interview

Interviews with authors, film directors and horror snobs of all kinds; conversations that will unsettle, and shed light on all things dark and mysterious.

"The Night of the Hollow Moon"
The Night of the Hollow Moon Halloween was supposed to be a time of fun — a time for costumes, parties, and candy. But in the town of Ravenswood, Halloween carried a darker weight, a sinister history that most residents had long forgotten… or pretended to forget.
By Mir Ahmad Khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Whispering Clock
Priya never expected to inherit anything. So when the lawyer handed her a single envelope after her grandmother’s passing, she was surprised. Inside it was a small brass key and a note: “It only whispers at midnight. Always listen.” She didn't know what it meant—until she visited her nani's house one last time. In the dark, dust-filled living room, stood an enormous grandfather clock. Mahogany wood, golden pendulum, a cracked glass face. It ticked slowly, like it carried the weight of time itself. She brought it home to her Delhi apartment. She didn’t believe in superstitions. But something about the clock... felt alive. That first night, out of curiosity—and a little unease—she stayed awake till midnight. At exactly 12:00 a.m., the ticking stopped. Then, a whisper. “Your mother never wanted you.” Priya’s breath caught. It wasn’t the voice of her grandmother. It was older, deeper, like it came from the wood itself. The next night: “Your father was paid to stay.” Each night, a new truth. Whispers only she could hear. “You were born to replace someone who died.” “Your dreams are not your own—they were planted.” The truths grew darker. She confronted her mother, but only received silence and a trembling lip. Her questions were answered with locked doors. Priya began to dig into old papers. Newspaper archives. Medical records. Secret files hidden in drawers she never dared open as a child. She discovered a fire in their ancestral home—one that occurred in 2004, the year she turned six. Her memory of that year? Gone. But the whispers brought it back. Flashes of a woman screaming. Fire licking the walls. Her grandmother, holding her, whispering something in Sanskrit. Then the clock. Standing still while the world burned. --- One night, the whisper said: “You were supposed to die. Time was reversed for you.” Priya dropped the teacup in her hand. The glass shattered, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t know who she was anymore. The next night: “Your grandmother wasn’t protecting you. She was preparing you.” Then came a whisper that chilled her spine: “Tonight, the clock chooses.” --- Midnight came. She sat in front of the clock, heart pounding. The ticking stopped. The pendulum halted. Silence. Then—the chime. Not a soft ring, but a deep, echoing cry. Like time itself exhaled. And then... she remembered everything. She remembered standing before the fire, her mother screaming at her grandmother. A hidden room. Candles. A ritual to bind memory and time. Her grandmother had stopped the flow of time—just for five seconds—to save Priya. And she paid for it with her soul. The clock was no ordinary object. It was a keeper of broken timelines. A vault of truths too heavy for the world. And it demanded a guardian. One who could hear it. One who had died, but lived again. --- Suddenly, the room was flooded with soft, golden light. Shadows circled her. A wind blew from nowhere. The hands of the clock spun wildly. Then… stillness. On the wall behind her, words had burned themselves into the plaster: “Time remembers. Do you?” She walked toward the clock. Placed her palm on the cold glass. “I remember everything,” she whispered. The clock chimed once more. Her apartment melted away. She awoke in her grandmother’s house, but it wasn’t crumbling anymore. It was pristine, untouched by time. She was back in 2004. But she wasn’t six anymore. She was the keeper now.
