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.
Devils' hour
It rattled me awake — the loud ding-dong of the archaic grandma clock in the parlour. It was here: the Devil’s Hour. That period when the veil between the living and the other world thins. Now marked the most sinister hour of night. All night stalkers came into consciousness at this time — myself included. You see, all nocturnals — from occultists to birds of prey, and don’t forget the spooky beings — all come out at this hour to play. They all have one thing in common: their love for the dark. Me? I'm an anomaly. Why? Because I’m noctiphobic. I loathe everything affiliated with the night — gloomy areas, dimly lit spaces, murky spots, and everything in between. You might ask, then why aren’t you drowning in sleep? I don’t have an answer. For as long as I can remember, this has been my life. Long before I could reach a door handle or eat by myself, I’ve woken up at 3:00 AM sharp, carefully scrutinizing my surroundings, ensuring everywhere is well-lit and secure. Then, almost immediately, I would crash into unconsciousness — not from sleepiness, but from exhaustion... exhaustion born of fear. As the webs of sleep untangled from my mind, my surroundings slowly zoomed into focus. Everywhere was dark. The neighborhood was as silent as the color black. I gazed on as amorphous shadows danced on the walls, each one a potential threat. The nightlight flickered, making the shadows twist into eerie forms. Uncontrollable shivers swept through me. The door was ajar. It gave me a decisive view of the outside — log-like, drenched... Wait — that door is open?! It was rarely ever opened — the ominous, dust-covered storage room I abhorred. Its very existence fed my fears, even more so because it stood directly adjacent to mine. Most nights, I would hear the chirping and buzzing of bugs thriving inside. Other nights, it was silent — so silent that it felt like Abyss itself had made it its lair. Still, the door was never open. My parents made sure of that to abate my irrational fears. Yet, tonight — of all nights — it was open. I squinted to see into the room. My gaze landed briefly on a shadow near the window — a shapeless figure, illuminated only by the faint glow of the moon. The entire room looked like a yawning black void, swallowing the weak moonbeam. The figure moved. I froze. My surroundings seemed to hold their breath too, waiting. It moved again — and a choking whimper escaped me. It felt as though its blackness was trying to suck out my very soul. A cold night wind blew, raising the translucent curtains like flags caught in a storm. A chilling, groaning sound followed. I shut my eyes and gripped the duvet in a nail-splintering clutch. The continuous creaks of the floorboards didn't help — every creak made my heart somersault. Fear seeped deeper into my bones. It was a dread so deep, I wished I could dissolve into the mattress. As the final chimes of the clock faded, the entire house suddenly became radiant with light. Finally — LIGHT, CALM, LIFE! I screamed silently. Slowly, miniature ebbs of courage seeped into my soul. With a newfound bravery, I dared to glance once again at the menacing room. And there it was — reality, coming in buckets of ice-cold calm: The cause of my breakdown... was a pair of trousers. A pair of trousers hanging off the window frame. And there — sprawled on the floor — was my brother Jerome, the likely source of the beastly groan that had almost given me a heart attack. I had completely forgotten that he had opened the storage room earlier that evening in search of an old green flower vase for his class project. Everything seemed settled now. I stared in awe at the warm golden glow of the electric bulb overhead. I had once heard that the electric bulb was a form of hypnosis, lulling even babies to sleep. As I stared into it, I felt its soothing light gently salve me back into the realms of sleep.
