “If the light finds you hollow, it will wear you like skin.” I confronted Delilah. Or the thing wearing her. She blinked at me with her perfect face. “You’re not well,” she said softly. “There are no lights.” I tried to leave. She followed. She never blinked. I packed everything before dusk. I waited for her to fall asleep. I didn’t even trust her shadow—it moved wrong. It lingered after she left the room. It stretched across walls like spilled ink. When I finally stepped into the night, I didn’t care where I went. I just needed distance. But the forest doesn’t let go once it marks you. The fog was waiting. Thicker now. Colder. Soundless. I didn’t see the lights this time—I heard them. Whispers coiling like smoke in my ears. Voices that sounded like Delilah, then my mother, then me. Words I never said. Secrets I never told. Then, a lantern appeared ahead. Golden this time. Different. It beckoned, swaying gently in the mist. I followed again. God help me, I followed again. My legs moved like I was dreaming. The woods bent around me, trees curving inward like ribs. I was inside something now. The ground sloped, the path narrowing until I reached a clearing. There were others. People—or what remained of them—stood in the circle of trees. Hollow-eyed. Mouths agape. Lanterns flickering in their throats. Their skin sagged like wet cloth. One of them stepped forward. Delilah. Or her shell. She reached for me with fingers glowing from within. “You came back,” she sang. I ran again. I don’t know how long I’ve been running. Time here doesn’t tick. The sky doesn’t change. I’m still in the forest. I pass the same gnarled tree every few hours. The bark splits open in a grin sometimes. The fog hums when I cry. My reflection in puddles no longer moves when I do. I found this journal—not mine, but hers. Her mother’s. It writes back now. Tonight, I saw a light ahead—not blue, not gold-white. It feels colder. Older. I think it might be the real Delilah. Maybe she never left. Maybe the thing in the cabin was always wearing her skin, waiting for someone to mourn. If you find this—if you see lights in the woods—don’t follow. Even if it sounds like someone you love. Especially then. END
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
👾 Polybius: The Video Game That Didn't Just Play You — It Played With Your Mind. Content Warning.
In the murky haze of early 1980s arcades—amid the buzz of CRT screens and the scent of stale popcorn—there was said to be a machine unlike any other. Unmarked, dark, and strangely magnetic, the game known as Polybius allegedly appeared in a few suburbs of Portland, Oregon… and then disappeared forever.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
THE HOSPITAL OF UNKNITTING
Season 1 CHAPTER 1: THE ADMISSION INTERVIEW The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps as Dr. Eleanor Lorne gripped the clipboard. Patient #4479's intake form kept rewriting itself...the ink bubbling up into fresh words before her eyes.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
Open Me Only When I’m Dead. Content Warning.
She was dead now. My grandmother. And I had the crowbar in my hands. Grandmother wasn’t the sentimental type. Cold-blooded, my mother used to say. “She raised me like a plant she forgot to water.” Yet at the funeral, they buried her with a rosary clenched so tightly in her fist it left red imprints on her bones. She died with her jaw unhinged. Not metaphorically — it literally hung open, dislocated, as if she’d been screaming when her heart stopped. I moved into her house a week later. Inherited, though not by choice. The walls still smelled like rosewater and sulfur. Her bedroom was locked from the inside. I didn’t have the key. But the attic was open. I found the box beneath a mound of old quilts and moth-chewed dolls. There was no lock. Just those handwritten words again: OPEN ME ONLY WHEN I’M DEAD. I pried at the lid. The first nail screamed. The second snapped. The third oozed black rotten liquid of who knows what. Inside were photographs — dozens of them — all of the same man. Middle-aged, unsmiling, his eyes blurred as if he’d moved during every shot. His face looked… wrong. Like the camera couldn’t focus on him properly. Beneath the photos was a sealed letter addressed to “The Last Living Girl.” Me. It read: You must not look directly at him. If you’re reading this, the seal is broken, and he knows. He does not live in the photos. He lives in the act of looking. That’s how I trapped him. That’s how he’ll find you. — Jennifer it's from grandma. That night, my phone buzzed at 3:04 a.m. A photo had been taken. In my camera roll: a shot of my bedroom doorway. Pitch black — except for one thing. A blurred figure in the frame. Not inside the room. Just outside, as if watching me through the cracked door. I deleted the image. It came back an hour later. I deleted it again. By sunrise, there were six. The thing was, I’d seen that man before. Only not in life. In dreams. And sometimes in reflections — like he was just behind the skin of the world, pressing in. But now he was sharper. Hungrier. Like the photos had fed him. And I’d opened the box. I’d broken the seal. On the second day, I heard breathing in the walls. Heavy. Wet. And scratching. God, the scratching. I tore open a section of drywall and found claw marks inside — from the inside out. Some fresh. Some decades old. Some in sets of four. Some… human. By the third night, I began coughing up hair. Not mine. Coarse. Grey. Wiry. Like something had nested in my throat and died screaming. I stopped sleeping. Because in the dark, he came closer. Every blink was a shutter click. I burned the photographs. I buried the box in the yard. I recited prayers until my tongue cracked and bled. Nothing helped. He didn’t live in the box. He lived in the knowing. By the seventh day, mirrors no longer reflected me correctly. They showed my face, yes — but smiling when I wasn’t. Bleeding from the eyes when I blinked. Tilting its head slowly when mine was still. The mirror-me began mouthing things. Not words. Just sounds. Wet ones. I tried to sort help or supposedly just raise awareness. I texted my sister: “Don’t come to the house. Don’t open the attic.” She replied: “You never had a sister.” And she was right. But the number was saved under her name. The profile photo was our childhood picture. And she knew about the attic. Day eight. My eyes started rejecting light. Pupils wide and leaking. I walked with the curtains closed. But in every shadow, I could see him now. In the creases of coats, in the folds of bedsheets, in the static between radio stations. He had taken shape. He had my voice. I recorded myself sleeping. When I played it back, I heard something I’ll never forget. The creak of the floorboards. The slow turning of my doorknob. And then — in a whisper thick with blood — a voice saying: “You opened me before I was ready.” I think I understand now. The box wasn’t a warning. It was a trap. A prison held together not by nails, but by belief. By restraint. And I — in my arrogance — tore it open. I opened him. Tonight, I hear the walls splitting. He’s almost fully free. And I can’t tell where he ends and I begin. So I’m writing this now, not as a warning... But as a replacement. I’ll seal it in something stronger than wood. I’ll wrap it in silence and bury it beneath this rotting house. And maybe, just maybe — if you're reading this... You’ll know better. Open me only when I’m dead. And not a moment before. end
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
The quiet one walks again . Content Warning.
I hadn’t spoken in years — not since the incident. Not even when they pushed my brother’s things into my arms — blood still soaking the folded hoodie. Not when they said, “You’re the only one left, Mallory. You have to try.”
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror