monster

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

Whispers of Elderglen
Elderglen was a long-forgotten village tucked away in the woods, surrounded by unknown hills. No one remembered when it was built, or who had lived there. The majority of people in the towns nearby said that it had always been abandoned—just a collection of crooked cottages, sagging barns, and a crumbling, ivy-covered church tower. But there were whispers.
By Snigdha Ahmed about a year ago in Horror
The Hollow Street House
They said that the house on Hollow Street was cursed. No one had lived there for nearly thirty years. Its porch sagged with age, and its windows were empty, watching eyes. The locals told tales of screams at night, lights that flickered by themselves, and shadows that moved without anyone being there. However, Daniel, then seventeen, was against ghost stories. When his family moved to town, the old Hollow house was the only one they could afford. The rumors were laughed off by his parents. His father stated, "Just old wood creaking." "Houses do not spook people." However, as soon as they moved in, Daniel realized that something was wrong. On the first night, as he unpacked boxes in his room, he felt cold air against his neck, though the windows were shut. He turned quickly, but no one was there. Then he heard it—a faint tapping sound from inside the walls.
By Snigdha Ahmed about a year ago in Horror
The Whispering Room
In a quiet village tucked between foggy hills, there lived a little girl named Elara. She was eight years old, a little bit too brave for her own good, and curious. On the outskirts of town, her family had just moved into a stone cottage that had been vacant for as long as anyone could remember. The only thing the villagers ever said about the house was that it was "old" and "strange." However, it enchanted Elara. It had creaky wooden floors, dusty chandeliers, and long, dark hallways that seemed to whisper secrets when the wind blew.
By Snigdha Ahmed about a year ago in Horror
One Night. One Rule. And One Secret Too Many.
Emily thought it was just a simple babysitting job. One night. One rule. But the mansion she entered held secrets darker than she could imagine. A cursed legacy. A child lost to time. And a bloodline she couldn't escape.
By Gift Abotsi about a year ago in Horror
Haunted University Hostel in Malaysia | Real Ghost Encounter (2018)
The time period was 2018. At that time, my wife, who was my then fiancée and is my current wife now, was studying in Malaysia at a government university. I was studying at a university in North America. So, during that time, we had to go through a long-distance relationship for a few days. Malaysia and the country where I was staying, North America, had a significant time difference — almost day and night. That means, if it was midnight here, then in North America it would be midnight, but in Malaysia it would be around 3 PM or so. There was quite a time gap.
By Lilyabout a year ago in Horror
The Man Who Watched Me Sleep
I always believed I was a heavy sleeper — the type who could snooze through thunderstorms or loud city traffic. That belief changed last winter, in a quiet, snow-covered village where I had gone to escape the chaos of city life. I rented a small wooden cabin in a secluded part of northern Vermont. No neighbors. No internet. Just a fireplace, a stack of books, and endless silence. It was perfect — or so I thought. On my second night there, I woke up suddenly at around 3:17 a.m. My heart was racing, though I couldn’t understand why. There was no sound. No storm. No reason. But something didn’t feel right. It felt like I wasn’t alone. Brushing it off as paranoia, I turned over and tried to fall back asleep. But before I could close my eyes, I felt a distinct chill. Not the kind that comes from cold air, but the kind that crawls down your spine. And then… I heard it. A faint creak. It was soft, like someone stepping carefully on old wooden floorboards. I held my breath, straining my ears. Another creak — closer this time. I wanted to believe it was the cabin settling, or perhaps a wild animal outside. But it wasn’t. I could feel the presence now. Someone — or something — was in the cabin with me. I slowly reached for the flashlight on my bedside table, but it wasn’t there. Strange — I always kept it there. My phone was dead too; I had forgotten to charge it. Cursing silently, I sat up in bed, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. That’s when I saw it. A tall, shadowy figure was standing at the foot of my bed. Perfectly still. Not moving. Not breathing. Just… watching me. My body froze. I wanted to scream, to run, to do anything, but I was paralyzed. We stared at each other in complete silence. After what felt like hours, the figure slowly turned and walked toward the door. It didn’t open the door. It simply faded into the darkness. When morning came, I convinced myself it was a dream. A vivid, terrifying dream caused by isolation and cold. I packed my bags, ready to leave — but something stopped me. On the wooden floor near the foot of the bed, there were footprints. Large, muddy, and human. I hadn’t stepped there. No one else had access to the cabin. I checked the door — locked. The