By TrueVocalabout a year ago in Horror
One Truth Per Day
The diary had no title, no lock, no name. Just a plain black leather cover with pages that smelled faintly of old ink and rain. Rayaan found it wedged between the floorboards of his newly rented apartment. He had only moved in two days ago—fresh start, new city, no emotional baggage. At least, that was the plan. The first night, he opened it absentmindedly before bed. "Truth #1: Your boss, Mr. Karan Malhotra, embezzled 4.2 million rupees last year. He buried the evidence in a USB drive labeled wedding photos." Rayaan laughed nervously. He closed the book. Just a joke. Some prank. The previous tenant messing around, maybe. But curiosity is a stubborn itch. The next morning, unable to resist, he asked his boss about wedding photos—casually. Mr. Malhotra froze, dropped his coffee, and asked who told him. Rayaan didn’t answer. He just smiled and walked away, heart pounding. That night, the diary’s second page was filled. "Truth #2: Your neighbor Rekha listens to her dead husband’s voicemails every night. She believes they change depending on her mood." This time, he waited. At 11:58 p.m., the next page was blank. At exactly 12:00 a.m., fresh black ink bled into the cream paper—like it was being written by an invisible hand. By the fifth night, Rayaan had learned: His best friend once left a hit-and-run victim to die. His landlord has been watching tenants through hidden cameras. His ex is pregnant—and it’s not her current boyfriend’s child. Every night at midnight: One page. One truth. One person he knows. Each one was verifiable. Every page turned into a dark mirror reflecting the filth behind friendly smiles. But on the tenth night, everything changed. "Truth #10: Someone close to you is planning to kill you." Rayaan’s breath hitched. His eyes darted across the apartment. Every creak of the building sounded like footsteps. Every shadow deepened. He didn’t sleep that night. By morning, he had installed a lock on his bedroom door and texted vague warnings to all his acquaintances. He even carried a pocket knife. The diary gave no names. Just truths. Cold, sharp, and cruel. He wanted to burn it—but couldn’t. It felt alive now, like destroying it would invite worse things. Day 12: "Truth #12: Your mother lied about your father’s death. He’s alive and in a mental institution two cities away." He visited. The truth checked out. His father wept at the sight of him. "They told me you were dead," he whispered. Rayaan couldn’t speak. He had no room left for grief or rage. --- By the 17th night, the diary took a darker turn. "Truth #17: You killed someone when you were six. Your parents erased the memory to protect you." He laughed. “Ridiculous.” Until he found the newspaper clipping: "Local Child Accidentally Causes Death of Babysitter With Firearm." It was dated the same week he had that recurring childhood nightmare—the one with blood and sirens. The next night: "Truth #18: The diary feeds on your disbelief. The more you doubt, the stronger it becomes." He stopped laughing. The diary had more than just ink. It had power. It wasn’t recording truths—it was revealing what the world wanted hidden. --- On the 30th night, the diary gave him the final blow. "Truth #30: Tomorrow, you will write the next truth. With blood. Or the truths will start writing themselves in the bodies of those you love." Rayaan stared at the words. His fingers trembled. There was a small silver blade beside the diary that hadn’t been there before. Was it always going to end like this? The next night, he picked up the blade. He pricked his finger. Red drops stained the page. Then he wrote: "Truth #31: I am not the first. I won’t be the last." The ink shimmered. Then sank into the page like it had always belonged there. The diary closed itself. And Rayaan understood. The truths never end. Only the writers do.
By TrueVocalabout a year ago in Horror
Unlock the Shadows: What You Need to Know About Vocal’s Horror Story Prompt Challenge
For writers who have a taste for the macabre, the eerie, and the psychologically unsettling, opportunities to showcase their talent don’t often come knocking. But when they do, they arrive cloaked in mystery, dripping with suspense, and beckoning the brave to test the limits of their imagination.
