monster
Monsters and horror go hand in hand; explore horrific creatures, beasts and hairy scaries like Freddy Krueger, Frankenstein and far beyond.
"The Smiling Man in the Mirror"
The Smiling Man in the Mirror Not Every Reflection Is Yours It started with a smile. Jessica had just moved into her new apartment—a quiet, dusty unit in a weathered building on the outskirts of town. It was cheap, almost suspiciously so, but she was desperate. A recent breakup and a job layoff left her with little choice. The landlord was odd and muttered something about the unit having “character,” but Jessica barely listened. All she needed was a fresh start. The place was old. Creaking floorboards, flickering lights, and walls that felt like they exhaled when no one was looking. The only piece of furniture left behind by the last tenant was an antique mirror, mounted on the bedroom wall. Its frame was ornate, carved with strange curling patterns that reminded Jessica of vines—or veins. She considered taking it down, but when she tried, it didn’t budge. Not even a wiggle. So she left it. The first night was uneventful, save for the strange noises—a tapping from inside the walls, maybe a rat, maybe the pipes. Jessica curled under her blanket and forced herself to sleep. The second night, she noticed something in the mirror. She was brushing her teeth, staring absentmindedly into the glass. For a split second, her reflection didn’t move in sync. Just a flicker—a blink delayed by a fraction of a second. She chalked it up to exhaustion. Maybe the lighting. Maybe nerves. She laughed it off, but a tight chill crawled down her spine. By the third night, the reflection smiled. Jessica hadn’t. It wasn’t a wide grin, not yet. Just a slight curl at the edges of her lips—in the mirror only. She stared, paralyzed, toothbrush still in her mouth. Then she turned her head. So did the reflection, but there was something... off. The eyes. They lingered just a moment too long before following. She left the bathroom light on that night. Over the next few days, it grew bolder. Her reflection smiled more often, even when she didn’t. Sometimes it didn’t blink at all. Other times, it blinked twice when she blinked once. She started avoiding the mirror, throwing a sheet over it. But it never stayed. Every time she returned home, the sheet was on the floor. The mirror always uncovered, always waiting. Jessica called the landlord. “That mirror’s been there a long time,” he said slowly. “Belonged to the original owner. No one’s been able to remove it. Might be best if you don’t mess with it too much.” “Has anyone else reported… strange things?” He went quiet for too long. “The previous tenant… she broke all the mirrors in the unit. Then disappeared.” Jessica hung up. That night, the smiling man stepped out. She had just returned from the grocery store. As she passed the bedroom, something in the mirror caught her eye—a shape, hunched and still. She froze. The room behind her was empty, but in the mirror, someone stood in the corner. A man. Tall, gaunt, his mouth stretched wide into an impossibly toothy grin. He didn't move, but his eyes locked on hers. Jessica spun around. Nothing. When she looked back, the mirror was empty. Her own reflection returned—but now her own smile mirrored his. Wide. Wrong. She barely slept. Dreams came—if they were dreams at all. Shadows pulling her toward the mirror. A voice whispering in a language she didn’t know. Cold hands reaching through the glass. She woke up with a scream caught in her throat and claw marks on her arms. The final night came quickly. Jessica decided she had to destroy the mirror. She grabbed a hammer and swung it with every ounce of strength she had. The blow echoed through the apartment like a church bell—but the mirror didn’t crack. Instead, the reflection laughed. The mirror laughed. Her own face contorted into a mockery of a grin, eyes bulging with glee. The man stood behind her now—closer, clearer. His skin was pale and stretched, his features twisted and sunken like a wax figure left in the sun. And he was smiling, always smiling. Suddenly, her reflection reached out. From the other side, it pressed its hand against the glass—and Jessica felt fingers curl around her wrist. Cold. Strong. She screamed and pulled back, falling hard onto the floor. When she looked up, her reflection remained—still smiling, but now alone. Except… something was wrong. The room looked off. The curtains were on the wrong side. The picture frames were reversed. She stood slowly and realized she wasn’t looking into the mirror anymore. She was inside it. Trapped. On the other side, in her bedroom, she saw herself—or the thing that had taken her place. It turned toward the door, picked up her keys, and walked away, still smiling. She slammed her fists against the glass. Screamed. But no sound passed through. The mirror shimmered, silent and unmoving. She remains there still, staring out from the wrong side of the glass. Watching. Waiting. And sometimes—if you look too long into your mirror—you might see her. And if you do… whatever you do, don’t smile back.
By Top stories about a year ago in Horror
Whisper in Hollow Pine
After the fire took her husband, Clara Dawson needed more than a change—she needed escape. With her two children, 11-year-old Lily and 7-year-old Ben, she fled the chaos of the city to Hollow Pine, a sleepy Appalachian town wrapped in mist and memory. Their new home was a towering Victorian at the edge of town, overgrown with ivy and draped in shadows. Locals said it had been empty for decades. Some muttered darker things: curses, shadows, hauntings.
