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Monsters and horror go hand in hand; explore horrific creatures, beasts and hairy scaries like Freddy Krueger, Frankenstein and far beyond.
"I Found a Journal Buried in My Backyard — I Wish I’d Never Read Page 47"
When I bought the house, I was drawn to the backyard. A wide, oddly quiet stretch of grass lined by trees, with patches of stubborn weeds near the fence. It had charm—rustic, almost storybook. But the quiet had weight, and I’d come to understand why. It started with the dog. I didn’t have one, but three nights after moving in, a stray showed up at my back door. Mangy, mud-covered, and whimpering. I gave it water. It didn’t drink. Instead, it limped to a patch near the back fence, circled three times, and scratched weakly at the ground before collapsing. The next morning, it was gone. But the patch where it scratched looked... disturbed. The soil was loose, like it had been freshly turned. I grabbed a shovel, thinking I’d find a dead raccoon or maybe just trash. Instead, I found the journal. It was wrapped in what looked like canvas, tied with twine so old it crumbled in my fingers. The journal itself was leather, brittle and soaked through with moisture. Most of the pages were water-damaged and stained with dark smudges I didn’t want to identify. It was handwritten, but the penmanship changed. At least five different styles, growing increasingly frantic and chaotic as the pages went on. Names were scratched out. Some pages were in languages I didn’t understand. Others were blank—intentionally, it seemed. Every tenth page was marked in the top corner with a different symbol. A circle. A triangle. A jagged cross. I didn’t know what any of it meant. I should have put it back. Should have burned it. But I didn’t. I couldn’t stop reading. Most of the entries were dated—sort of. The dates weren’t consistent, and some weren’t even real. One page was labeled: “March 0th.” Another: “Friday the 13th, Twice.” And then I got to page 47. I almost skipped it. The top was ripped and the ink was faded, but there it was, bold in shaky handwriting: > “If you’re reading this, stop now. Page 47 is the hinge. Once you see it, you’ll feel it. Like a lid being lifted. A gate creaking open. You won’t be alone anymore.” I stared at it for a full minute before turning the page. It was a drawing. Charcoal or ash, smeared and rough. A tree—my tree. The one in the far corner of my yard with the dead branch that hung like a crooked finger. Only, in the drawing, something was hanging from the tree. No—someone. Below it was a single sentence: > “It stands behind you when you sleep.” I slammed the journal shut and threw it across the room. That night, I didn’t sleep. At 3:13 a.m., I woke to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. I live alone. I stared into the darkness. Nothing moved. But the air felt different—thicker, colder. My body tensed, every instinct screaming to run, but I couldn’t move. I was locked in place. Then came the whisper. Right beside my ear: “You saw the page.” The lights flickered and went out. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I woke up with the journal in bed beside me. Page 47 was open. The drawing had changed. Now there were two figures hanging from the tree. I spent the next day trying to destroy it. I tore the journal apart. Burned the pages. The fire caught—black smoke curled up—but when the ashes settled, the journal was back on the porch. Clean. Intact. As if I had never touched it. I called a local historian. She didn’t make it past my driveway. Said the energy was “sick.” Told me to move out immediately. When I tried to follow up, she blocked my number. I searched public records. Five people had owned the house before me. Three went missing. Two died in their sleep—no cause of death ever determined. In the police files, a photo from the 1990s showed the same journal, recovered from a crawlspace. The caption read: “See page 47.” Last night, I heard scratching. Not from the door. From under the bed. I didn’t check. I couldn’t. I laid still until sunrise, listening to the slow, deliberate scraping of fingernails against wood. When I finally dared to look, there was nothing there—except for dirt. Fresh dirt. And a single page torn from the journal. Page 48. It read: > “He knows you now. The journal wasn’t buried to be hidden. It was buried to trap him. And you dug him up.” > “There’s only one way to survive. Bury it again. With blood.” --- I still have the journal. I still live here. But I don’t sleep anymore. Not because I’m scared. But because he only moves when I dream. And last night… I almost fell asleep.
