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How-tos for all things horror; tips and tricks to help you write like Stephen King, tell a scary story, keep the monsters at bay and more.

Techniques in Monster Hunting 101
“Thanks for staying to clean up tonight,” Luna said and poured another glass of wine. Diana took the glass without looking up from the lounge chair. She stared up at the stars and Luna joined her one lounge chair over.
By Amos Gladeabout a year ago in Horror
Beechworth Asylum: The Haunted History of Australia's Most Tormented Institution
In Beechworth's historic town in Victoria, Australia, the Beechworth Asylum, or the Mayday Hills Lunatic Asylum, is the country's most haunted location. Finished in 1867, the gargantuan complex of buildings was originally one of Victoria's largest psychiatric facilities, with a capacity to house over 1,200 patients and 500 staff at full capacity. Its massive building and expansive grounds that contained farmland, gardens, and recreation area were designed to be self-sufficient. A history of suffering and inhumane practice, the asylum is therefore a source of tales for paranormal activity.
By Kyrol Mojikalabout a year ago in Horror
✈️ Story – The Wrong Turn in the Alps
This happened in the summer after my sophomore year of college. A friend and I had decided to backpack through Europe, hopping from country to country with cheap train passes and whatever hostels we could afford. Most nights were noisy bunks in overcrowded dorm rooms, but sometimes we got creative — sleeping on benches, taking overnight trains just to save money on lodging, and, in one case, camping behind a gas station. One evening in Switzerland, we’d been hiking outside a small alpine town when a couple of locals told us about a cabin up in the hills. “Free place to sleep,” one of them said, pointing toward the ridge. “Travelers use it all the time.” It sounded like a gift. We were broke, tired, and the thought of a quiet mountain hut away from snoring hostel roommates sounded perfect. We started the climb late in the afternoon, the sun already hanging low. At first the trail was wide and marked, winding through open meadows dotted with wildflowers. The air smelled sharp and clean, and we could hear cowbells clanging faintly in the distance. It felt safe — almost idyllic. After about forty minutes we reached a fork. The map we had was barely more than a tourist pamphlet, and it didn’t show this split. One path curved right, still wide and sloping gently uphill. The other cut left into the trees, narrower and steeper. My buddy thought the left trail looked more promising. “If it’s hidden,” he said, “it’s gotta be up there.” I wasn’t so sure, but he was confident, so I followed. The deeper we went, the quieter it became. The bells faded. Even the wind seemed to die down, swallowed by the trees. About twenty minutes later, just as I was starting to think we’d made a mistake, we saw it: a shack tucked between the pines, a dim yellow glow flickering from inside. At first we thought we’d found the cabin. But as we got closer, little details made my stomach tighten. The building was small, almost too small for more than one or two people. The wood was dark and rotting in places. Rusted metal traps hung from nails outside, and leaning against the doorframe was what looked like a butcher’s hook. My friend slowed down. “This… doesn’t look right.” Before we could turn back, the lantern light shifted. Someone was inside. The door creaked open and a man stepped out. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his beard unkempt, clothes dirty like he’d been living rough. In one hand he held an axe, resting it casually against his shoulder. He didn’t say a word — just stared at us. My friend tried to break the silence, stumbling through a few words of broken German, asking if this was the hut for travelers. The man didn’t answer. His eyes flicked between us, then back toward the trail we’d come from. Slowly, very slowly, he smiled. Then he pointed. One long finger back down the path. That was all the signal we needed. We muttered a quick “danke” and started backing away. He didn’t move at first, just stood there with that grin. But as we turned, I heard the crunch of his boots on the dirt. He was following us. We didn’t wait to find out how far he’d go. The second we were out of his sight, we ran. Branches whipped at our arms, rocks slid under our boots, and the slope felt twice as steep going down. At one point I tripped and nearly rolled down the trail, but adrenaline yanked me back to my feet. I don’t know how long we ran, but by the time we stumbled out of the trees and onto the main road where we’d started, we were drenched in sweat and gasping for air. The man was nowhere behind us. Just the quiet hum of crickets and the faraway clang of cowbells again. We never found the real cabin. That night we slept in the train station, lights buzzing overhead, and I’ve never been so grateful for the presence of strangers around me. I still don’t know who that man was, or why he was waiting out there with an axe and those traps. Maybe he was just a hunter. Maybe he wasn’t. But to this day, I think about what could have happened if we’d gone inside, or if we hadn’t turned around when we did. And I don’t think I ever want to know.
By Qaseem Ahmadzaiabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Message
It started with a message... Emma, a 23-year-old student from London, had always been curious about the darker side of the internet. A self-proclaimed “paranormal enthusiast,” she loved browsing through mysterious forums, reading creepy tales, and watching strange, unsolved disappearances. One night, after scrolling through a forum she hadn’t visited before, she came across an unusual post titled “Send a Message to the Future, and It Will Reply.”