By Nora Arianaabout a year ago in Horror
The Eater of Men
The Eater of Men: In His Eyes, You're Meat There are some people who walk into a room and make the air colder. Not because of who they are, but because of what they are. When Malcolm Grieve walked into the diner off Route 41, his smile was wide and pleasant—but his eyes didn’t see people. They weighed them. Counted the ribs. Measured the muscle. In his eyes, you weren’t a person. You were meat. The locals barely noticed him at first. He was polite, well-dressed, paid in cash, and tipped well. Stayed in a dusty motel three miles outside town, room 6, curtains always drawn. If you asked the girl at the front desk, she’d say he smelled faintly of metal and cloves, and that she never saw him eat breakfast. Never once. The first to vanish was Jody Whitley, a hitchhiker who played guitar outside the gas station. No one noticed for a day or two—Jody came and went. But then her case was found in the woods, snapped in half like a wishbone. Sheriff Lane filed a report. Nothing came of it. But there were others. A drifter with a limp, a traveling nurse, a teenager skipping town. Each gone like smoke. Each leaving behind little more than a stain in the silence. Malcolm visited the diner every Tuesday at 9:13 p.m. sharp. He always ordered pot roast, but barely touched it. Instead, he watched. He studied the waitress’s arms when she handed him his bill. He watched the way the cook moved, the way his shoulders flexed under the grease-stained shirt. His pupils would dilate—not with admiration, but with hunger. A hunger so old it seemed to hum beneath the floorboards. They didn’t know what he was. Not at first. But he was careful. Precise. And terribly clean. One night, a drunk named Tyler made the mistake of grabbing Malcolm by the coat, demanding a cigarette. Witnesses said Malcolm just stared at him for a moment—his smile didn’t move, but his eyes darkened, like a light had gone out inside him. Tyler was found two days later, or at least most of him was. His chest cavity had been opened like a cabinet, the ribs separated with surgical precision. No blood, though. None at all. Rumors began to circle. “The Devil in a tie,” someone called him. “The Butcher in Room 6.” But no one dared confront him. Fear settled over the town like smoke. Even the sheriff looked the other way. People locked their doors and kept their heads down. But some people don’t scare easy. Marla, the waitress, had a brother who’d disappeared. She remembered the way Malcolm had looked at him. The way he smiled as if savoring something he hadn’t eaten yet. She followed him one night. It was raining. Malcolm took the back road, the one that led toward the abandoned slaughterhouse. Marla kept her lights off and stayed two cars behind. When he parked, she waited ten minutes before stepping out. The slaughterhouse had been shut for years, but inside, it smelled like rust and old breath. She followed the light of his lantern through the corridor of hanging chains. Then she saw it. The table was stone. There were hooks, tools—ancient, stained things. Bones piled like firewood. And Malcolm stood over something writhing. He was humming. Something soft. Something not meant for ears. His coat was off. His hands worked quickly, folding skin away from muscle as though peeling fruit. The thing on the table cried once. Only once. Marla couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even breathe. But she snapped a photo. Flash—too bright. Too loud. Malcolm turned. His eyes met hers. And in that split second, she understood what it meant to be prey. She ran—slipped on wet concrete, lungs tearing with panic. She didn’t stop until she hit the road and screamed for help, waving the phone with the photo still glowing. The police came. Room 6 was empty. The slaughterhouse was burned to the foundation that same night, flames licking the sky like a warning. They never found Malcolm. But every year, on the same night, someone disappears. Always someone alone. Always someone strong. Some say they’ve seen him—at truck stops, in diners, walking the shoulder of some back road. He doesn’t age. He doesn’t change. He smiles with perfect teeth. And when you meet his gaze, you’ll feel it: the chill of being sized up. Because in his eyes, you're not a soul. You're supper.
By Top stories about a year ago in Horror
The Room That Watches
Rahim stood before the rusted gates of his grandfather’s ancestral mansion—its structure half-swallowed by creeping vines and a century’s worth of dust. The villagers had always spoken in hushed tones about this place. They warned of whispers in the night, shifting shadows, and the cursed room on the western wing. They called it The Room That Watched. When his grandfather died, Rahim inherited the mansion, along with one final warning in the will: “Do not enter the western corridor. Whatever you do, never open the last door. That room sees.” He laughed it off. Old men and their superstitions, he thought. By the third day of exploring the mansion, curiosity gnawed at him. That corridor, sealed with ancient locks and chains, felt like it breathed with anticipation. Dust covered every surface, yet the floor leading to that door was strangely clean—as though someone had walked it recently. Rahim found the keys in his grandfather’s study. That night, under the pale glow of a dying flashlight, he walked the forbidden corridor. The walls trembled faintly, like they were sighing. The final door was tall, wood rotting at the edges, with strange symbols scorched into it. He inserted the key, heart pounding, and turned it. Click. The door creaked open. The air inside was unnaturally cold. The room was empty—at first glance. A simple stone floor. No windows. But then he looked at the walls. They were covered—completely covered—with painted eyes. Hundreds of them. Some open wide. Some half-closed. Some crying black tears. They weren’t just painted. They felt alive. They followed him. Watched his every step. A shiver ran down his spine, but he forced himself to step inside. “Just paint,” he whispered. “Just old art.” He unrolled his sleeping bag in the