monster
Monsters and horror go hand in hand; explore horrific creatures, beasts and hairy scaries like Freddy Krueger, Frankenstein and far beyond.
The Educated Ghost
I was in my second year of intermediate. It was the night of the new moon. It was pitch dark all around. I couldn't see anything in front of me. It was almost 11 pm. But 11 pm is very late in my country house. Everyone had turned off the lights and was preparing to sleep. I was walking along the road. By walking, I mean I was returning home. It was a friend's birthday. I was returning home after chatting and eating at that friend's house. All the shops were closed. Only a few dogs were roaming around the road. I crossed the main road and entered the alley. Now, to go to my house, I had to cross this alley. I could hear the chirping of insects. It was a creepy feeling. Of course, I was never afraid of ghosts. Many times, I had come through this alley at around 2/3 am and bought cigarettes from the cigarette shop at the intersection. That day, no such fear crossed my mind. I was walking down the alley. I had a lit cigarette in my hand. I was looking at the road from time to time in the light of my mobile phone and humming the song "Dekha toh tujhe yaar, dil me baje guitar" Just then, in the middle of the alley, I suddenly heard someone say, "Excuse me, brother." I turned the light of my mobile phone around. I looked around but there was no one there. I thought that someone might have said it in one of the houses on either side of the alley. I started walking again. After taking two steps, I heard that call again, "Excuse me, brother," and a small crack in my throat. This time, I stopped. I felt a slight fear, but it was not from a ghost or a kidnapper. I thought again that if I run from here now and it was someone I knew, they would tell everyone about the run and puncture my prestige. My throat was not working. Still, I summoned up artificial courage and said in a serious voice, "Who?" The answer came, "Brother, I am your younger brother's friend. I am in great danger. I need your help." I asked with a little annoyance in my voice this time, "Are you talking like a ghost in this tone?" The answer was, "Brother, I am a ghost. Why should I talk like a ghost when I am a ghost? I didn't know what to say. "Who are you, where are you?" I was just thinking of shouting, "Save me," when he said again, "Brother, put out the cigarette in your hand and throw it away, then I will be able to come to you. You know that ghosts get scared when they see a snake." You can't see me. When you look at me, you can see that the hairs on my body stand on end in fear. Does hair stand on end in fear? I have heard for a long time that hair stands on end in fear. He said that the hairs of your people stand on end in fear. The hairs of our ghosts stand on end in fear and start to stand on end in fear. I didn't throw away the cigarette but gave it a strong pull. The ghost said in a somewhat pleading tone, "Brother, please don't show me fear like this, I have a heart problem." I said, "Who are you, tell me the truth?" I know you are someone I know. You are trying to mistreat me. I don't believe in ghosts. He said, "Don't talk like that, brother. If we call ourselves ghosts, why don't you respect us? Who can deny our existence if you think like this? Did I ever say that humans don't have anything to say, humans don't breathe?" I understood, a ghost with a lot of self-respect. I asked him what do you need from me? How can I help you? He replied, "Brother, I will tell you to please put out the cigarette in your hand and throw it away." The camel has become a camel. If you hold it like this, you will get a little bit of it on your finger. I looked at the cigarette. It is really finished. After a while, I really started to smoke. I threw it away and put it out with my foot. Then I said, now tell me what is your problem? The ghost started telling his story. My name is camel. While I was alive, my name was camel, but when I died, my name became camel. I asked how long ago you died? He replied, "I think you are a few lakhs of years old." Then he said, "My name is camel, I am talking while eating chana." I was surprised and asked if ghosts drink tea again? Utghat said why not? Ghosts drink tea and make people laugh. Ghosts have to stay up all night to scare people. Why do they stay up all night to scare people? I just swallowed a little. I didn't know what to say. I don't want to have tea with any ghost at this time of night. I said, look Utghat, you have to stay up all night to scare people, but I don't have any duty to stay up all night to scare any ghost. I'm going home to sleep, so I won't drink tea now. Tell me about your problem quickly.He started talking again, "Brother, I am a very educated person. I have studied up to class two. I got a scholarship in class five and eight in the talent pool." I stopped him and asked him, "How did you get a scholarship in class five and eight in the talent pool if you studied up to class