monster

Monsters and horror go hand in hand; explore horrific creatures, beasts and hairy scaries like Freddy Krueger, Frankenstein and far beyond.

A Vampyre Story (2008) Review
As far as point & click games go, this one is rather standard in terms of gameplay and mechanics. Easy enough to understand and move Mona around the castle she lives in. Though instead of gathering items and placing them in bottomless pockets, they’re placed in a bottomless coffin. An appropriate twist. In addition to what Mona carries, she also makes notes of items she wants to save for later, and the ‘ghosts’ of those items appear in the coffin as well. When the need arises, she can teleport to one of those objects and use them. An interesting concept I hadn’t seen before. For a game made in 2008, A Vampyre Story had quite a few things going for it story-wise. I can also appreciate the details of all the backgrounds in and outside of the castle. These include a chandelier hanging over a long table in the dining room, stained glass windows in the library, and a snow-covered bridge against a moonlit sky. I’m reminded of old 2D Disney movies where the backgrounds are stagnant but beautiful.
By Allison 'AllieV' Van Oirschotabout a year ago in Horror
THE WHISPERING WALLS OF BLACKFIELD ASYLUM
By Silas Blackwood Dr. Eleanor Shaw had read every file, studied every case history, and yet nothing could have prepared her for Blackfield Asylum. The abandoned psychiatric hospital loomed at the end of a crumbling road, its brick facade choked by ivy, its barred windows staring like hollow eyes. It was the last place Eleanor wanted to be, but the university’s research grant—and her own stubborn curiosity—had dragged her here. "Six months," the department head had said. *"Document the architecture, the patient records, anything that could help our study on 20th-century mental health practices."* But Blackfield had other plans. THE FIRST NIGHT Eleanor set up her equipment in the old staff lounge—a dusty room with peeling yellow wallpaper and the faint, metallic scent of something long since dried into the floorboards. Her first recording was routine: "October 3rd, 10:17 PM. Initial survey of the west wing. No signs of structural collapse. Minor rodent activity. No—" A sound cut her off. A whisper. Not from the hallway. Not from the vents. From the wall behind her. A woman’s voice, so close it could have been leaning over her shoulder: "You shouldn’t be here." Eleanor spun, her flashlight beam slicing through the dark. Nothing. Just cracked plaster and a single, rusted nail jutting from the wall like a broken tooth. She played back the recording. Silence. "Stress," she told herself. "Echoes. Old buildings settle." But then she noticed the writing. Scratched into the wallpaper, so faint she’d missed it before: "THEY MADE US INTO THE WALLS." THE SECOND WEEK The whispers grew louder. Eleanor would wake to the sound of weeping in the walls, of fingernails dragging slowly, deliberately, down the other side of the plaster. Her camera captured shadows where none should be—figures slumped in corners, faces pressed against doorways, all vanishing the moment she turned. Then came the patient records. Blackfield hadn’t just housed the mentally ill. It had experimented on them. Electroshock therapy. Ice baths. Surgeries that left patients hollowed out and docile. One file stood out: Patient #447 - "The Whispering Woman" "Subject claims the walls speak to her. Begs to be moved. Attempts to claw through plaster result in severe lacerations. After 72 hours of isolation, subject found deceased. Autopsy notes: ‘Vocal cords shredded. As if she screamed until they tore.’" Eleanor’s blood ran cold. Because now, in the dead of night, she could hear it too— The walls weren’t whispering. They were screaming. Muffled. Distant. But undeniably human. And they were getting louder. THE FINAL RECORDING The university found Eleanor’s equipment three weeks later. Her notes were meticulous—right up until the last entry. The final audio file was mostly static, but beneath the noise, a voice can be heard: Eleanor’s. Terrified. "They’re not in the walls— THEY ARE THE WALLS. The doctors… they didn’t just bury the bodies. They BUILT with them— Oh God, I can see the faces in the plaster— THEY’RE LOOKING AT ME—" Then, a wet, crunching sound. And a new voice. Not a whisper. A chorus. "Stay with us." The camera was recovered from the basement, its lens cracked, its last image a blur of peeling wallpaper—and what might be a hand, reaching out. As for Eleanor? The police found no trace. But the next research team swears… Sometimes, when the asylum falls silent… The walls breathe.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Shadow in Blackwood House