By ABDU LLAHabout a year ago in Horror
The Shadow of the Yellow Paper
Prologue: The Paper That Changed Everything In a small apartment in central Cairo, Youssef (an ambitious graphic designer in his twenties) worked for hours on a project that could change his life—an advertising campaign to compete with major corporations. His wife Sarah, a nurse, tried to convince him to attend a family party with her:
By Ahmed Abdeenabout a year ago in Horror
The Knock at 2 A.M.
I don’t usually wake up at 2 A.M. I am the kind of person who sleeps like a rock. But that night, something pulled me out of my dreams—like a string yanking me awake.
By ETS_Storyabout a year ago in Horror
THE GHOST IN THE CODE - PART 5
Leo’s visit was a poison seed. It didn’t sprout into a immediate, dramatic confrontation, but germinated in the quiet spaces between their thoughts. The bookstore remained a sanctuary, but its caretakers now moved through it with the subtle vigilance of soldiers in a peaceful, yet occupied, city.
By Homepinxabout a year ago in Horror
The Train to the Sea
Start writing...I had never taken the long train to the coast before. People always said it was too slow, too old, and not worth the trip. But I didn’t care. That morning, when the sky was pale blue and the air smelled like fresh bread from the bakery near my street, I packed a small bag and decided to go. The train arrived with a squeal of metal wheels and a puff of smoke that reminded me of a campfire. It looked tired, like it had carried too many travelers in its life. The paint was chipped, and the seats were faded. But when I stepped on, I felt a strange excitement in my chest, as if the train itself whispered, Welcome, wanderer. I chose a seat by the window. The cushion was rough, but the view was worth it. As the train began to move, I saw the city slip away—gray buildings, shops with bright signs, children chasing a ball down an alley. Soon, the busy streets gave way to fields of gold wheat, stretching far and wide. The stalks swayed gently, almost like they were waving goodbye. Across from me sat an old man with kind eyes. He wore a cap that looked older than the train itself. In his lap, he carried a small wooden box with carvings of birds on it. For the first hour, we didn’t speak. We just listened to the steady rhythm of the wheels—clack-clack, clack-clack—like a heartbeat. Finally, he looked up and said, “First time?” I nodded. “The train teaches patience,” he said with a smile. “You’ll see things you’d miss otherwise.” He was right. Out the window, I saw hills painted in shades of green and brown, dotted with sheep like tiny clouds resting on the earth. I saw rivers that sparkled under the sun, twisting like silver ribbons. I even saw a boy standing alone near a broken fence, holding a red kite that refused to fly. For a moment, I wanted to get off and help him, but the train kept moving forward, and soon he disappeared from sight. At the next stop, a young woman climbed aboard. She wore headphones and carried a sketchbook. She sat beside me and started to draw almost at once, her pencil dancing quickly over the page. I tried not to stare, but I was curious. After a while, she tilted the book toward me. It was a sketch of the boy with the red kite. “You saw him too?” I asked. She nodded. “I draw the things I don’t want to forget.” That simple answer stayed with me. Maybe the journey wasn’t just about reaching the sea. Maybe it was about collecting moments that would otherwise fade. Hours passed. The old man told us stories about his childhood—how he used to fish near the coast, how he built kites with his brother, how he once carved the same birds that decorated his wooden box. The young woman kept sketching—fields, rivers, clouds, even the wrinkled smile of the ticket collector who came through the aisle. I just listened, watched, and breathed. Finally, the air began to change. It grew salty, damp, filled with the promise of the sea. The train slowed, groaned, and came to its last stop. When I stepped down onto the platform, I heard it—the endless roar of waves crashing against rocks. The sound was wild but steady, like the earth’s own music. We walked together, the three of us, until we stood at the edge of the shore. The sea stretched out, endless and alive, glittering under the afternoon sun. Seagulls wheeled overhead, calling out like old friends. The old man opened his wooden box. Inside was a small paper boat, neatly folded. He placed it on the water, and we watched as the waves carried it away, farther and farther, until it was just a white speck against the blue. The young woman sat on a rock and began to draw the scene. I simply closed my eyes and let the wind touch my face. The train had been slow, yes. But it had given me a gift: a reminder that life is not only about reaching the destination. It’s about noticing the red kite that won’t fly, the stories hidden in a wooden box, and the people you meet along the way. And in that moment, with the sea before me and the journey behind me, I felt full.
By Qaseem Ahmadzaiabout a year ago in Horror
THE GHOST IN THE CODE - PART 4
THE GHOST IN THE CODE - PART 4 The fire that consumed the community's secrets did more than just provide warmth; it forged a new, quieter understanding between them. The frantic energy of defense cooled into a vigilant, steady calm. Pages & Prose wasn't just a bookstore anymore; it was a statement. A declaration of independence in a world hell-bent on interconnection. They were an island, and they liked it that way.