two?" He replied, "Brother, just like you, you get admitted in class one and study up to masters, but our society is the opposite of yours. You get admitted in masters and then you get admitted in class one and then you get left behind." I said with annoyance in my voice, "What a bunch of stupid rules." Utghat said, "No, brother, these are just rules. Your rules are useless. You studied very well in primary and secondary schools. You studied hard, you studied hard, you studied hard. It is more logical to study hard and go to a lower class than to study hard and go to a higher class. This makes my heart strong. I could not say anything to his logic. Then I asked, "Why did you stop studying till class two?" If you had passed class one, you would have been completely complete. She then said, "That's the story I'll tell you, Bhai." When I entered the class, my class was filled with the name of Cheneha. I lost my love for her while I was still alive. Cheneha became the name of the girl who was about to be married. After that, Bhai, I fell in love with Cheneha. Having said this, she kept quiet again. I asked, "What happened then?" After a few seconds, she said, "I was a little embarrassed to tell the story of my love, so Bhai, I kept quiet for a while." I said to myself, "Even ghosts are embarrassed again." I just said it out loud, then what's the story? Utghat started talking again and I told my friend about my dream house. She did not respond to my proposal at all. I started eating, studying and going to school. One day I wrote a story on a piece of paper, "Look, I am playing the guitar with you" and gave it to her. She liked the story very much. She asked me where I got this story? I am a very educated person. I don't tell lies. I told him that this is a Hindi song from Manav Samaj. This story made me stop listening to it. Then he said that if I can collect this song from Manav Samaj, he will remember me. After that, I started collecting this song by studying and listening. But no one helped me, brother. My ghost, upon hearing my voice, runs in the opposite direction or just stops there and starts to cry. I said, "Why do you introduce yourself as a ghost to everyone? If you wanted, you could have taken the form of a human and taken the song from someone." Utthag replied, "I could have done it, my brother." I could have done many other things, like stealing the mobile phone of someone who has this song on their phone and taking it away. But my brother, I am an educated ghost. I do not lie to anyone or steal or deceive anyone. When I was walking in the alley with my friends because of my sorrow, I could hear them singing this song. Now, my brother, my sister is crying. Saying this, Utgat started laughing. I asked why are you laughing? He said, "I am laughing because of my sorrow, brother." You are crying because of my sorrow, and we are laughing. I told him to stop laughing. He stopped laughing. I asked, "How can I give you the song?" He said, "Brother, I am turning on the Bluetooth on my mobile. Please send it." I searched for "new devices" on Bluetooth. After a while, I saw some hieroglyphics. Utghat said that was the name of his device. It was written in ghost language. I sent the song to that device and said that you could have bought the CD of the song and taken it with you. Utghat said that when you went to buy a ladder, you would have bought it from me by giving me a human identity. You would not sell ladders to anyone in the ghost's corner. I am a ghost who is educated. You cannot buy ladders from anyone by giving false human identities. When you went to buy my ladder, you would have read my money. Where will I get my money, brother. You have nothing to say about money in our ghost society. Our currency is a thorn. With that, you would not have been able to buy a ladder in our society. I am an educated ghost. I would not have been able to steal even a person's money. I was impressed by the honesty of the educated ghost. After a while, the song was completely sent. Utghat started laughing again. I asked, did you get the song. Why are you laughing again? Utghat said, "Brother, this is a laugh of pain, not a laugh of joy." I cannot understand what you are saying to me, brother. As I was saying, "Brother, many great brothers," he started laughing again. I understood that he had become very emotional. I told Utghat that if you ever need any song after this, then come to me. He said, "What's wrong with you, brother?" When will I ever be able to sing a song of the same name in front of my acquaintance? I said, "Well, don't worry about it now. I'm in love with my acquaintance. Now go and complete your studies and get married."Utgat said, "Yes, brother, of course." I will definitely invite you to our wedding, brother. I am an educated person, brother. I never do anything wrong, I will definitely invite you. Then, brother. You will be fine." Saying this, Utgat left laughing (meaning crying). I stood there for a while longer. Then I started walking towards home.
