monster
Monsters and horror go hand in hand; explore horrific creatures, beasts and hairy scaries like Freddy Krueger, Frankenstein and far beyond.
The Cry of the Deep Sea
(Part 1) As usual, we were preparing to go fishing. Me and my 15 fellow laborers, who work with me on the boat, were getting ready. Before dusk, we packed the nets, flashlights, food, and everything else, then set sail. Crossing the river, we slowly moved into the deep sea. The wind was cold, the stars twinkled faintly in the sky. The sea was calm, yet an unfamiliar emptiness seemed to linger in the air.
By Kevin Hudsonabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Light of Hollow Creek.
Clara shivered, clinching her fist over the steering wheel of her reliable Subaru. The trees around the tiny rural town of Hollow Creek were veiled in mist. Her headlights struggled to penetrate the mist, and her rough breathing rasped in her throat as she gazed down the road. Too long years had elapsed since she'd returned, but something within her was drawing her in. It was not any whistling young folks; it was a loose-fingered group of loose ends. It was her impression that there was loose business in the black town's past, and she felt it as a tug within.
By Pen to Publishabout a year ago in Horror
The Lantern Man
I. The Marsh of Black Hollow Black Hollow was not marked on any modern map. Tucked between dead woods and endless marshland, it was more myth than memory. The only people who still spoke of it were drunk old men at backwater bars and desperate thrill-seekers online. Karan was both. An urban explorer with a following of 200k subscribers, he specialized in "lost places": decaying hospitals, forgotten bunkers, cursed ghost towns. When he heard about the Marsh of Black Hollow and the legend of the Lantern Man—a headless ghost seen wandering the wetlands—he was immediately obsessed. Locals refused to go near it. They said on moonless nights, a lantern glowed across the swamp, swinging slowly, and if you saw it, it meant he’d already seen you. And once the Lantern Man saw you, you were never seen again. II. Karan’s Journey He arrived with two GoPros, a body cam, a lantern of his own, and a fully charged drone. His only companion was his reckless confidence. Black Hollow was quiet, too quiet. No insects, no birds. Just stagnant water and rotted trees like broken fingers reaching from the bog. “Perfect atmosphere,” Karan whispered to the camera. He ventured deeper, thick mist clinging to his clothes. Occasionally, he marked trees with red tape—his breadcrumb trail back. Two hours in, the drone lost signal. Three hours in, he stopped seeing his red tape. Four hours in, he heard it. A bell. No, not a bell… a faint metal clink, like chains… or a lantern’s handle swaying in the wind. Except there was no wind. III. The Lantern Appears At first, Karan thought it was a trick of the fog. But there it was: a distant orange glow, moving slowly between trees. He zoomed in with his camera. The light flickered with unnatural rhythm—like it pulsed, breathed. And beneath the glow was a figure… tall, cloaked in shadow, and clearly, horribly, missing a head. Karan’s breath caught in his throat. He crouched, filming as the ghostly figure paused near the old footbridge ahead. Then, the lantern turned toward him. The ghost couldn’t have eyes, but Karan felt its gaze like a nail in his chest. He ran. IV. The Church Beneath the Earth Karan stumbled blindly through the marsh, falling more than once, scraping his arms and tearing his gear. Eventually, he collapsed into a hidden hole—a sunken structure covered in moss. A church, buried halfway in the bog. Inside, ancient pews lay overturned. At the altar, a headless statue stood holding a rusted lantern. Behind it, words carved in blackened stone: “Do not steal what you cannot return.” The air inside grew thick, suffocating. Then, a scream. Not human. Not animal. But something. Karan turned just in time to see the ghost step through the wall—closer now, clearer. Its body was waterlogged, skin sloughing off like peeled paint. It lifted its lantern, and the light bloomed— —and showed the head in its hand. It wasn’t its own. It was fresh. Karan’s. V. The Legend of the Lantern Man Long ago, a preacher lived in Black Hollow. A gentle man who led a church on a hill. But the villagers turned on him when a child vanished, accusing him of witchcraft. They beheaded him in the marsh and threw his lantern into the bog. That night, the entire village sank. They say the preacher’s soul never left. He wanders still, lantern in hand, looking for a new head to replace the one taken from him. Each century, he must claim one. Just one. To keep the others buried. VI. Sunrise Finds Nothing The next morning, search teams followed GPS coordinates to the last known location. They found Karan’s tent. His camera. His drone. But no Karan. Just a lantern, burning bright at the edge of the marsh. And next to it… a headless statue, freshly carved in wood, standing on a new altar in the trees. One hand held a camera. The other? Held nothing at all.
By Tushar Bhattacharyaabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers in the Attic
When Daniel inherited his grandfather's old countryside house, he was more annoyed than grateful. The property, isolated on the edge of a forgotten village, was a creaking relic of the past. Still, he decided to visit for a weekend, thinking he might sell it after a few repairs.
By M Kamrul Islam about a year ago in Horror
The Reflection
The Reflection Eva never liked mirrors. As a child, she would cover the one in her bedroom with a blanket at night, convinced it watched her while she slept. Her parents brushed it off as childish fear. “It’s just glass,” her father would say. “It can’t hurt you.”
By VISHWANATHAabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers in the Walls
Whispers in the Walls The farmhouse had been abandoned for decades—its gray wood siding curling like old bark, windows shattered, roof half-sunken under the weight of time. But something about it called to Jenna. Maybe it was the way it stood alone on that forgotten stretch of land, surrounded by tall grass and silence.
By VISHWANATHAabout a year ago in Horror
The Last Broadcast
The Last Broadcast It was a stormy October night when the power went out across the sleepy town of Merrow’s Hollow. As wind shrieked and rain pounded the rooftops, 17-year-old Charlie Beckett lit a single candle in the living room and turned on his battery-powered radio.
By VISHWANATHAabout 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
The Forgotten Bell of Eldergrove Abbey
In the quiet hills of Northumberland, far from the bustling cities and modern distractions, lies the ruined shell of Eldergrove Abbey. Overgrown with ivy and forgotten by maps, the abbey is a relic from the 13th century, left to crumble under centuries of wind, rain, and whispered stories. Locals avoid it—not out of superstition alone, but because of the sound.
By Logan Bennettabout a year ago in Horror