windows — sealed. Still, those prints were real. I took a photo with my now-charged phone and left immediately. But the story doesn’t end there. Back home in the city, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. At night, I heard soft breathing near my bed. My dog growled at empty corners. I started waking up at exactly 3:17 a.m. — every night. One night, I decided to set up a motion-triggered camera facing my bed. I needed proof that I was either losing my mind — or that something had followed me back. The next morning, I checked the footage. At exactly 3:17 a.m., the camera detected motion. The room was pitch black, but the infrared captured everything. There it was. The same figure. Tall. Still. Standing over my bed. Watching me sleep. But the worst part wasn’t the figure. It was me. I was smiling in my sleep. A wide, unnatural smile. One I never remembered making. One that didn’t look like it belonged to me at all. I moved out of my apartment that day. Burned the mattress. Threw away the camera. I’ve tried to forget, tried to move on. But every night, no matter where I sleep, I wake up at 3:17 a.m. And sometimes, just sometimes… I catch a glimpse of someone disappearing into the shadows. Still watching. Still smiling.
By Towsinabout a year ago in Horror
The Silent Knock
I never believed in supernatural stories. Not really. I used to laugh them off as exaggerated village gossip. But something happened to me in 2021 that shook my reality in a way I still haven’t recovered from. I wasn’t hallucinating, I wasn’t dreaming, and I wasn’t alone. It started when I went to visit my maternal grandmother’s home in a rural part of Netrokona, Bangladesh. It’s one of those areas where the mobile signal disappears after 8 PM, and the air feels heavier at night. The house is old, built on the remnants of a structure even older. Clay walls, bamboo fences, and stories that the elders never quite finished. The first three days were peaceful. I read old books, explored nearby fields, and slept like a baby. But on the fourth night, something changed. I woke up around 2:30 AM, thirsty. The house doesn’t have indoor plumbing, so I walked to the water jug in the courtyard. As I passed through the hallway, I noticed something that made me stop cold. There was a door in the wall opposite mine. A door that was never there before. I’ve been visiting this house every year since I was a child. That wall has always been solid—no cracks, no frames, just a painted clay surface. But now, a wooden door stood there with an iron handle, blackened by age. The wood looked ancient, carved with markings—like runes or warnings. I stepped closer. I wasn’t dreaming—I was fully awake. I reached out to touch the handle. It was ice cold. A shiver ran through my spine, and the air in the hallway thickened—as if something was watching me. The moment my skin touched the iron, I heard a voice. But not with my ears—inside my head. It whispered: “Don’t open what you cannot close.” I pulled my hand back. My heart pounded. Just then, my uncle walked out of his room, yawning. He looked at me, then at the door, and then… didn’t react. He simply asked, “Water?” I stammered, “Uncle… that door… do you see it?” He squinted, looked around, and said, “What door? You okay? Go get water.” I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. And in the morning—the door was gone. The wall was normal again, as if nothing had happened. I convinced myself it was a half-awake dream. My mind was tired, that’s all. Until the last night. That night, a storm hit. The kind where wind howls like a scream and trees bang against the windows. Power went out before 10 PM. I was lying in bed when I heard it: Knocking. Not from outside. From inside the house. Three slow, heavy knocks. Thok… Thok… Thok… Coming from that same wall. I sat up, my skin cold with fear. I opened the door slowly, flashlight in hand. The door was back. Same markings. Same black iron handle. But now—there were fingernail scratches on the wood. As if someone—or something—had been clawing from the inside. The air was thick with something I can't describe—like a mixture of mud, incense, and rot. My flashlight flickered, then died. Then I heard it. Breathing. Heavy. Wet. Close. Then… a voice. This time, not in my head. Real. It whispered: “I never left.” I ran. I didn’t look back. I locked myself in my grandmother’s room until sunrise. In the morning, once again—the door was gone. Back in Dhaka, I started researching. I asked old neighbors about the house. Most said nothing. One elderly man, barely able to speak, told me the house was built on the foundation of another. It had belonged to a man named Yusuf who practiced dark rituals. People whispered that he’d created a “gateway.” He was found dead in 1963, aged unnaturally. No signs of injury. Just… aged beyond time. His house was destroyed later, but the land remained. And my grandmother’s home was built right there. Since then, I haven’t returned. But sometimes, late at night, I still hear knocking. Only three knocks. Always three. Thok… Thok… Thok… And then—when the world goes still— A voice whispers from the shadows of my room: “I never left.” And when I turn to look, there is no door—only wall. But I know it’s waiting.