The Shadow in Blackwood House Jake Carter never believed in ghosts. Horror movies were just fiction, and haunted house stories were mere campfire tales. But Blackwood House—an ancient, ivy-covered mansion that loomed over the woods changed all of that. It didn’t whisper fear. It breathed it. It started with the whispers. Jake and his three friends Emily, Ryan, and Lisa—had ventured into Blackwood House on a dare. Local legends called it cursed. Children vanished, voices echoed when no one was there, and every Halloween, someone tried to stay the night. None ever lasted until morning. “Nobody stays the night in Blackwood,” the townspeople warned, eyes dark with something deeper than fear. They laughed it off. The first night, the house seemed quiet—too quiet. That stillness that presses against your ears like cotton. Jake lay awake in his sleeping bag in the upstairs bedroom, surrounded by peeling wallpaper and shattered picture frames. Then, just past 2:00 a.m., he heard them: footsteps in the hallway. Not the kind made by settling wood—but heavy, deliberate, pacing footsteps. He sat up, heart racing, and pointed his flashlight toward the door. Something moved. Quick. Too quick. A flicker just beyond the beam's reach. Then came the giggling. Soft. High-pitched. A child’s laugh, distant yet close, drifting down from the attic like a lullaby dipped in dread. Emily didn’t sleep at all. She sat upright, her face pale. “I saw her,” she whispered. “At the end of the hallway. A girl in a white dress.” Jake frowned. “A girl?” “She was just standing there… Her eyes they were black. All black.” By the second night, the house had come alive. Doors slammed on their own. Cold spots moved through the rooms, like something unseen brushing past. Ryan, ever the skeptic, recorded everything. But when they reviewed the footage, his hands trembled. Behind him, in one frame, stood a tall shadow. No face. No eyes. Just a shape. Ryan swore no one had been there. That same night, messages started to appear. Scratched deep into the bedroom walls: LEAVE. Written in the fog on the bathroom mirror after Lisa’s shower: YOU’RE NEXT. On the third night, the power died. Their flashlights flickered like dying stars. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, clinging to corners, bending in ways that defied logic. Then something moved. It stepped from the hallway into their circle of light tall, thin, limbs bent like broken branches, its movements jerky, unnatural. Lisa screamed first. Then the lights went out entirely. Morning came. They found Lisa curled inside a closet, her fingernails torn from desperate scratching. She couldn’t speak. Her mouth moved, but only one word came out, soundless: “Attic.” Jake didn’t hesitate. He climbed the rotting stairs alone. The attic door creaked open, already ajar. Inside, the air was thick and cold. Dust danced like ash in the pale morning light. A rope hung from a wooden beam, swaying slightly as if someone had just stepped off. The walls were covered in handprints. Small. Child-sized. Hundreds of them, overlapping, reaching, clawing. Jake turned as a whisper brushed his ear. "You stayed too long." When the police arrived that afternoon, they found four bodies. Jake was in the attic, hanging from the noose, his face frozen in wide-eyed terror. Emily and Ryan lay in the hallway, their mouths open, locked in silent screams. Lisa was still in the closet, her hands pressed flat against the door as if she were still trying to claw her way out. And on the attic wall, freshly scratched in jagged letters, was one final message: “THEY NEVER LEFT.” Now, when the wind howls and the moon casts its silver gaze over the shattered windows, locals say you can still hear the giggling echoing from within. Some say the shadows move behind the curtains. Some say the house calls out with whispers: "Come inside..." But those who do? They never leave.