center of the room. “I’ll prove there’s nothing here,” he said aloud, though his voice trembled. He lay down. Turned off the flashlight. Silence. Until… a creak. He sat up. The room had no doors except the one he entered. Yet, somewhere behind him, he heard soft breathing. Then a whisper. “Don’t look back…” He froze. The eyes on the wall began to change. Slowly. Subtly. They blinked. A few began to weep. The black tears moved, dripped, and dissolved into smoke upon hitting the floor. His chest tightened. From the corner of the room, something began to emerge. A shape. A shadow—taller than any man, thin and distorted like smoke and nightmare stitched together. No face. Just a hollow where eyes should’ve been. Rahim scrambled backward, heart racing. “What... what are you?” he gasped. The creature didn’t speak. But the room did. The eyes began to whisper. All of them, together, chanting in a soft, sickening chorus. “He opened the door... he opened the door... he looked inside…” The shadow extended a long, bony arm. Rahim screamed and bolted for the exit. The door… wouldn’t open. No matter how hard he pulled, the handle wouldn’t budge. He turned around, breath ragged. The room had changed. The floor now pulsed like living flesh. The eyes grew larger, some bleeding, some laughing—yes, laughing, their pupils twisting into tiny, grinning mouths. The shadow stepped closer. Rahim cried, begged, slammed the door with his fists. “Let me out! Please!” The eyes whispered again. “No one leaves. You saw too much. Now you must watch…” The last thing Rahim saw was the creature reaching into his chest—not tearing flesh, but pulling out light. Memory. Soul. The room went silent. --- The next morning, the door to the room stood wide open. A group of local workers entered the house, tasked with renovating the old mansion. One of them, curious, peeked into the western corridor. “I thought this was sealed?” he murmured, seeing the open door. He stepped inside, flashlight flickering. The walls stared back. Hundreds of eyes. And now—right in the center—was a freshly painted eye. It looked eerily like Rahim’s. The same color. The same fear. It blinked.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Jinn's Widow on the Mountain Road
I was driving home alone after a long business trip. The road wound through tall mountains cloaked in darkness, and storm clouds had gathered above like a warning. I thought if I sped up, I might reach home before midnight. But fate had other plans. Thunder rumbled like a beast above the peaks. Lightning danced through the sky. A light drizzle began tapping against my windshield, soon turning into steady rain. I was in the middle of nowhere when suddenly, my car sputtered and stopped. I turned the ignition — nothing. Checked the fuel gauge — empty. My heart dropped. The silence of the mountains, broken only by rain and wind, suddenly carried a new sound — the faint cry of a baby. At first, I thought it was my imagination. But then I heard it again, louder. A child’s desperate cry. I stepped out of the car cautiously, rain soaking my shirt, shoes slipping on the wet ground. I walked down toward the source of the sound — but saw nothing. No baby. No movement. Just empty woods and shadows. I returned to my car, confused and shaken. As I closed the door, the cry echoed again, closer this time. My hands trembled as I locked the doors and rolled up the windows. My breath fogged the glass. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. And then… I saw her. A woman stood by the road, just a few feet away. She wore a faded shawl, held a small child in her arms, and in her other hand, strangely, a bottle of Pepsi. Her face was hidden, turned away. She stepped toward my car and gently knocked on the window. I didn’t move. She knocked again. Gathering my courage, I rolled the window down a little. Rain blew in as I asked, “What do you want?” Her voice was soft but chilling. “What’s the problem?” “I... I ran out of fuel,” I stammered. She was silent for a moment. Then she said something that froze my soul: “Tonight, I won’t let you live. I’m a jinn’s widow. My husband died, and now I’ve gone mad.” My body went numb. My mind blank. I could feel myself slipping — on the verge of fainting. She whispered, “Look at me.” Tears filled my eyes. I pressed my hands together in desperation and begged, “Please, don’t hurt me. I have a wife and kids at home. They’re alone. I beg you, for God’s sake — please.” She tilted her head. “There’s fear in your eyes,” she said softly. “And tonight, something inside me wants to help you.” Without another word, she moved to the back of the car and began pushing it. I felt the car jolt. The wheels turned. The engine still dead — yet the vehicle moved as though someone had filled it with fuel. The woman, thin and calm, pushed my car up the mountain road for almost half an hour, her child still in her arms. We reached the summit. From there, the road sloped down. The car started rolling on its own. I looked back — she was gone. I drove without stopping, the car coasting smoothly downhill until the lights of the city finally appeared. I reached a petrol station, filled the tank, and sat there for a long time, staring into the rain. Her face haunted me. Her words echoed in my ears. When I finally reached home, my wife hugged me, but I didn’t speak. For a week, I had a high fever. Nightmares came every time I closed my eyes — her voice, her shadow, her sad, twisted smile. Doctors came. Medicines were given. Slowly, after two weeks, I returned to my normal life. But that night… that woman… Was she a ghost? A spirit? A mad jinn’s wife? Or was she something else entirely? I never found out. All I know is: something not human helped me that night. And I pray I never meet her again.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
I Paid $10 for a ‘Haunted’ Doll on eBay—Now I Can’t Sleep
It started as a dare. My friend Dylan and I were deep into one of those late-night YouTube spirals—paranormal investigations, ghost hunters, creepy Reddit stories—when he turned to me and said, “I bet you won’t actually buy one of those haunted dolls.”