By HABIBULLAH KHANabout a year ago in Horror
The Return of Doctor Mandible
Doctor Mandible tightened his hands on the viewfinder. It was mounted, solid, to the console in front of the window, but the rage-shaking of his body made it look like the instrument might tumble from its perch and shatter on the floor. A rodent crossed the floor, then stopped and ran back through the crack in the wall where it had entered.
By Noel T. Cumberlandabout a year ago in Horror
The Midnight Hour of Terror”
The village was named Bospur. A tiny place, surrounded by paddy fields and bamboo groves. At its heart stood an old, decaying mansion—*Bos Bari*. Once a grand estate belonging to Zamindar Raghunath Bose, now it was a crumbling monument to fear and forgotten history. The house was abandoned. No one dared go near it. The reason? A chilling tale of an unnatural death that had haunted the villagers for decades. Twenty years ago, Raghunath Bose’s only son, Ranjit Bose, mysteriously disappeared one night. He had returned from the city for the holidays and went to bed like usual—but by morning, he was gone. A week later, his body was found floating near the old pond behind the mansion. His face was contorted with fear, eyes wide open, and the corners of his lips twisted in a disturbing, silent grin. The official report said he had drowned, but the villagers whispered otherwise. They believed something unnatural had taken him. Something still lurking in that house. Years passed, and from the city came Rohit Sen—a young journalist working for an online magazine called *Mysteries of Bengal*. His job: to investigate supernatural legends and separate myth from truth. [05/05, 10:18 am] Chatgpt: At the village entrance, he met old Sudhanshu Babu, once the estate’s manager. The old man said, “The boy wasn’t afraid of anything... but that night, he saw something no human mind should see.” Rohit smiled politely. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, Dadu. Just stories.” Sudhanshu’s eyes narrowed. “Some fears don’t just raise goosebumps... they leave scars on the soul.” Still determined, Rohit decided to spend one night in the mansion. He arrived around 6 PM, carrying a camera, tape recorder, torch, and a small tent. Inside, the house was full of dust and cobwebs. The wind whistled through broken windows, and on one wall still hung an old portrait of Raghunath Bose—eyes stern, gaze almost alive. By 10 PM, the camera rolled. Nothing unusual happened. At 11:30 PM, the recorder picked up a faint sound—sobbing. Rohit dismissed it as the wind or a bird. He sat back to take notes. At exactly 11:55 PM, footsteps echoed—slow, heavy, deliberate. It sounded like someone was tapping a cane on the wooden floor, approaching his room. He crept to the door and opened it gently. No one. Then the lights flickered. The door slammed shut by itself. The air grew cold, unnaturally so. [05/05, 10:18 am] Chatgpt: At the stroke of midnight, he heard a clock chime—once, twice... twelve times. But there was no clock in the house. From the shadows of the wall, a figure emerged—tall, cloaked in darkness, with glowing red eyes. Rohit froze. The figure spoke: “You came seeking truth? Come then... see the night I died.” Rohit couldn’t speak. The figure pointed to the wall. Suddenly, the wall morphed into a living painting. It showed Ranjit’s final night. He was being pushed toward the pond by another shadowy figure. Ranjit’s face showed terror, betrayal. The painted Ranjit screamed, “My death wasn’t an accident... I was betrayed!” Then, the shadow in the image turned to face Rohit and whispered, “You will write the final page of my story.” Rohit fainted. The next morning, villagers found him unconscious in the courtyard. They rushed him to the local hospital. When he regained consciousness, all he said was, “He’s still waiting... for justice.” Rohit never published the article. Instead, he wrote a private journal entry: “Not all mysteries can be solved with science. Some truths are only understood when seen. Like Bos Bari... some histories are not meant to be told, but to be respected—and feared.” -
By Fahad Khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Hollow Rider
I. Whispers in the Pines I. Whispers in the Pines The village of Black Hollow sat in the cradle of a dying forest. The trees stood crooked like bent old men, their branches clutching at the fog that never seemed to lift. Only one road led in or out, a narrow dirt path called Gallows Way. The name was no accident
By Tushar Bhattacharyaabout a year ago in Horror
"The Haunting Truth: My Childhood Home Was Really Haunted by a Ghost"
I was always skeptical about ghosts—until I experienced living with one. My childhood home was a small, old structure nestled on the outskirts of a peaceful town. It appeared lovely from the exterior: a white porch, blooming flowerbeds, and a spacious yard. However, its interior concealed a mystery that would trouble me for many years. The initial indications were subtle. Lights would flicker inexplicably. Doors had a tendency to swing open on their own. The kitchen tap would activate without anyone near it. My parents attributed these occurrences to aging electrical systems or fluctuations in air pressure, yet I sensed there was something unusual. At times, the atmosphere seemed dense, as if the house itself was withholding something. It was my younger brother, Max, who was the first to voice his thoughts. One evening, he whispered while clutching his blanket, “There’s a lady upstairs.” At five years old, he was much younger than my ten years. I chuckled awkwardly, dismissing his statement. Yet, I too had witnessed something: a shadow gliding by my door during the night when everyone else was asleep. A faint sigh would resonate in the stillness of the house. On one particular night, Max let out a piercing scream. My parents and I hurried into his bedroom. He was huddled under his blanket, trembling. “She was watching me,” he sobbed. “She was right there.” He directed his finger towards the corner of the room. That night marked the moment I genuinely experienced fear in that house.