By M Kamrul Islam 2 years ago in Horror
The Cursed Brides
The Cursed Brides: They Were Married to the Darkness In the small, secluded village of Ashmore, there was an ancient tradition that had been passed down for generations. It was a twisted and macabre custom, one that no one dared question. On the eve of each spring solstice, a wedding was held, though it was not the joyous occasion one might expect. The bride was always chosen from the most vulnerable of the village’s young women, often those with troubled pasts or families in debt. And though the groom was never seen, the wedding always went on, and the bride always disappeared. Eliza Thompson, a young woman of 18, had never heard the full story of the cursed weddings. She grew up in the shadows of Ashmore, a town where secrets were as thick as the fog that rolled in from the mountains. Her parents, quiet and reserved, rarely spoke of the past. But when Eliza’s name was whispered by the elders and her fate was sealed, she began to hear the rumors—the ones about the darkness that lingered, the unholy union that demanded a soul every year. Eliza’s parents tried to protect her, but tradition was a powerful force. The night of her wedding, she was led to the altar, her hands trembling beneath the heavy white lace of her dress. Her heart hammered in her chest as she passed by the candle-lit procession of villagers. They all watched in silence, eyes hollow with dread. They knew what this night meant, what it had meant for the past hundred years. But for Eliza, it was the first time she felt the weight of the curse. As she stepped onto the platform, the air turned cold. The wind howled like a distant scream. A figure in dark robes appeared at the far end of the altar. His face was hidden beneath a hood, but Eliza could feel his presence like a pressing weight. The villagers remained silent, their gazes fixed on the scene as if they were mere spectators to something far greater than themselves. The figure spoke in a voice that echoed through her bones. "Do you take this man to be your husband, to honor and obey him, until death do you part?" Eliza didn’t know what to say. She had been taught to say the words, to obey the ceremony. But something within her hesitated. The stories of past brides—their blank, lifeless eyes when they returned from the altar—flashed through her mind. There were no true marriages in Ashmore, only sacrifices to the darkness that dwelled beneath the earth, to something ancient and hungry. But it was too late. The villagers’ chants filled the air, drowning her thoughts, as if they were compelling her to speak. And, with a voice that trembled like the wind outside, she whispered the words, “I do.” The figure raised his hand, and a wave of coldness swept over her. A shadow seemed to stir beneath the altar, thick and viscous, like a living thing. Eliza felt a pull deep within her chest, a force drawing her towards it. The darkness around her began to take shape, twisting into monstrous forms. And then, she felt it—something cold, something evil—wrap around her soul, binding her to the shadow. The villagers began to chant louder, their voices rising in intensity. Eliza tried to scream, but her voice was drowned out by the deafening roar of the wind. The darkness seeped into her body, filling her veins with a black poison. She could feel the life being drained from her, her spirit slipping away, becoming one with the curse. She thought of her family, of her parents’ desperate faces as they watched her transform. But they could do nothing. Tradition had already claimed her. In an instant, the figure in the robe stepped forward, his hands reaching for her. The ceremony was almost complete. Eliza’s vision blurred, her body growing numb as she felt herself being consumed by the darkness. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. The world grew still. The figure before her dissolved into nothingness, leaving her standing alone on the altar. The villagers slowly began to disperse, as if nothing had happened. Eliza looked around, confused. Was it over? Had she survived? But as she turned to leave, she saw something in the reflection of the altar's silver mirror. Her own face, pale and ghostly, stared back at her. Her eyes were empty, lifeless. The wedding veil that had once been white was now a deep, dark crimson. She had become one of them. The cursed brides. The ones who were never truly free, bound to the darkness for all eternity. And as Eliza felt the cold presence wrap around her once more, she understood the truth: the bride’s soul was never meant to return. They were married to the darkness, and the darkness was their groom—forever. And so, year after year, Eliza would stand at the altar, waiting for the next unfortunate girl to take her place, as the curse of the cursed brides lived on.
By Top stories 2 years ago in Horror
The Shadow Behind Her Veil
It was 1:43 a.m. when the knock came again. Soft. Hollow. Almost as if it came from within the walls. I sat up in bed, heart pounding, throat dry. My room was cloaked in darkness, save for the weak moonlight seeping through the old, dusty curtains.
By Noman Afridi2 years ago in Horror
The Silent Room. AI-Generated.
It all began on a rainy evening in November. The kind of evening where the sky was a blanket of gray, and the wind howled through the trees like a warning from something ancient. Ryan had just moved into the countryside, looking for peace away from the chaos of the city. His new home, a small two-story cottage, was nestled between fields and forest, a good hour from the nearest town.