By MALIK Saadabout a year ago in Horror
The Jinn’s Daughter in the Mountain
It was meant to be a simple trip—just me and my friend Faisal, exploring the serene beauty of the northern mountains. We had packed light, brought a camera, some snacks, and hearts full of excitement. The fresh air, the towering trees, and the echoing silence of nature made it feel like we had escaped the world. We hiked through trails, laughed over old memories, and enjoyed the calm of the wild. As the sun began to dip behind the peaks, the golden rays painted the trees with warmth. I turned around to say something to Faisal—but he was gone. "Faisal?" I called, thinking he was just a few steps behind. No answer. I walked back a little, then forward, then in every direction. "Faisal! Stop messing around!" Still nothing. Panic started to creep in. The silence around me now felt heavy, almost oppressive. I shouted louder, my voice bouncing off the trees, but the forest remained still. The shadows were stretching, and night was falling quickly. I searched and called for hours. My legs were aching, my voice hoarse. Darkness fell like a curtain. The temperature dropped. Then came the rain. Cold, piercing rain that soaked me in minutes. Shivering, exhausted, and terrified, I stopped on a rock and called out one last time, "Faisal!" That’s when I heard it. A soft, almost musical voice echoed through the trees: "Who are you calling?" My blood froze. It was a woman’s voice, but not like any I’d heard before—too smooth, too calm for the dark forest. I turned quickly but saw no one. My feet instinctively moved backward, and then I began to run. But the voice followed. "Stop right there... or I’ll strike you from behind." I stopped instantly. My heart pounded in my ears. Slowly, I turned around. Standing just a few feet away was a woman—tall, with flowing black hair, a pale face, and eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the dark. Her expression was blank, unreadable. The fear in me exploded, and everything went black. When I regained consciousness, I was lying inside a cave. It was warm, dimly lit, and smelled of something ancient. I sat up quickly, disoriented, only to see a girl sitting a few steps away. She was crying, quietly, her long hair hiding most of her face. "Where am I? Who are you?" I asked. She looked up slowly, her eyes swollen with tears. "I’m not human," she said. "I’m... the daughter of a jinn." I stared at her, unable to respond. She continued, her voice shaking, "Your friend... Faisal... I love him. I met him here days ago. He didn’t fear me. He spoke to me, kindly. He saw me not as a monster, but as someone lonely." "You have him?" I asked, voice trembling. "Yes. I’ve kept him safe. But he wanted to leave, and I couldn’t bear it. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I can’t let him go." "This isn’t right," I said. "He’s human. He has a family. A life." Tears rolled down her cheeks again. "I know. But my world is dark, cold, and cruel. He was the only light I ever saw. Please… understand me." I looked around. The walls of the cave were covered in strange symbols. The air felt heavy, almost magical. A thought occurred to me—maybe she wasn’t evil. Just... broken. "What if I promise you something?" I said gently. "You let us go... and I swear, your secret will remain safe. I’ll never tell a soul." She looked at me for a long time. The silence stretched until I thought she might vanish. Then she whispered, "I’ll let you both go. But you must never come back. And never speak of me." "I promise," I said. She stood up, waved her hand, and a gust of warm wind blew through the cave. I felt my body becoming lighter, the world spinning… When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the same spot where Faisal had disappeared. The rain had stopped. And right in front of me, looking confused but unharmed, stood Faisal. We didn’t talk much. We just hugged and began the slow walk down the mountain. Till this day, we’ve never spoken about that night. But sometimes, in dreams, I still see her face. And every now and then, in deep silence, I feel a presence... watching… waiting.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
THE MIROR ATTACK STORY
🕯 Title: “The Mirror Man” It was midnight; Ria had been in her bedroom, comb-combing her hair in front of the mirror. And suddenly for a split second she could see behind her in the mirror, a tall, black man-like figure, but no face.