By Towsinabout a year ago in Horror
The Forgotten Room. AI-Generated.
The letter from the estate lawyer arrived three weeks after Mom's funeral. My childhood home in Pinehaven was now officially mine—all 3,800 square feet of fading Victorian glory, complete with sagging porch and creaking floorboards. I hadn't set foot in the place since leaving for college twelve years ago, maintaining only the most perfunctory relationship with Mom through occasional phone calls and obligatory holiday visits at my apartment in the city.
By A S M Rajib Hassan Choudhuryabout a year ago in Horror
Echoes of Fear and Strength: A Mother’s Journey Through Everyday Horror
This Is My Entry for the “Haunted Horizons” Challenge I never thought I’d find myself excited about taking on a creative challenge—but here I am, pen in hand, heart full of gratitude for a prompt that has shaken me out of my everyday routine. The “Haunted Horizons” challenge reached me at a time when my life felt monotonous and constricted, where every day blurred into the next. It pushed me to look inside, dig up old memories, and challenge myself to narrate a personal tale that is both raw and real. “Who’s your favourite horror icon?” my best friend teased over coffee one chilly autumn morning. I grinned before replying, “It has to be Michael Myers from Halloween (1978)!” Her raised eyebrow said it all: of all the spooks and ghouls, the silent, relentless Michael Myers had somehow grown to symbolize resilience for me. I remember the first time I sat down to watch Halloween. I was about fourteen, gathered around the flickering glow of a borrowed VHS tape at a friend’s slumber party. In that dimly lit room, with blankets piled high and hearts pounding with excitement, I was introduced to a world where fear was an invitation to lean in closer rather than to run away. The tension, the unexpected screams, and the cold efficiency of Michael Myers captivated me, even if I couldn’t fully understand why I was so drawn to what many would call a nightmare. The movie wasn’t just about terror—it was about survival, about facing something unstoppable. That lesson has echoed through the tumultuous journey of my own life. Now, in the midst of the roller-coaster ride that is motherhood, I find that same strange comfort in horror films. Like the eerie silence before a scream, there are moments in parenting when I feel utterly overwhelmed and yet, against all odds, I manage to endure. My toddler’s unpredictable tantrums, sleepless nights, and chaotic nappy mishaps have their own kind of horror that only a parent can truly appreciate. It’s as if I’m living in a horror flick of my own making—one where the stakes are high, and every day demands courage. Fear Every morning, as I watch my little one stir from sleep, I find myself battling a familiar fear: am I doing this right? Motherhood is like living in a horror movie, where the lurking dread isn’t about a masked killer outside the window, but about my internal dread of inadequacy. I worry over missed milestones, the terrifying possibility of making the wrong choices that might affect his future. My heart races much like it did during those pulse-quickening scenes in Halloween—when the music swelled, and you knew something was about to happen. Yet, there is a beauty in that fear. It reminds me that I care deeply, that every decision matters, and that even in moments of terror, there lies the potential for triumph. Gore Let me take you back to a recent “gory” episode in my own life. I had just managed to put my usually fussy toddler to bed after what seemed like an eternity. In those rare quiet minutes, I decided to embrace a long-overdue bubble bath. Just as I began to relax, my son—a tiny cyclone of mischief—decided to test the physics of his environment. In his enthusiastic exploration of ‘mommy’s world’, a rubber duck flew off the edge of the bathtub, landing with a splash in the middle of my meticulously arranged bath bombs and