By Mohammad Rifat about a year ago in Horror
Pathogen: Ch. 13
This was dumb. Probably the dumbest, stupidest, most idiotic thing Marnie had ever done in all her sixteen years. The minute Bianca suggested it, she should've said, "no thank you," and left while the getting was good. Instead, here she was: sneaking back into her own house in broad daylight to raid her mom's closet.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Horror
"The Clockmaker’s House"
An old house with shattered stained-glass windows and a crooked chimney stood in the forgotten Dalemar village, hidden by thick fog and mossy trees. It had once belonged to the renowned clockmaker Elias Grinwell, whose creations were said to be as precise as the heartbeat of time itself. The house was left to rot after Elias's mysterious disappearance fifty years ago. At midnight, whispers of ticking sounds emanated from its crumbling walls. No one dared go near — not because of the sounds, but because time behaved strangely around it.
By Dr Sazidul about a year ago in Horror
The Whispering Mirror
In a small, fog-covered village nestled at the edge of Blackwood Forest, there was a legend about an old mirror locked away in the attic of a crumbling manor house. The house had belonged to the Grayson family, who mysteriously vanished one night over a century ago.
By VISHWANATHAabout a year ago in Horror
The Reflection within the Window. AI-Generated.
It was a stormy evening when Nora arrived at the little, disconnected cabin. The kind of cabin that continuously appeared more like an antique from a forgotten time, tucked absent within the woods, remote from civilization. She had leased it out for the end of the week in an endeavor to induce absent from the push of her work within the city. The steady commotion, the due dates, the perpetual gatherings. The guarantee of peace and calm had been as enticing to pass up. The cabin was ancient, with creaky wooden floors and dividers lined with tidy. However, there was a certain charm to it—the rural magnificence of the place was verifiable. It had everything Nora required: a chimney, a cozy easy chair, and a little kitchen where she seemed to make her favorite dinners. She unloaded her packs, unloading her books, her camera, and a bottle of wine. She aims to unwind and possibly get a little work done. As night fell, the storm exterior sawthed harder, with flashes of lightning lighting up the sky. The wind cried through the trees, and the rain battered against the windows. Nora lit the fireplace and settled into the easy chair with a glass of wine, opening a book, attempting to lose herself in its pages. That was when she took note of it. At first, it was subtle—a slight development within the corner of her eye. She thought it was fair that the glinting firelight was playing tricks on her. But at that point, as she glanced toward the huge window before her, she saw something. Or maybe, somebody. A figure standing fair outside the window. Nora solidified. The figure was tall, dressed in dull clothing, and stood unmoving within the rain. She might see the layout of their confront, clouded by the beads of water spilling down the glass. Her heart started to race. There was no way anybody might be out there in this storm. The cabin was miles from the closest town. She stood up and slowly went to the window. Her breath opened the glass as she peered into the darkness. There was no one there. The storm was furious, but he disappeared. Nora released it as her spirit and played the tricks. The quarantine, the eerie noise of wind, the faintly lit shadows of the room were enough to make all the delusions. But strange events happened more frequently afterwards. The next night, as the storm continued its relentless attack, Nora sat by the fire, trying to concentrate on her work. She heard a knock on the window. She thought it was part of the storm, as she was very weak at first. But it grew as if someone was pounding a bit, trying to get their attention. Noras Pulse has accelerated. She stood up to face what was outside. She approached the window and opened a crack. The cold, humid air rushed, and it rose. There was no one there. But something else noticed her - the reflection of the glass. Your heart has pop out. Reflections belonged to their own face, but were distorted and turned into grotesque expressions. It seemed someone took a picture of her and twisted it into something much darker. Her eyes widened in fear, and her mouth screamed. The reflection moved as if it wasn't at all, but it was trying to release myself. Nora snapped and tripped backward. The reflection faded, and she hit the window to block it. Her hands trembled. Her heart competed in confusion and fear. What happened? Has she lost her heart? The rest of the weekend was a blur of sleepless nights and awful visions. Every time Nora looks at the window, the reflection changes. Sometimes, she looked at her face, but with completely black eyes. In other cases, it was the face of something else - something she didn't recognize. The window was a portal to something else, and didn't show her what was outside, but she didn't show anything that was in her own spirit. When we arrived on Sunday evening, Nora was mad. She grabbed her bag and was ready. But before she could do that, she decided to take a look through the window for the last time. She stood in front of the glass, her hands shaking as she slowly pulled back the curtains. There was nothing for a while. Only storms fluctuate in the wind. But it was there - a reflection. It wasn't twisted anymore this time.It was her. I stood in front of the window and came back. However, Nora did not move. She didn't flash. Her reflection remained silent. - As Cold Raw the spine, please tell me if you want to extend the line within the word limit or expand the version with a stronger turn.
By Latest Update about a year ago in Horror