By S-T``Aabout a year ago in Horror
The Jinn Bride Who Came at Midnight
The Jinn Bride Who Came at Midnight A haunting tale of love, betrayal, and the unseen world --- The clock struck twelve. The village lay in silence, wrapped under the velvet blanket of the night. Not a leaf stirred. Not a dog barked. The kind of stillness that makes your skin crawl — the kind that whispers something is watching. And that’s exactly when she came. I was sitting on the cold floor of my room, back against the wall, staring at the flickering candlelight. Electricity had been out for hours, and sleep had abandoned me. The air was unusually heavy — like the calm before a storm. Then came the soft creak of my door. Not a knock. Not footsteps. Just a slow, soundless opening… as if the wind itself had fingers. She stood there. A woman. No — a vision. Her long black hair spilled like ink down her back, her dress shimmered silver in the dim light, and her eyes… they were not human. One deep blue, one fiery gold — glowing, not reflecting. I didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. She stepped inside, barefoot, each movement fluid like smoke. Her lips curved in a soft smile. “You called me,” she whispered, her voice echoing in my mind more than in the air. “I-I didn’t,” I stammered. “But your soul did,” she replied. She sat beside me, so close I could feel her cold presence seep through my skin. My heart pounded like drums of war, yet I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Her eyes held me there — like chains made of dreams. “You once promised love to someone you never met,” she said. “Remember?” I did. When I was sixteen, broken and alone, I had stood under the stars and whispered, If anyone hears me — jinn, spirit, anything — love me. I offer myself. It was foolish. Desperate. But someone had listened. She leaned in. Her breath was icy against my cheek. “I’ve waited. For years. But tonight, the veil is thin. Tonight, I can take what was promised.” My skin prickled. My chest tightened. “You're not human,” I said. “Neither are you. Not anymore.” Her smile deepened. Before I could protest, the candle blew out on its own. In the thick darkness, I felt her hand in mine — cold, soft, but somehow familiar. She began to whisper in a language I didn’t know, yet my mind responded like I had spoken it all my life. A binding. A wedding. A curse. The air grew colder with each word she spoke. I could feel a pull deep within me, like invisible tendrils of some ancient force, tying me to her. It was overwhelming, like my very essence was being drawn into hers. Her voice grew stronger, more commanding, and I felt my body betray me. The room around me started to blur, like I was caught between two worlds. Her words became chants, each syllable more powerful than the last. Then came the silence. For a moment, I thought I had died. But I felt something — a shift, a weight lifted off me. And then, I was alone again. The air returned to normal. The candle flickered back to life, as if nothing had happened. I thought it was a dream. I woke up to sunlight streaming through my window. My room was untouched, neat, as if nothing had ever disturbed it. But something had changed. I had changed. I rushed to the mirror, my reflection staring back at me. And that’s when I saw it. My eyes… one was blue. The other, gold. I backed away, my heart racing. The feeling of her presence still lingered, like an unshakable shadow. I had made a pact — an unholy union with a being not of this world. Days passed, but I could feel her watching me. Every glance, every shadow, felt like she was just around the corner. I never spoke to anyone about it. Who would believe me? Who would understand? But every night, when the moon was high, I would hear the whispers again. Soft. Tempting. Calling me to return. To finish what we started.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Reflection
Although everyone said that the old farmhouse was haunted, Maya did not think ghosts existed. She saw it as a new beginning when she got it from her distant grandma.
By Md Ripon Khaabout a year ago in Horror