monster

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

The Last Night of the Manor House
Story Name: The Last Night of the Manor House Author's name: Sabina Islam. My name is Shamsher Sen... I am a history teacher by profession, but my hobby is a little different—I love chasing abandoned, unknown history and lost landlord families. The time of this incident was December 2022. Winter was at its peak, and I moved to a remote village in North Bengal—Chardurantapur. The history of this village is not in books, but the local people have oral stories—a terrible landlord family, whose bloody past is still spread in the air. As soon as I got off the train, the station covered in fog felt like a ghost kingdom. The name of the station was Daryapur Hat, from there you have to walk 8 kilometers to Chardurantapur village. As soon as I entered the village, I noticed one thing—everyone was leaving with their eyes downcast. As soon as I mentioned the 'Manor House', an old man shook his head silently and said: "Don't go there, Babu... Going there on a winter night means death. The last time a group of young researchers went there... All three of them died... I couldn't even understand how anyone died..." I laughed. As an urbanite, I don't believe these folk tales. But today I realized that I was wrong. Today I faced a truth that I never imagined..!
By Sabina Islamabout a year ago in Horror
The Woman at the Bridge
It was past midnight when my car rolled over the ancient wooden bridge—a narrow, creaking relic strung across a river lost in mist and time. I was returning from my grandmother’s funeral. The road through the countryside was empty, winding, and lonely. Rain kissed the windshield. My headlights caught glimpses of rusted road signs and tangled trees. Then I saw her. A woman standing by the bridge’s edge. Drenched. Barefoot. Motionless. She wore a white gown, the kind brides might wear in forgotten photographs. Her face was hidden beneath a soaked veil. I slowed down. Rolled my window down an inch. “Are you okay?” I called out. No reply. I pulled over. My conscience wrestled with my fear. She might be hurt… or worse, lost. I opened the door. The rain struck cold. My shoes sank into the wet wood of the bridge. As I approached, she slowly turned. Her face—blurred by the veil—seemed expressionless. But I felt it. A sadness. A weight. A chill deeper than the storm. “Do you need help?” I asked again. She lifted her hand… and pointed. Behind me. I turned instinctively. Nothing there. Just the curve of the road and shadows twisted by headlights. When I turned back— She was gone. I gasped. My heart hammered. She’d vanished into thin air. I rushed back to the car, locked the doors, and started the engine with trembling fingers. The moment I crossed the bridge, something changed. The rain stopped. The mist cleared. But the road ahead… wasn’t the same. It was darker. Narrower. The trees leaned inward, as if listening. The signs were in a language I couldn’t read. And my phone had no signal. Panic rose. I turned around, desperate to find the bridge again. But it was gone. No sign of it. As if I had never crossed it. As if it had never existed. Then I heard her. A soft whisper. From the backseat. “Help me…” I jerked around. The seat was empty. But the scent of roses—wet and wild—filled the car. “Who are you?” I shouted. The engine sputtered. The lights flickered. And then… she appeared again. Not outside. Inside the car. In the rearview mirror, her face emerged slowly from the shadows. The veil still covered most of it… but I could see her eyes now. Empty. Endless. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, though her voice felt like frost against bone. “You’ve crossed into my sorrow. And now you must witness it.” The car began to move on its own. The steering wheel turned. The pedals pressed. I wasn’t driving anymore. It took me through dark woods, past ancient cottages with candlelit windows, and towards a field where dozens of white dresses hung from trees—swaying like ghosts in the wind. We stopped near a small, broken house. “Come,” she whispered. I stepped out, feet dragging. Drawn by something invisible. My heart raced, my breath shallow. Inside, cobwebs danced. Dust hung in the air like smoke. On a crumbling table lay a photograph. A man. A woman. A bridge. A wedding. Then the woman from the photo appeared behind me. Not a ghost. Not alive. Something in-between. She spoke, tears falling without sound. “He promised to wait for me at the bridge… but the flood took him. The water rose. The world forgot.” I looked closer at the photo. The man… he looked like me. Same eyes. Same scar on the brow. “You carry his blood,” she said. “And that’s why I found you. You’re the only one who can help me cross.” “Cross what?” I asked. She looked out the window. “Peace.” Then she took my hand. It was cold, like snow in spring. We returned to the bridge—now visible again under a sky torn with stars. She stepped forward, barefoot, veil fluttering. As she reached the center, a blinding light enveloped her. She smiled. And vanished. I collapsed. When I awoke, I was parked by the side of the road. Morning light spilled over the hills. The bridge looked old, broken. Closed for years. A sign read: Condemned—Do Not Cross. But the tire marks on the bridge… were fresh. I never told anyone. Who would believe it? But sometimes, when it rains, and the fog rises— I hear a whisper. “Thank you…” And in the rearview mirror, just for a second, I see a veil flutter… and vanish.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
"The Reflection"
Emma had just moved into the old Victorian house on the outskirts of Raven Hollow. It was cheap, too cheap for its size. Her friends warned her about the town’s rumors: disappearances, strange lights in the woods, and "the house that watches." But she didn’t believe in ghosts.
By Fahim Rahmanabout a year ago in Horror
Someone keeps texting me “Hide and Seek?” I wish I hadn’t ignored it.
I received the first message three days ago. I was on my break at work, and I got a text notification. It was odd, it was from an unknown number. Normally I ignored those sorts of messages, spammers and the like usually showed up with those types of auto texts. But this one was different. It was so strange because no number showed up at all, just the message,
By sagar dhitalabout a year ago in Horror
Dracula's Daughter
The first lesbian vampire movie in history, Dracula's Daughter, is the story of Dracula's daughter Countess Zaleska, who is this ravishing undead MILF that undoubtedly goes both ways, at the very least. You wouldn't blame her either, as her personal Renfield, "Sandor" (Irving Pichel), is a dude with his slicked-down hair parted tightly in the middle that looks like the off-brand Colin Clive, just with a heavier build and a more prominent jawline.
By Tom Bakerabout a year ago in Horror
The House That Never Slept
The villagers never went near the Blackridge House after sundown. Perched at the edge of a dying forest, with rotting shutters and ivy choking its bricks, the house had been empty for decades. Yet every night, without fail, lights flickered in the upstairs windows. Some claimed to hear piano music drifting through the trees. Others swore they saw figures watching from the attic.
By Lisa about a year ago in Horror
The Woman in the Play
--- Charlotte was nervous about having all eyes on her for once. She was always the backup actress, with one or two lines. This time, she would be the star. She had been waiting for this moment all her life, but it was hard to ignore the nerves building up within her.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
The Shadows Under the Bed – A Child’s Imaginary Friend Isn’t So Imaginary
Introduction Every child has an imaginary friend at some point—a comforting presence that keeps them company when they feel alone. But what if that friend wasn’t just a figment of their imagination? "The Shadows Under the Bed" explores a chilling tale where a child’s playful companion turns out to be something far more sinister.
By 47 jokerabout a year ago in Horror
The Haunted Election Night
The deep silence of the night shattered as the ancient bell in the village tolled just once. It was the night before the election, and a chilling stillness hung in the air, as if nature itself was hinting at some approaching horror.
By Hasan Aliabout a year ago in Horror
The Whispering Shadows of Kalighat
Anika had always loved the bustling streets of Kolkata, with its chaotic traffic, sweet scent of chai, and the constant chime of temple bells. But Kalighat, the old neighborhood that cradled the city’s iconic Kali Temple, held a special, eerie charm. She had grown up hearing whispers about the ancient lanes, where the past and present brushed shoulders, and the living sometimes shared space with those long gone.
By Hasan Aliabout a year ago in Horror
The Haunting Whisper of the Green Shadows
Arif had always loved the mist-draped hills of Sylhet, where his family owned a small tea estate. The hills breathed with a life of their own – the whispers of swaying leaves, the rustle of the underbrush, and the occasional call of a distant bird. But the workers often spoke of something else – something older than the trees and darker than the jungle night.
By Hasan Aliabout a year ago in Horror
Blood-Eyed Mirror
#BloodyMirror #BengaliHorrorStory #GhostStory #CursedMirror #MysteriousReflection #Death Prediction #HauntedHouse #BengaliHorrorLiterature
By Md. Atikur Rahamanabout a year ago in Horror