By Okezika Igweani about a year ago in Horror
The Church That Eats People
“It baptizes in blood, not water.”Start writing...The Church That Eats People n when the church appeared, only that it hadn’t been there the day before. A structure of soot-black stone and towering iron crosses now squatted at the edge of Graven Hollow, where only tangled woods used to be. It bore no name, no sign, and no history—yet its doors were wide open, inviting anyone foolish or lost enough to step inside. Most people in town ignored it. But Mara did not. She was sixteen, curious, and angry with the world. Her mother called it a phase. The kids at school called it weird. Mara just wanted silence. So, when she passed the church on a rain-heavy afternoon and heard the low toll of a bell—one long, slow note that shook her ribs—she felt something shift in her. A pull. She walked through the gate. The air inside was cold and dense, as if she’d stepped underwater. No wind, no smell, no sound beyond the slow drip drip drip of something unseen. The walls were lined with tarnished icons—paintings of saints with bleeding eyes and twisted mouths. The pews were cracked and warped, but freshly used. Someone had sat here recently. Or something. A single voice broke the silence. “You came for absolution.” Mara turned to see a figure in black robes, face hidden in a deep cowl. The voice was neither male nor female—soft and sharp, like a whisper through broken glass. “I didn’t come for anything,” she said, backing away. “But you stayed. That is enough.” The figure gestured, and the floor beneath Mara shifted. She stumbled, falling to her knees as the carpet peeled back like skin, revealing a baptismal font carved from bone. The liquid inside was dark, viscous. It steamed in the cold air. “Baptism cleanses the soul,” the figure intoned. “But this church does not cleanse with water.” “I’m not part of your cult,” Mara spat, trying to stand. The figure raised a pale, veined hand. “You are already part of it. Your name was etched in the stone the moment you walked through our doors. The church does not choose poorly.” The ground trembled. From beneath the altar came a sound—wet and rhythmic, like the breathing of a sleeping beast. The candles flickered wildly, throwing shadows that danced with claws and teeth. Mara turned to run, but the doors behind her had vanished. In their place: a wall of solid stone, pulsing like muscle. She screamed, but no one heard. --- One Week Later Officer Deacon stared at the building, frowning. “You sure this wasn’t here before?” The old man beside him nodded, eyes glassy. “Place comes and goes. Always when it's fed. Girl went missin’, didn’t she?” “Yeah. Teenager. Mara Cole.” The church stood silent, but it seemed to watch them. Something about the windows—the stained glass didn’t depict saints. It showed a girl, thin and pale, sinking into a vat of crimson, her mouth open in a silent scream. Deacon walked the perimeter. No footprints. No tire tracks. But inside, the floor was damp. He saw something glinting at the base of the altar. A phone. He picked it up. The wallpaper was a picture of Mara. The screen flickered, and a video began to play automatically. Shaky footage. Screams. Shadows reaching. The font bubbling like it boiled from hell. Mara’s voice: “Please—please don’t—” followed by a sound no human throat should make. The video cut to black. Deacon dropped the phone and backed away. The church doors slammed shut on their own. --- That Night They burned it. Poured gasoline over every beam, every shingle, every pew. The flames reached high into the sky—but the structure didn’t burn. It absorbed the fire. And then, as if satisfied, it folded into itself like paper—and was gone. Only ashes remained. And Mara’s phone. Still recording. --- One Month Later Four towns over, a pastor discovered a new chapel on the edge of his graveyard. It wasn’t there before. He didn’t remember building it. But the doors were open, and inside, the air smelled of copper and rot. At the altar, a voice whispered to him. “Come closer, child of faith. You already believe. Let us show you what true baptism means.” And beneath the floorboards, something hungry stirred.“It baptizes in blood, not water.One Month Later Four towns over, a pastor discovered a new chapel on the edge of his graveyard. It wasn’t there before. He didn’t remember building it. But the doors were open, and inside, the air smelled of copper and rot. At the altar, a voice whispered to him. “Come closer, child of faith. You already believe. Let us show you what true baptism means.” And beneath the floorboards, something hungry stirred. --- Two Weeks Later The pastor’s congregation dwindled quickly. Those who entered the strange chapel didn’t return the same. Some stopped speaking altogether, eyes glazed and mouths always slightly open, as though they were still gasping. Others claimed to hear voices in their sleep—chants in Latin, names they never knew speaking from their walls. One woman, Ellen Mays, slit her wrists in her tub after drawing a strange symbol in blood on the mirror. She wrote a single sentence beneath it: “The font must be fed.” A week after that, a child went missing. Then two. Police searched the new chapel but found nothing—just an empty room, an altar, and a baptismal basin filled with what they assumed was rust-colored water. But when Officer Reddick dipped a test strip into it, the paper turned black and dissolved. They tried to drain the basin. It refilled itself overnight. --- Present Day Now, those who live near the chapel don’t speak of it. No one parks near it. No one touches it. But they hear it. Every Sunday at midnight, the bells ring out. Twelve slow, wet gongs. And if you walk by at just the right moment… you can still hear Mara screaming from beneath the floor. Because the church does not forgive. The church does not forget. And the church— Is always hungry.
