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 Watcher of Brimridge Asylum
Prologue: The Forgotten Sanatorium Brimridge Asylum sat crumbling at the edge of Yorkshire’s fog-laced moorlands. Once hailed as a marvel of 19th-century psychiatric reform, the sanatorium had long been abandoned, left to rot under layers of ivy, soot, and secrets.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
A mirror that shows a different reality each night.. AI-Generated.
It started on a cold Tuesday night. Maya had just moved into a worn-down apartment on the third floor of an old building downtown. The paint was chipped, the pipes groaned, and the windows barely closed — but the rent was cheap and she needed a fresh start after her messy breakup and even messier bank account.
By Amar Mughalabout a year ago in Horror
Waves to Whispers. Content Warning.
It happened in the years 1994 and 1998. I had a brother, a sister, and me in the family. I was 19 years old back then, and we lived in Unawatuna.. When I was seven, my father died, forcing us to carry on without him. My mother worked hard, weaving baskets and tailoring clothes to feed the three of us. My mother had tried lecturing us, but my brother and I had never had any sort of work ethic. We were really in the market for money because of some personal family problems. We fished, sold chickpeas in the evenings, and mended torn bags for schoolchildren. Many times we would go up to tourists on the beach and actually sell them seashells.
By Rohitha Lankaabout a year ago in Horror
Beneath the Palm Tree. AI-Generated.
On a night devoid of moonlight, the atmosphere was peculiarly calm. The village of Shonarpur lay in slumber, enveloped in tranquility, interrupted only by the sporadic barking of distant stray dogs. Rajib had just departed from his friend Tanmoy’s residence after an extensive evening filled with conversation and card games. It was well past 2 AM, and although Tanmoy had invited him to stay overnight, Rajib politely refused. He harbored no fear of the darkness or the tales whispered by the villagers after dusk. To expedite his journey home, Rajib opted for the back road—a narrow, meandering path that skirted the old cremation ground on the village's outskirts. This location had always been shunned after nightfall, not solely for the obvious reasons, but also due to the towering, desiccated palm tree that loomed beside it. The villagers claimed it had stood for over a century, its trunk scorched black by lightning many years prior. However, that was not the source of its notoriety. It was rumored to be haunted. Children who ventured too close returned in tears, the elderly recounted hearing voices nearby, and a few travelers had mysteriously vanished. Rajib, a man grounded in logic and modern education, dismissed such tales with laughter. He considered ghosts to be mere figments of imagination and superstition. The path was faintly illuminated by the light of his phone. Crickets chirped, the wind whispered through the dry foliage, and Rajib walked with assuredness. Yet, as he approached the cremation ground, the ambiance shifted. The air grew denser and colder. Even the insects fell silent. A wave of discomfort washed over him, but he dismissed it. Then he heard it. “Raa-jii-b…” A soft whisper. Gentle, almost like the breeze, yet unmistakable. He halted. Turned around. No one was there. Just the vacant road extending behind him. He paused for a moment, his heart rate quickening slightly. Then he nervously chuckled, “It must be my imagination,” he murmured, and continued on his way. But the second time, the voice was more distinct. Closer. “Raaajiiib…”
By Md. Lotifur Rahman about a year ago in Horror
The Silence Of Wexley Manor
Ivy and shadows covered the old Wexley Manor, which stood like a forgotten monument at the town's edge. Since the Branwick family vanished without a trace twenty years ago, no one dared venture near it. However, curiosity is cruel. Mara wasn't looking for trouble when she dug through her grandmother's attic and discovered the journal. The name Edith Branwick was printed on the brittle leather-bound book. Pages written in frantic handwriting on the inside described whispers in the walls, reflections that moved independently, and what Edith referred to as "the silence between the ticks." The majority would have given up reading. Mara wasn't. She found herself holding her journal in front of the rusted gate of Wexley Manor on a stormy afternoon. Despite the fact that it was early autumn, her breath became cloudy in the cold air. As if the house had been waiting, the front door creaked open before she touched it. Time had stood still inside. Dust spewed through the gray light from the cracked windows as furniture sat beneath yellowed sheets. Mara told herself that it was just old pipes, but the smell of mold and something metallic—maybe blood—hung in the air. She followed the journal’s entries like a map. “The second-floor nursery, behind the armoire,” it read. As she climbed the grand staircase, each step groaning under her weight begged her to turn around. In the nursery, faded wallpaper peeled like curling fingers. A broken crib sat in the corner, and a one-eyed teddy bear lay beneath it. The armoire stood out against the wall. Mara took her time. She then moved it to the side. A door exists behind it. The handle was extremely icy. The temperature immediately dropped as she opened it. Broken mirrors lined the walls of the dark, narrow hallway beyond. They showed more than just her image—some of them were smiling, others were crying, and one was bleeding from the eyes. She proceeded forward. The hallway bent impossibly, the ceiling shrinking until she had to crawl. The silence was oppressive—no wind, no distant thunder, just the slow, wet sound of her breathing and the thump of her heart.
By Mazharul Dihanabout a year ago in Horror
Frankenstein
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley is one of the most famous horror and science fiction stories ever written. But it's more than just a tale of a scary monster. It's a powerful story about science, ambition, loneliness, and what happens when we try to play the role of God.
By Muhammad Hayatabout a year ago in Horror
Beloved
Beloved by Toni Morrison is one of the most emotional and unforgettable stories ever written. It is a novel that speaks about slavery, motherhood, memory, and the pain that people carry with them long after their suffering is over. Even though the story is deep and sometimes heartbreaking, it is told with such beauty and truth that it stays with you forever.
By Muhammad Hayatabout a year ago in Horror
Some Doors Should Never Be Opened-Even A Little
Emma noticed the keyhole the first night she was in the old house. It was on the door at the end of the hallway — solid oak, locked tight, no knob, just a small brass keyhole no bigger than her pinky nail. The realtor had mentioned the room was “sealed off” due to renovations, but Emma had bought the house cheap and as-is. She didn't think much of it.
By Mazharul Dihanabout a year ago in Horror
Moby-Dick
Moby-Dick, written by Herman Melville and published in 1851, is one of the greatest adventure novels in American literature. It's a story about a dangerous journey across the ocean, a mysterious white whale, and one man's obsessive quest for revenge. But it’s also a deep book filled with meaning about life, death, nature, fate, and the struggle between man and the unknown.
By Muhammad Hayatabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers from the Old Calcutta Hotel
Chapter I: The Forgotten Ledger In the heart of Kolkata (formerly Calcutta), hidden away between the bustling Burrabazar lanes, stands an old, crumbling colonial structure—the Hotel Monsoon Haven. Built in 1913 by a wealthy English trader named Albert Weathersby, the hotel once sparkled with opulence. But now, it’s a fading relic, its windows always shut, its wooden sign eaten by time.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
