monster
Monsters and horror go hand in hand; explore horrific creatures, beasts and hairy scaries like Freddy Krueger, Frankenstein and far beyond.
I Discovered a Hidden Room in My New House… What Was Inside Still Haunts Me
The Story When my wife, Sarah, and I bought the old Victorian house on Willow Lane, we thought it was the perfect fixer-upper. The realtor had called it a "hidden gem," and at first glance, it was—high ceilings, original woodwork, and a sprawling backyard. But beneath its charming exterior, the house held a secret.
By MALIK Saadabout a year ago in Horror
The Forgotten Door in Apartment 3B
When I moved into apartment 3B, I wasn’t expecting magic — just cheaper rent. The building was old, the kind with peeling paint, dim hallway lights, and a musty smell that clung to the walls like an unwanted tenant. The landlord, Mr. Ahmed, was a quiet man in his 60s who wore the same brown sweater every time I saw him. When he handed me the keys, he paused and said something strange. “One rule: don’t open the door in the back of the kitchen.” I chuckled. “A secret door? Sounds like a horror movie.” He didn’t laugh. “Just leave it alone.” Naturally, that made me more curious. As soon as I settled in, I searched for it. Behind the fridge, partially hidden by an old wooden shelf, was a small door — no taller than three feet. It had no knob, just a dull bronze lock and a strange carving of an eye. A creepy, watchful eye. I tried to ignore it for a few days. But something about it unsettled me. At night, when the apartment was silent, I sometimes heard faint whispering — like wind through a crack. One night, during a thunderstorm, I heard it again, clearer this time. A voice. My voice. It was younger, lighter, and it said a single word: “Mama.” I froze. My mother had passed away six years ago. I hadn’t spoken that word in ages. I pressed my ear against the door. More whispers. Laughter. A lullaby she used to sing to me. The next day, I bought lockpicks and watched a dozen YouTube tutorials. It took me hours, but eventually, the lock clicked open. As I pulled the door, it didn’t creak — it sighed, like it had been holding its breath for years. Inside was a narrow hallway filled with a soft golden glow. Floating in the air were hundreds of orbs, each glowing like miniature suns. I stepped inside. The first orb hovered toward me. Inside it, I saw myself at age seven, riding a bike for the first time while my mother clapped from the sidewalk. I could hear her laughter, feel the wind on my face, the wobble of the handlebars. It was more than a memory — it was alive. Other orbs floated by. My childhood bedroom. My high school graduation. The day I got accepted into university. I was crying, overwhelmed. I hadn’t felt that in years. Then the darker orbs came. These shimmered in dull grey-blue, colder in tone. One showed the night my parents argued, my mother in tears. Another showed my first heartbreak — her back turned, walking away in the rain. The worst was my father’s funeral — the crushing silence, the way I couldn’t cry, even though I wanted to. I don’t know how long I stayed. Minutes? Hours? Days? Time was strange in that place. I started visiting the door every night. At first, I only watched the good orbs. But slowly, I found myself revisiting even the painful ones — just to feel something. Anything. But something began to change. I started forgetting small things. Where I left my keys. My co-worker’s name. I once stood in the grocery store and couldn’t remember what I liked to eat. One morning, Mr. Ahmed knocked. His expression was grim. “You’ve been going in,” he said. I nodded, ashamed. He opened his palm and showed me a tiny orb — swirling, dim. Inside was the faint image of a young boy. Frozen. Hollow-eyed. “He lived in 3B in 1983. Got lost in his memories. They took more than he was willing to give.” I locked the door that day. Nailed it shut. Moved the fridge back in front of it. For a while, things returned to normal. But even now, some nights, I hear my younger self humming a tune I’d long forgotten. And for a moment, I ache to open the door again. To remember her laugh. To feel something real. But I don’t. Because I know that door doesn’t just show memories. It takes them.
By Inamullah Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
Horror Story
The girl, like a doll, runs ahead of the wind. She looks at the waves of the GHA Ghat River and the distant village on the other side of the river with her big eyes. She asks so many questions! And she loves to listen to ghost stories. She has only one request from her father, mother, and grandmother: to listen to ghost stories. Both of Pia's parents are teachers by profession. Pia's father loves to tell ghost stories; but Pia's grandmother has a basket of ghost stories. When the stories start coming out of that basket, Pia listens to them with fascination. Pia's annual exams are over. So she has gone to her grandfather's house for the winter vacation. Her cousins Lipi, Sumi, and Sumana have also gone. They are having a great time playing Dariyabandha, Gollachhut, Chiburi, and Panchguti. And in the evening, they go with their grandmother to see one thing. And that is whether or not a fish has landed in the pond by the pond. The pond is a haunt of ghosts. There is a big mother tree on the western side of the pond. That is the haunt of ghosts. Still, I want to close my eyes and go see their fish with a hurricane. There are so many ghosts in that mother tree. I don't know. Fish ghosts, pitha ghosts, and so many more ghosts. There are several old trees in the high house where Ranu's aunt lives on the pond. Ghosts can be seen there even during the day. There are so many ghosts' haunts around Priya R's grandfather's house that the village becomes metaphysical in the evening. Today, Priya R's grandmother will fry pit ha. Preparations are underway for that. Atta is being kneaded in a dough. Coconuts have been laid from the tree. Grandfather Mia has brought fresh sugarcane and jaggery from the market in Dariapur. Making pitha is like a big festival. In this village, no one fries fish after evening. There is a lot of trouble here with fish ghosts. Whenever someone goes to fry fish, the fish ghost's wife will take the opportunity to steal the fried fish and bring it back. That's why no one fries fish at night. Priya Rai Dadi is also very brave. Everyone says that she has contact with ghosts and their wives. They do not harm Priya Rai Dadi. However, Priya Rai Dadi does not mention their names at night. She calls them by pseudonyms. When I ask Dadi about this, she just smiles.
By Arfan Raihenabout a year ago in Horror
Under the Bed
Under the Bed It started with a whisper. I was 10 when I first heard it. A soft, raspy voice drifting from beneath my bed as I was drifting off to sleep. My room was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears buzz. Then it came—low, deliberate, unmistakably human.
By Muhammad Hakimiabout a year ago in Horror