scrubs. While my clean, soothing bath transformed into a sudsy battlefield, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Yes, there was a moment of mild chaos—the kind that, in a horror movie, would be underscored by dramatic music—but in my life, it was a reminder that sometimes, a little mess is just life happening. Humour Despite the fears and occasional messes, humor is my saving grace. Much like the one-liners in classic horror films that break the tension before the next scare, humor appears in the most unexpected moments of motherhood. One evening, after a particularly trying day, my son toddled over to me with his head slightly askew, holding up his favorite toy—a squishy dinosaur. With deadpan seriousness, he proclaimed, “Mama, even dinosaurs sometimes need hugs!” That simple, innocent statement completely dissolved my worries. It was as if he knew exactly the prescription I needed: a reminder that in the midst of chaos, there is always a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. In those instances, I see the lighter side of life, and I relish the ironic twist that even horror movies can be filled with moments of warmth and levity. Resilience If horror movies have taught me anything, it’s that resilience is a superpower. Michael Myers might seem unkillable in his relentless pursuit, and Sidney Prescott was not a pushover either. They kept coming back, survivors in a world where giving up was never an option. Each setback I face as a mother—from sleep-deprived meltdowns to the fear of not measuring up—I tackle with the quiet determination of a horror heroine. Some days, I wake up feeling like I’ve barely scraped through another round of chaos, but when I see my child’s wide, trusting eyes or hear him giggle at something silly, I know I’ve triumphed. I remind myself: if a relentless force like horror can thrive against all odds on screen, then so can I. Every day in motherhood is its own movie—a blend of suspense, unexpected surprises, laughter, and a dash of chaos. I am learning that what scares me the most is often the thing that makes me strongest. Every mess, every moment of terror, and every silly giggle is a frame in this ongoing film of life. And just like my favourite horror icons, I may stumble, I may even scream for a moment, but I will always rise again. To paraphrase a line from one of my cherished films, “This is life, not a scripted movie.” Yet within this unscripted, often chaotic life, I find that horror and hope, fear and fun, can coexist. I welcome every unexpected twist and every unplanned scene because they’re the very elements that make my story uniquely mine. And so, dear reader, I share this with you: in the echoing silence after the scream, in the splash of a rubber duck turned airborne, and in the brave battles fought with pillows and baby wipes, there lies an unspoken truth—resilience, humor, and a touch of terror are the ingredients that forge a life worth living.
By verifiedabout a year ago in Horror
The Enigma of the Lizard Man
Deep in the swamps and backroads of South Carolina, a creature straight out of folklore has left locals and experts baffled for decades. Dubbed the "Lizard Man," this humanoid reptilian entity has sparked fear, fascination, and a million-dollar bounty—yet its existence remains one of America’s most enduring mysteries.
By Andy Carabout a year ago in Horror
"The Last Message Before Midnight" . Content Warning.
It all started with a text message. 11:47 PM. Buzz. One notification. One sentence. "Don’t let midnight come, or it all resets."
By Shawn kellyabout a year ago in Horror
The Patient in Room 13
Prologue: The Midnight Admission St. Ignatius Hospital - Classified Admission Log *"12:14 AM - Male Caucasian, severe radiation-type burns (pattern matches 1945 Trinity test subjects). Delivered by unmarked military vehicle. Patient screaming in backwards English until sedation. Notable anomalies:
By Majid Masoodabout a year ago in Horror