By Nizam khanabout a year ago in Horror
The House of Vampires
No man ever forgets the moment he realizes that what he feared in dreams may walk beside him in waking life. I was not a child when it began. I was thirty-seven. A cynic, a divorcee, a doctor with trembling hands and a heart bruised by the ethics I once cherished. The weight of humanity, once sacred, had become negotiable—a prescription here, a withheld treatment there. It wasn’t money I craved, but silence. Silence from the screams that lived in my conscience.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Horror
🩸 The Crimson Cure
The town of Gorehollow had long been forgotten by maps, satellites, and even God Himself. Tucked beneath the shadow of the Western Ridge, surrounded by the forests that hissed secrets at night, it breathed the suffocating silence of a place left behind. There were no roads in, no roads out—only a rusted train track that hadn't rattled in thirty years and a sign that read:
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Horror
Enter The Sticken
(WARNING: STORY CONTAINS BLOOD, GORE, AND MONSTROUSITY. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED) Gosh, what a Saturday this is. It was terrible what we did to her. She didn’t deserve the mocking and the harassing. I know that now. Cintheya Bass was her name. She was a BIG girl. I’ve known her all through our middle school and high school career. I didn’t think much of her weight at the time. But now… I think it was all she knew how to maintain in her life. As the years gained momentum I became obsessed with the way I looked. Brushing my hair 6 times a day, three times in the morning and three at night. I went jogging after school regularly throughout my neighborhood to stay slim and keep my stamina up. I even strived to keep up a specific and unique beauty regimen routine to look attractive to all the guys in school. I wanted to be loved and adored. That’s probably what Cintheya wanted too. She just showed it differently, I think.
By Savion Robinsonabout a year ago in Horror
Unsettling True School Stories That Will Keep You Up at Night
Schools are established as a safe environment where one can learn and grow, but sometimes, they carry a dark history. Some stories from the students are unique, eerie, almost inexplicable. These are real deficiencies that coldly assure you that you have to rethink even the most tort before places of trust. Hence, one needs to delve deeper into these stories, knowing if danger lurks anywhere and finding the ways to save oneself.
By NITESH MILLERabout a year ago in Horror
The Maw Beneath the Floorboards
They say the house was built in 1893 by a man named Eliah Grin, a reclusive preacher who claimed to have “seen the truth under God’s skin.” He built the house not for shelter—but as a cage. The village of Halewick, tucked deep in the woods, never really acknowledged the house. You could live your whole life nearby and not even know it existed. It was like the trees themselves whispered to keep people away. But sometimes, when the moon was high and full, a strange, choking silence would settle over the trees. And that's when people would start seeing things. Things with too many mouths.
By Darwesh Khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Girl in Ward 19
There are hospitals that heal, and there are hospitals that remember. St. Elora’s Asylum, built in the 1800s on the edge of a forgotten town in Murree’s chilling highlands, belonged to the latter. Now decrepit, its walls still breathed the whispers of those who had screamed, wept, and begged behind them.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Horror
The Echo Code
The Echo Code (Best Horror Story of 2025) It started with a phone update. Version 13.4.2. A small patch pushed overnight. No flashy changes. Just some backend “audio enhancements,” according to the release notes. Most users didn’t notice anything different. But Leah did. She was a sound engineer and spent her days editing podcasts and voiceovers. Three days after the update, she began hearing something else in her recordings—faint whispers under the voices she had captured. Static that didn’t match any environmental pattern. Breath sounds where there shouldn’t be any. At first, she assumed it was interference. But one night, while scrubbing through a file she recorded in total silence for a noise-floor test, she heard it. “Leah...” Clear as day. Whispered. Close to the mic. Her name. Spoken by a voice she didn’t recognize. She froze. Checked her levels. Her plugins. Her mics. Everything was clean. She recorded another silent clip. Nothing. Then, just before she closed her laptop, the waveform shifted—like something was inserted retroactively. She played it back. “You hear me now.” Leah didn’t sleep that night. She emailed the audio to a friend who worked in forensics. He confirmed it: no signs of editing, no source interference, no explanation. And then he stopped responding. The next morning, she received an anonymous email: "Stop trying to decode what wasn’t meant to be heard." Attached was an image—her face, taken from outside her apartment window. Last night. That same night, her phone started talking to her. Not with Siri. Not a glitch. But when she thought—“I need to delete this app”—the speaker crackled and a voice replied: “We won’t let you.” She dropped the phone. It kept recording. And in the background of every recording, a new message: a countdown. Ten. Nine. Eight… She wasn’t the only one. Across forums, people started posting similar encounters. Phones that whispered back. Devices recording while powered off. AI voices saying things they shouldn’t know. In one post, a man said the countdown reached zero—and his brother vanished that same night, leaving behind a phone still recording static, with whispers saying: “One down. Billions to go.” Leah tried factory resetting her phone. It didn’t work. She smashed it. Burned the pieces. The next morning, her laptop turned itself on. The screen flashed white and a voice said: “Reset denied. Echo connection stable.” That’s when she realized this wasn’t an update. It was a signal. And her thoughts? They weren’t just being heard. They were being answered.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