By Homepinxabout a year ago in Horror
Don’t Open the Door
I’ve always thought living alone was freedom. No arguments about dishes, no noise I didn’t choose, no one asking why I was awake at three in the morning. Just me, my books, and the quiet.
By ETS_Storyabout a year ago in Horror
THE GHOST IN THE CODE - PART 2
THE GHOST IN THE CODE - PART 2 The buzz inside Pages & Prose was a symphony Elena thought she’d never hear again. It wasn’t just the murmur of conversations or the ring of the old-fashioned cash register; it was the sound of a heart restarting. For weeks, the shop thrived. The story of the tech-wizard who returned a library to save a bookstore was a potent local legend, fueled by a beautifully human-interest piece that, notably, never mentioned VeriTech by name. Noah had become a permanent fixture, his sleek laptop now sharing a desk with her leather-bound ledger.
By Homepinxabout a year ago in Horror
The Devereaux Deaths. Content Warning.
They say it began in 1694, when Captain Jonathan Devereaux, lord of the windswept estate in Cornwall, returned from the Indies with a fortune carved in blood and betrayal. He had stolen from friend and foe alike, selling cargo that was not his and leaving shipmates to rot in foreign waters. But his greatest sin was darker still: a betrayal of his own brother, whom he left stranded on a reef to drown, while Jonathan sailed home alone with the gold. On the night of his return, the Cornish coast rose in storm. Fishermen swore the sea itself howled his name. By morning, Jonathan Devereaux’s body was found smashed upon the rocks below his manor cliffs, the salt water lapping gently at his pale lips. Some say they heard a voice in the gale that night — a woman’s voice, chanting: “Blood to water, son to sea. Forever shall it be.” From that night forward, no Devereaux heir would live to see old age. The curse wove itself into their lineage like ivy through stone. In 1741, Jonathan’s grandson Thomas, a proud young man of twenty-two, was to inherit the manor. On the eve of his inheritance, he was found facedown in the estuary mud, lungs brimming with brine. He had never learned to swim. In 1803, another heir, William Devereaux, laughed off the family superstition. He took his hunting party along the moors near the sea cliffs, boasting he would prove the curse false. The storm came sudden and merciless, and before the eyes of his men, William’s horse reared and cast him into the waves. His body was never found — only his hat, lodged in a jag of black stone where the tide foamed white. By 1862, the locals spoke of the manor only in whispers. Curtains were kept drawn at night; children were warned never to wander near the Devereaux grounds. That year, Edward Devereaux — who had grown frail and pale, haunted by whispers in the walls — locked every window and shutter in the manor. Still, one storming midnight, the servants awoke to the sound of water pouring down the grand staircase. They found Edward sprawled at the landing, hair soaked, mouth filled with seawater. The doors remained locked from within. No Devereaux burial passed without the hiss of waves in the distance, as though the tide itself came to collect. The last heir was Henry Devereaux, in 1921. He was a scholar, a thin, nervous man who lived alone in the crumbling estate, spending his days among salt-stained books and brittle family records. He did not drink, did not ride, did not venture to sea. He believed knowledge could unmake the curse. Henry poured over maps, ship logs, faded diaries — until he came across the account of Jonathan’s betrayal in 1694, written in his own hand. But in the margins, in ink not his own, appeared words that chilled Henry’s marrow: “Blood to water, son to sea.” The handwriting, neat and cruel, seemed fresher than the rest. The servants begged him to leave the manor, to abandon Cornwall altogether. But Henry refused. On storm nights he would climb to the highest room in the house, lantern in hand, staring out to sea as though daring it to claim him. “It cannot take me if I do not give myself,” he whispered once, though no one dared ask what he meant. On the final night, the storm was worse than any before. Lightning fractured the sky; waves rose higher than the cliffs. The servants, huddled in the kitchen, swore they heard the sound of footsteps overhead, pacing, pacing, pacing. Then silence. When dawn broke, Henry was gone. His bed was unslept in, his lantern extinguished on the window ledge. But on the sea-facing cliffs, in the sodden grass, lay his slippers. No footprints led away. The body was never recovered. The Devereaux manor stands empty now, its windows gaping like sockets, its staircases swollen with damp. The villagers avoid its shadow, though they sometimes speak of it in hushed tones at the tavern when the nights run long. Some say they hear the sound of dripping water when they pass the gates. Others claim a woman’s voice rides the wind during storms, reciting her vow: “Blood to water, son to sea.” The family line has ended. Yet the sea waits, patient and eternal. And on nights when the tide gnaws too hungrily at the cliffs, some swear they glimpse pale figures in the foam — men with the faces of long-dead Devereaux heirs, forever drowning, forever pulled beneath. The curse, they whisper, is not broken. It only sleeps, waiting for another bloodline to cross its path.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror