monster
Monsters and horror go hand in hand; explore horrific creatures, beasts and hairy scaries like Freddy Krueger, Frankenstein and far beyond.
The Devil Within Me
Heres the text to analyze: Note: this story was crafted for the Horror Story Prompt Challenge. Wishing you all the best Content warnings for graphic portrayals of mental illness that serve only to enhance the narrative. These portrayals do not represent the views of Vocal or the author and are purely fictional.
By Nikita Angelabout a year ago in Horror
Horror Story
Everyone in Harsh pur called this house a 'palace'. A quiet river in front of the palace. Sannabandhano ferry. No one else in the ghat is in the ghat. The palace of the palace is no more. Bricks, chunksuri and Palestra are falling from the walls. Due to great negligence, the realm of the forest has increased around this house. The house is standing with mystery. Everyone in Harspur knows this house as a ghost house. Bitul also knows this house as a ghost house. Didn't believe before. In this house he now goes regularly. Mamdo is a great feeling with the ghost. But last year, he was wrestled with the ghost. From Batala to the river Ghatla, the two fought. Equal fighting. From then on, Bitul has gone to Mamdo's ghost. Today is a nutshell. Huge arrangement in the ghost house. There is a smoke of making backpacks. Ghosts also came from Epara -Opara. Everyone has come to wear their best clothes. Bitul also came after new Punjabi and pajamas. The left side is cut off. Mamdo is sitting on one side of the ghost and he is talking. The story of the ghosts. The story of the ghost. The ghost of the bamboo grove is chopping rice in a dheki in the battala. The ghosts of the bamboo grove are singing to the beat of the DHE ki. It is nice to hear.
By Arfan Raihenabout 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
Pathogen: Ch. 14
Marnie's hands were shaking as she smoothed them over her hair, checking for any frizzy fly-aways that had gotten loose. Instinctively, she cupped the large ballet bun on the back of her head, wincing a little at the bobbi pins jammed into her scalp. How did her mom do this every day? It was no wonder now why Lt. Nightingale didn't have a single wrinkle on her face. Marnie's hair was pulled so tight, she didn't think she'd ever be able to use her facial muscles again. She only touched the bun for a second before Bianca swatted her hand away lightly.
By Natalie Grayabout 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 Mystery of the Depths (Part 6)
After returning the chain, we believed it was over. We wanted to believe Saira’s spirit had found peace. But one night’s horror shattered that illusion. When young Saiful claimed, “I saw a girl underwater,” fear, doubt, and mystery clawed back into our lives.
By Kevin Hudsonabout a year ago in Horror