By M Kamrul Islam 2 years ago in Horror
The Reflection That Isn’t Me
The Reflection That Isn’t Me I realized for the first time on Tuesday that I didn't have a problem. Convulsions in the mirror above the sink - a small delay - I choked it down with bad sleep. Maybe I blink late; my brain did the trick. But it happened again.
By Md Asraf Hosain2 years ago in Horror
Whispers Beneath the Floorboards
Whispers Beneath the Floorboards Secrets Buried in Silence, Waiting to Be Heard The house on Windmere Lane had been empty for years, its once-vibrant windows now clouded with dust, the paint on its frame curling like dried leaves. Neighbors whispered about the place in the same way children whispered about monsters—soft, careful, half-believing. When Clara inherited the house from her grandmother, she hadn't expected anything more than a dusty old structure in need of repairs. She was used to old buildings. As a freelance writer with a love for vintage aesthetics, she saw charm in the creaking floorboards and cobwebbed corners. But something about this house was different. From the first night, Clara heard it: faint murmurs just beneath the edge of hearing. At first, she blamed the wind, maybe mice in the walls. But no wind whispers names. And mice don’t say “help me.” She lay awake in the upstairs bedroom, covers pulled up to her chin, as the noises came again. Soft. Insistent. Almost human. Whispers beneath the floorboards. The next morning, Clara began her inspection. Her grandmother had sealed off the basement years ago after an old heating system collapsed. The floorboards in the living room were oddly new compared to the rest of the house—sanded and varnished, yet somehow uneven. She knelt and knocked. Hollow. She tried to forget about it. She told herself she was being dramatic—too many horror books, too little sleep. But the whispers returned that night. Louder. More desperate. “Why did she leave us here?” Clara bolted upright. This was no dream. She grabbed her flashlight and tiptoed down to the living room. The floorboards were warm, unnaturally so. Her fingers trembled as she ran them along the edge of the nearest plank. It was loose. Just slightly. Something told her not to pull it up. But curiosity is a stronger force than fear. She pried up one board, then another, until a dark cavity yawned open beneath her. The old basement—smaller than she expected, almost like a crawl space—was barely three feet deep. She shone her flashlight into the darkness. There, nestled in the dirt and shadows, were toys. Old wooden dolls. A broken tricycle. A child's shoe. And then, a pair of eyes stared back at her. Clara screamed and tumbled backward, the flashlight clattering across the floor. By the time she scrambled to her feet and peered back into the hole, the eyes were gone. The next morning, she went into town and found an old man sitting at the café, sipping coffee slowly. His name was Harold, and he’d lived in the neighborhood all his life. “Your grandmother,” he said, “was a good woman. But strange.” “How so?” “She took in children, back in the 1950s. Orphans. Said she couldn’t bear to see them sent off to homes. But one day… they just stopped coming. And she stopped speaking of them. We assumed they’d grown up or left.” Clara’s skin prickled. “There was a boy,” Harold continued, “James. Red hair. Sweet kid. Disappeared one winter. The police asked questions. Your grandmother said he ran away. But she looked… haunted after that. Like she was hiding something she couldn’t stand to say out loud.” Clara returned to the house that night, mind heavy. The whispers were louder now—no longer begging, but crying. Wailing. Children’s voices, calling names. Pleading for someone to listen. She couldn’t bear it anymore. The next day, she called a local contractor and had the floorboards removed completely. Beneath them, the earth was disturbed, loose in places. And buried beneath, just a few feet deep, were bones. Small bones. The coroner’s report confirmed it—at least three children, their remains decades old. The police reopened the case, and newspapers had a field day. “Murder House on Windmere Lane!” the headlines screamed. Clara watched her family’s name spiral into infamy, her heart sinking under the weight of ancestral guilt. She left the house, moved back into the city. Tried to forget. But the whispers followed. They came not from beneath the floorboards anymore—but from her dreams. From the rustle of paper. From the silence between breaths. “Thank you,” they said sometimes. “She couldn't hear us. But you did.” And sometimes, “Don’t let her hurt us again.” Clara doesn’t sleep much these days. She writes, mostly. Stories about haunted houses, broken families, and secrets buried in silence. And sometimes—on the edge of sleep—she still hears the whispers.
By IRSHAD MUHAMMAD2 years ago in Horror