By Mayaabout a year ago in Horror
Night Teeth: Volume IV
The Bloody Evolution of a Cult Vampire Saga The Night Teeth series has carved its name into the modern vampire genre with its sleek visuals, neon-noir aesthetic, and high-octane action. Now, with Volume IV, the franchise takes a darker, deeper dive into its mythos—blending urban horror, crime thriller elements, and a fresh wave of undead intrigue. This article explores everything we know (and theorize) about Night Teeth: Volume IV, from its plot leaks, returning characters, stylistic shifts, and how it fits into the growing vampire renaissance in film and TV. • What Is Night Teeth? A Quick Recap
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Crying Man
A shadowy figure appears in the dead of night, his face obscured, his body wracked with silent sobs. Witnesses describe an overwhelming sense of despair in his presence—a grief so profound it lingers long after he vanishes. This is The Crying Man, a modern urban legend that has surfaced in ghost stories, paranormal encounters, and even government conspiracy theories across the world. But who—or what—is he? A lost spirit? A psychological manifestation of collective sorrow? Or something far more sinister? This article explores the origins, reported encounters, and possible explanations behind one of the most haunting figures in contemporary folklore.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The House That Stole My Soul
The Moment I Lost Myself The moment I lost myself was the moment I stepped into that house. It wasn’t just any old abandoned place it was a building wrapped in whispers and shadowed in rumors. Everyone in town warned me to stay away, but curiosity had a different plan. I was about to find out why. It was a cold, foggy night when I arrived. The sky was thick with low-hanging clouds, and the streetlights flickered like ghosts trying to stay alive. The house sat at the end of the dead-end road, its paint peeling like scabs and windows dark, like eyes that had long forgotten how to see. The kind of place that doesn’t just hold memories but traps them. I pushed open the creaky front door, the rusty hinges groaning like a scream that had been stuck inside for decades. The air inside was stale and heavy as if the house was holding its breath, waiting for something. My flashlight beam darted across faded wallpaper, cracked floorboards, and a grand staircase that twisted into darkness above. As I moved deeper inside, I felt the walls closing in. I told myself it was just nerves. But then I heard it faint, barely a whisper. A voice. It was so soft, like a breath tickling my ear, but unmistakably human. “Leave…” I spun around, heart pounding, but saw nothing. Just the peeling walls and the heavy silence pressing down on me. I took a step forward. Another whisper. “Go back…” My skin crawled. The voice wasn’t angry or demanding it was pleading. Desperate. I wanted to run, but my feet felt glued to the floor. That’s when I noticed the portrait hanging crooked on the wall. A woman’s face, pale and blurred by time, with eyes that seemed to follow me. And behind her, a shadow darker than the rest of the room shifting just out of sight. I swallowed hard and moved toward the staircase. Each step creaked under my weight, echoing through the empty halls. At the top, the hallway stretched on, lined with closed doors and cold drafts slipping through cracks. The whispers grew louder, overlapping into unintelligible murmurs. I paused at a door at the very end. It was slightly ajar. The room beyond was pitch black, but I felt the pull like something inside was waiting. I pushed the door open. Inside was a small nursery, untouched by time. A cracked crib stood against one wall, and toys lay scattered on the floor, frozen in a moment from long ago. The air was colder here. And then I heard it clearly. A child’s voice. Soft, scared. “Help me…” I stepped inside, heart hammering. The door slammed shut behind me. Darkness swallowed me whole. My flashlight flickered and died. Panic set in. I fumbled for my phone, but no signal. The whispers became a chorus, growing into screams. Shadows danced on the walls, twisting into shapes that clawed at my mind. Suddenly, I felt cold fingers brush my neck. I spun, but there was no one there. The air grew thick with sadness and rage. The woman from the portrait appeared before me translucent, eyes full of pain. “You came for her…” she whispered. “For who?” I stammered. “My daughter… lost to this house.” She reached out, and I felt a pull, like my soul was being torn. I screamed, trying to break free, but the darkness wrapped around me, swallowing my voice. Time lost meaning. I drifted between moments of terrifying clarity and crushing despair. I was no longer sure if I was alive or a ghost trapped within those walls. And then silence. I woke up outside the house, dawn breaking over the horizon. The house stood quiet and still, no sign of what had just happened. But I was different. Hollow. Fractured. I never spoke of that night. No one believed me anyway. They said I’d been drinking, that it was a nightmare. But I know what I lost in that house. I lost myself. And sometimes, when the wind howls just right, I swear I still hear the whispers calling me back begging me to come home.
By Mayaabout a year ago in Horror
PATIENT THIRTEEN: THE FORGOTTEN LARYNX EXPERIMENT
Season 1 CHAPTER 1: THE ROOM WITH NO ECHO Dnipropetrovsk, Ukraine — October 3rd, 1986. Underground Wing C, Block-47. 02:13 AM Local Time. Tape Archive: #LX-093-13
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
When Reality Stops
Stan, a 55-year-old traveling salesman, is a Bostonian through and through. The Red Sox, Patriots, Celtics and Bruins are the only teams worth rooting for. In Stan’s world change can never be a good thing. His third-floor walkup apartment is the same one he and a fellow student originally rented while attending Suffolk University 35 years ago. The roommate moved on, Stan did not. Why leave a place he knows.
