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.
It Lives in the Sewers
Hey, wanna hear something really messed up? So there's this town called Derry. Sounds normal, right? Trees, bikes, ice cream trucks… but Derry has a secret. Every 27 years, something horrible wakes up under the town. And when it wakes up… kids start disappearing. It happened to this boy named Georgie.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Voicemail
The Last Voicemail It was a cold October evening when the phone rang. I was curled up on the couch with a blanket over my shoulders, scrolling through photos of my brother, Sami, who had been missing for over a month. The police had done their job—or at least claimed they had—but the search had gone cold. No leads. No clues. Just an empty car found near the edge of Bear Ridge Forest and a few footprints in the mud that led nowhere. My parents were destroyed, barely functioning. And I—well, I still believed he was alive. I didn’t know how. I just did.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers of the Forgotten
In the shadow of the mountains, where the mist never seemed to lift and the trees swayed even when there was no wind, lay the forgotten village of Darya. Once a thriving settlement with laughter echoing through its narrow streets, Darya was now a ghost town—abandoned, silent, and cloaked in rumors of dark happenings.
By NIAZ Muhammadabout a year ago in Horror
The Jinn’s Child in a Human’s Arms
The Jinn’s Child in a Human’s Arms The forest of Kallar Kahar had always been a place of quiet danger — too silent in the mornings, and too loud at night. Locals avoided it after sundown. Not because of wild animals — but because of something else. Stories floated in the air like mist: shadows whispering, fires burning without wood, and footsteps on trees. But Rukhsana didn’t believe in stories. A widow living on the edge of the forest, she spent her days gathering firewood and wild herbs. Her heart was stronger than her body, and her grief made her fearless. --- One morning, as she ventured deeper than usual, she heard a sound that didn’t belong to the trees. A cry. Faint. Soft. Like a newborn. She followed the sound and found him — lying under a fig tree wrapped in green silk, eyes wide open, giggling at the sky. There were no footprints around. No sign of any human. Just him. He looked no older than three months. Fair skin, dark eyes — almost too dark — and tiny fingers that clutched the air like he was trying to grab stars. --- Rukhsana looked around, called out, waited. No one came. Against every instinct, she picked him up. > “You’re not mine,” she whispered. “But no soul deserves to be left alone.” She named him Aahil — the one who brings joy. --- As weeks passed, Aahil grew rapidly. He spoke his first word at three months. Walked at six. By the time he was one, he could recite full sentences and tell stories — stories he claimed he didn’t learn from anyone. > “The trees talk to me,” he once told her. She laughed, kissed his forehead, and dismissed it as imagination. But strange things followed. --- Animals refused to enter their yard. Birds flew away when Aahil cried. The wind behaved oddly around him — picking up only his toys, flipping only his pages. At night, he would sit by the window and whisper. > “Mama, the black man is here again.” > “Who, beta?” > “He stands behind the neem tree. He says I’m not yours.” Rukhsana’s heart trembled — but she held him tighter. > “You are mine. No matter what.” --- On Aahil’s fourth birthday, she found a strange gift at the doorstep — a silver ring, warm to the touch, engraved with unreadable script. Aahil smiled when he saw it. > “It’s from my real father,” he said. > “Who told you that?” she asked. > “The red-eyed lady in my dream.” That night, he didn’t sleep. And neither did she. --- The dreams turned into episodes. He would shake violently in sleep, speaking in voices too deep for a child. Once, he spoke in an ancient tongue — later identified by a local scholar as Suryani, a language no child could know. By the age of six, Aahil began to change. His eyes turned golden in moonlight. His laughter echoed for too long. Mirrors cracked when he stared into them. And once, when a neighbor slapped Rukhsana during an argument, the woman’s house caught fire that same night — without explanation. --- Fearing what he was becoming, Rukhsana went to a saintly elder. The man looked at her and asked just one question: > “Where did you find the child?” She told him. He fell silent. Then he whispered: > “That tree you found him under… is known as Shamsheer Darakht. In old lore, it is where jinns leave the children they wish to give away. But they don’t abandon them. They place them. For a purpose.” > “What purpose?” she asked. > “Sometimes to spy. Sometimes to grow among humans. Sometimes… to love.” --- Rukhsana returned home and found Aahil sitting quietly, staring into the sky. > “Mama, they want me to come back.” > “Will you go?” > “Only if you stop loving me.” Tears ran down her face. > “Then never go.” --- That night, she burned the silver ring. And for weeks, things were peaceful. No voices. No dreams. No strange events. But peace never lasts forever. One night, the forest roared louder than ever before. Wind shook the house. Aahil sat up in bed, eyes glowing gold. > “They’re here.” > “Who?” she asked, trembling. > “My real mother. She wants me back.” Rukhsana held him tight. "No. You're mine." He looked at her, his eyes filling with something not quite tears. > “I love you, Mama. But love doesn’t always win.” He fainted in her arms. --- The next morning, he was gone. No footprints. No scent. No trace. Just a note written in ash: > “He was born of fire, raised in love. But fire always returns to fire.” --- Rukhsana never stopped setting a plate for him at dinner. And sometimes, on silent nights, a toy moves. A candle lights itself. A faint giggle echoes. And the wind carries a soft voice: > “I’m still your son. Even if I burn.”
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Blind Mother and Her Shining Dreams
The Blind Mother and Her Shining Dreams Noor Bibi was born in a quiet village with nothing in her hands but a heart full of courage — and no sight in her eyes. She had been blind since birth. She never saw color, never saw her own reflection, never saw the blue sky — but what she did see was far greater: she saw dreams. Not the kind that come at night — but the kind you build from pain, from prayer, from deep inside the soul. --- When her husband passed away while their only son, Amaan, was just two years old, everyone told her to remarry. “You’re blind. You need a man to take care of you.” But she only smiled. > “I may not see the world,” she said, “but I can build one.” She raised Amaan with her hands, her voice, her touch — every moment guided by feeling, by faith. She never let him feel that he had a mother who couldn’t see. She memorized every step in the house, counted every coin by touch, and even cooked his favorite meals by scent and sound. --- While other mothers admired their children’s clothes or school drawings, Noor Bibi admired his silence, his sighs, his footsteps. She could feel when he was happy and when he was sad — even when he tried to hide it. As he grew, Amaan became her eyes, and she became his wings. Every night before bed, she would place her hand on his forehead and whisper: > “One day, you will shine, beta. You’ll stand before the world, and the world will bow before your light.” --- Years passed. Amaan studied hard. Noor worked even harder — stitching clothes in dim candlelight, fasting often so he could eat more. And finally, Amaan got a scholarship to study in the city. Noor cried tears she couldn’t see. > “I cannot walk with you, my son. But my prayers will reach wherever you go.” --- He left. She waited. Days turned into months. At first, he called. Then, messages became rare. Eventually… silence. She would sit by the window, fingers tracing the air, trying to imagine his voice again. She still cooked his favorite dishes, still kept his bed neat — just in case he returned. The village mocked her. > “He’s a big man now,” they said. “He won’t come back to a blind old woman.” But she kept smiling. > “He will. I know it.” --- Then one day, the village radio announced that a man named Amaan had won a national award for innovation. His photo was on the front page of every newspaper. People ran to Noor Bibi with the news. They read out the article. Her face lit up. She held the paper like it was gold. > “That’s my son,” she whispered. “I knew he’d shine.” She asked someone to write a letter to him. > “Tell him I heard the news. Tell him his mother is proud. Tell him I don’t need a medal… just a hug.” The letter was never answered. --- Two years later, a black car arrived in the village. A tall, well-dressed man stepped out — sunglasses, shiny shoes, a leather briefcase. It was Amaan. The villagers gathered. He told them he was only here to sell the old house and arrange legal matters. When asked about his mother, he smiled nervously. > “She passed away,” he said. “Years ago.” Silence spread like poison. “She’s alive,” someone whispered. “She lives in the corner house. She waited for you every day.” Amaan’s face froze. He walked to the house — and there she was, sitting on the floor, fingers weaving threads, humming softly. --- “Who’s there?” she asked. He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t move. Her blind eyes turned toward him. > “Amaan? Is that you?” He ran. That night, Noor Bibi died — her heart finally giving up. But her face wore a smile. She didn’t need an apology. She had heard his breath, felt his silence — and knew he had come. --- The house was never sold. The villagers buried her beneath her favorite tree — and placed a plaque that read: > “She saw with her heart. She dreamed with her soul.” And sometimes, on stormy nights, people say they see a blind woman standing by the window — still waiting, still smiling, still shining.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Hand That Reached From the Grave
The Hand That Reached From the Grave In a quiet village nestled among Pakistan’s ancient hills, there lived an old man named Saeen Murad. Known for his silence and strength, he worked as a grave digger at the local cemetery. For years, he had dug hundreds of graves — without fear, without question. But the day he was asked to prepare a grave beside an old, crumbling wall changed everything. --- The graveyard was older than memory. Some graves had names, others only stones. And in the farthest corner stood a ruined enclosure — once a family tomb, now forgotten. One afternoon, the village cleric asked Saeen Murad to dig a fresh grave for a traveler who had died mysteriously in the mosque. The only space left was near the ruined wall. Murad nodded and began. He struck the earth with his shovel. The soil was unusually hard, dry despite the recent rain. As he dug deeper, he noticed pieces of old bricks mixed with the dirt. Then — the shovel hit something soft. --- He knelt and brushed the dirt away with his hands. It looked like a piece of thick rope at first. But as more soil cleared, it took the shape of a hand — a human hand, decayed but not skeletal, with nails that looked freshly trimmed. Murad froze. The hand wasn’t buried downward — it was reaching outward from inside the grave wall. Before he could think, the fingers twitched. He jumped back, dropping his shovel. His breathing turned sharp. He stared in disbelief as the hand moved again — slow, pained, like waking from a long nightmare. --- He ran to the cleric and gasped, “There’s something alive inside the wall!” Others gathered, skeptical but curious. By the time they returned, the hand was still. Cold. Lifeless again. A younger man dared to touch it. Cold as stone. Yet the hand didn’t look like a relic. It had veins, faint color, and one silver ring on the middle finger — engraved with letters that no one could read. --- The elders whispered. Some said it was a cursed soul, buried alive centuries ago. Others spoke of a sorcerer who had once lived in the village and vanished mysteriously. The cleric decided they would not dig further. “Seal it again,” he ordered. “Some graves are not meant to be disturbed.” Reluctantly, they poured soil back, covering the hand. But Murad couldn’t sleep that night. --- At midnight, he heard knocks — soft but steady — outside his mud-brick home. Three knocks. Silence. Three more. When he opened the door, no one was there. But on the ground… were muddy fingerprints. The same size as the hand in the grave. --- The next day, a boy from the village went missing. Then, a woman claimed to have seen a man with no eyes standing near the cemetery wall at dusk. And then — Murad’s dreams began. Every night, he saw the hand crawling through tunnels underground. It reached toward him, always closer, always hungrier. In the dream, the hand finally gripped his leg. He woke with a bruise on the same spot. --- He returned alone to the grave site. Using a small pick, he quietly chipped at the wall that had hidden the hand. Beneath it, a hollow chamber revealed bones scattered in ritual patterns, symbols etched in ash, and in the center — a corpse sitting upright, its eyes missing, and both hands gone. The corpse's mouth was wide open, as if frozen mid-scream. Murad stumbled back. And the hand… it was no longer in the wall. --- That night, the entire village heard a loud cracking sound from the graveyard. By morning, the ancient wall had collapsed — the chamber exposed. But inside, there were no bones. Just a single note, written in black dust: > “He woke me. You buried me again. Now I walk among you.” --- Murad fell ill. He whispered strange languages in his sleep. He scratched his arms raw, saying “Get the hand off me!” again and again. Then one morning, he disappeared — his bed cold, his footprints leading toward the cemetery. Some say his soul was taken. Others claim he still digs — in a realm between the living and the dead — forever cursed by the hand he should never have uncovered. --- But if you walk near the old wall on moonless nights... you might still see a hand reach out. Waiting for another Murad. Another mistake.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Mirror That Refused to Show My Reflection
The Mirror That Refused to Show My Reflection I found the mirror at a yard sale on the outskirts of a small town in Vermont. It wasn’t anything special at first glance—a tall, narrow antique frame with vine-like carvings and a cracked backing. The woman selling it looked too eager to part with it, almost relieved. I thought maybe I was getting a good deal. I was wrong.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
Voices in the Walls
Voices in the Walls Based on true events When my wife and I first moved into the farmhouse, it felt like a dream. A quiet, two-story home just outside of town, surrounded by wheat fields, thick woods, and silence—real silence, the kind you only get far away from the city. It had an old-world charm: squeaky floorboards, crooked shutters, and the smell of wood and dust that only time can create.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
The Room That Opens for No One
Elias Ward inherited the house on a quiet Tuesday morning. It came without ceremony, no funeral or ashes. His grandfather had simply gone missing, leaving behind a crumbling estate tucked deep in the woods—and a single yellowed letter with the keys.
By Awais Khaliqabout a year ago in Horror