By Top stories about a year ago in Horror
The Whispering House
An old, decaying house stood at the edge of Blackwood Forest. It had been forgotten by time. Under years of rain and neglect, its roof sagged, and its windows were cracked like glass webs. Millersfield, a nearby town, was afraid to approach it. Inside, children talked about ghosts, and adults told them not to get too close. It was dubbed "The Whispering House" by them. The house was alive, not haunted, according to the legend. You could also hear it whispering every night if you stood near the overgrown gate at night. Some said it called your name. Some claimed it pleaded for assistance. You were allegedly threatened by others with a fate worse than death. As part of a dare, four Millersfield High classmates decided to spend the night inside in spite of warnings. On Halloween's eve, October 30, it was the ideal time for something terrifying. Sam, Jordan, Emily, and Max were their names. They climbed over the rusted fence and made their way toward the front door, armed with flashlights, snacks, and bravado. Emily pressed her ear to the door and said, "I don't hear anything." Max chuckled, "Probably just stories to scare kids." He opened the door with a push. It groaned on its hinges, sounding like something had fallen asleep for a long time. The air inside was cold and thick. Under their feet, the wooden floorboards creaked. Strange symbols carved into the plaster below were exposed as the worn wallpaper on the walls began to peel off. Broken furniture and long-forgotten artifacts were danced across by their flashlight beams. The door slammed shut behind them suddenly. Like a gunshot, the sound reverberated throughout the empty house. It remained stationary as Sam attempted to open it. Okay, that's not funny! Jordan whirled around as he yelled. The whispers then began. They were initially faint, like wind passing through cracks. However, they increased in volume and surrounded them from all directions. "Leave... get out... before it's too late..." Who spoke that? With a pale face, Emily spoke in a whisper. Sam said, wildly directing his light, "I don't know." Let's just find a way out, shall we? But as they moved, the house seemed to change. Brick walls were behind doors. Back into the same room, hallways twisted. It was like going deeper into a maze with each step. They were followed by whispers, which became more audible with each passing minute. After that, Max vanished. He was walking alongside Jordan for a while before disappearing. There was no scream or sound—it just vanished. “Max?!” Jordan yelled while spinning around. Sam's arm was grabbed by Emily. "We must leave immediately!" The house was no longer understandable after they retraced their steps. The walls appeared to be breathing. The whispers became voices that called their names. They were plunged into near-darkness when Emily's flashlight flickered and died. Jordan then vanished. Clasping Sam's hand, Emily screamed. "We cannot remain here!" A door suddenly appeared in front of them. Before, it wasn't there. It shone with light from underneath. Sam yanked it open in a desperate attempt and discovered Max inside, with his back to them. “Max!” Emily wept. Max, however, did not turn around. His face was upside down as he slowly and unnaturally tilted his head back, staring at them with hollow eyes. "Why did you abandon me?" He spoke in a whisper that was not his own. The door closed violently. Emily hit it hard. “Sam! We need to—" Sam, on the other hand, was gone when she turned around. She was by herself. Screaming, laughing, and chanting broke out of the whispers. With her ears covered, Emily sank to her knees. The voices then stopped abruptly as they had come. A broken window let in the morning light. The door opened by itself, creaking. Emily was found staring blankly into the forest at sunrise by a search party sitting on the porch. She was silent. Never again, not that day. Some say that the house released her. Some say that she never completely disappeared. They also claim that at midnight, if you stand near The Whispering House, the voices can still be heard calling out the names of those who entered but never left.
By MD Rakibul hasanabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Pyre of the Cremation Ground
🕯️ Prologue Overy Youtrogous On the quiet corner of South 2 Parganas, embedded next to thick bamboo, the story drapes a dark beonacharan onto a skewer. Even with sunlight, a strange cold stayed in the air, as if to remember something or someone else in the soil.
By Funny Jokesabout a year ago in Horror
When Fear Takes Control. Content Warning.
Fear: The word Fear, the first thing for which Bang! If creatures that are moving did not experience the sensation of fear, especially not humans, we don't know what we should do with them. We experience an incredibly diverse array of feelings as vertebrate primates with complex brains. And in certain situations, our brains lose some of the checks and balances over certain emotions. A phobia is what it is when fear becomes overstretched and out of our control.
By Rohitha Lankaabout a year ago in Horror
Title: Midnight Guest
There was only one resident in this house: Rudra. He came out of town to spend a few days off in the village. He was not afraid of the old, slurred house - he found peace of solitude. But what happened that night shook the heart of his beliefs.
By Funny Jokesabout a year ago in Horror
The Laughter in The Mangrove
Long before skyscrapers pierced the sky of Jakarta, before the malls and toll roads, the northern coastline was home to a dark, untamed mangrove forest. The locals called it Bakau Hitam, the Black Mangrove. Fishermen avoided it, and even the bravest never stayed past sundown. They whispered of something ancient—Nyai Rara Kunti, the forgotten sea mother of the Java Sea, who was banished inland after a betrayal by the gods of the southern ocean.
By Maulana Dimasiqi Akhnakhauri Akeyla Syahabout a year ago in Horror
China Oil Factory Horror Place
Once upon a time, in a remote part of China, there stood an old oil factory that had been abandoned for years. It was rumored that strange occurrences took place within its crumbling walls. Locals spoke of eerie sounds echoing through the night and shadows moving where no one should be.
By Nirob Ahmedabout a year ago in Horror