By Mark Gagnonabout a year ago in Horror
The Midnight Visitor
The clock struck twelve, and the rain poured relentlessly against the windowpanes. Sarah sat alone in her dimly lit living room, a half-finished cup of tea growing cold in her hands. The storm outside rattled the old house, its creaking floors and groaning pipes making her uneasy.
By Shahriar Shihababout a year ago in Horror
The Whispering Mirror. AI-Generated.
Some stories are harmless fun — dares among teenagers or spooky legends meant to scare kids on Halloween. But others feel different, heavier, as though the darkness within them still clings to the places they describe.
By Reiner Knappabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers Beneath the Victorian
It was a rainy October evening when Sarah moved into the old Victorian house on Maple Street. She had inherited the place from a distant relative she never really knew. The house was beautiful but carried an eerie silence that even the rain couldn’t drown out. Sarah was a writer looking for solitude, and this place seemed perfect or so she thought. The first few days were uneventful. She spent her mornings unpacking and afternoons wandering the creaky halls, touching the faded wallpaper and listening to the faint creaks of the wooden floorboards beneath her feet. The house, though large and empty, held a strange stillness that sometimes felt almost unnatural. But Sarah told herself that it was just an old house settling and that her imagination was getting the better of her. But then, the strange noises started. At first, it was just a faint tapping coming from the basement. Sarah told herself it was probably the old pipes or maybe a branch scratching against the window. Yet, the sound persisted, growing louder each night. It was a slow, rhythmic tapping that seemed to echo through the hollow basement walls. One evening, determined to stop the creeping unease that gnawed at her, Sarah grabbed a flashlight and descended the narrow wooden stairs to the basement. The air grew colder with every step she took, the darkness thick and suffocating like a heavy blanket. Her flashlight beam cut through the blackness, revealing dust-covered furniture, forgotten boxes stacked in corners, and cobwebs hanging like ghostly curtains. But as she shone her light toward the far corner, she saw something that made her blood run cold a series of scratch marks on the wall, deep and jagged, as if something had clawed its way out from the inside. A sudden chill swept through the room, and the basement door slammed shut above her. Heart pounding wildly, Sarah tried the handle locked tight. The tapping started again, but now it was accompanied by low, guttural whispers, almost unintelligible but terrifyingly close. She spun around, shining her flashlight wildly, but there was nothing only shadows dancing on the walls, flickering with the light. For hours, Sarah was trapped in that basement, the whispers growing into desperate cries that seemed to echo from every dark corner. She could feel unseen eyes watching her, breath warm on her neck. The silence between the cries was heavy and suffocating, as if the darkness itself was alive. Then, as dawn broke and the first light seeped in through the tiny basement window, the door clicked open on its own. Sarah scrambled upstairs, breathless and pale, her hands trembling. The next day, desperate to understand the house’s past, she called the local historian. The man’s face grew grim as he told her about the house’s dark history decades ago, a man had murdered his entire family in that very basement before disappearing without a trace. Locals whispered that his restless spirit still roamed the house, trapped between worlds, seeking vengeance for his lost life. That night, Sarah decided she could no longer stay. As she packed her bags, the lights flickered erratically, and the whispers returned louder and more demanding than before. Shadows crept along the walls, forming twisted shapes that reached out for her, almost alive. Her phone died suddenly, and the front door refused to budge no matter how hard she tried. Trapped once again, Sarah realized she was no longer alone the house had claimed her as it had the others. The next morning, neighbors found the house locked tight and empty. Sarah was never seen again. Some say if you walk past that old Victorian on a rainy night, you can still hear the scratching and whispers coming from the basement, calling out for the next soul to be trapped forever.
By Mayaabout a year ago in Horror
The Capuchin Crypts
Introduction Beneath the unassuming Church of Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini in Rome lies one of the most hauntingly beautiful sites in the world—the Capuchin Crypts. This subterranean ossuary contains the skeletal remains of over 3,700 Capuchin friars, meticulously arranged into intricate patterns, chandeliers, and even full-body displays. Created between the 17th and 19th centuries, the crypts serve as both a sacred burial site and a memento mori, reminding visitors of life’s fleeting nature.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror