monster
Monsters and horror go hand in hand; explore horrific creatures, beasts and hairy scaries like Freddy Krueger, Frankenstein and far beyond.
The Last Door
# The Last Door The basement door creaked as I pushed it open, the sound echoing in the empty house. My aunt and uncle's footsteps had faded minutes ago, their car pulling out of the driveway with promises to return before dark. At seventeen, I was finally deemed responsible enough to stay home alone—a rare privilege during my summer visits.
By A S M Rajib Hassan Choudhuryabout a year ago in Horror
The Village That Wasn’t There"Horror"
It began with a glitch on Amelia’s GPS. She was a freelance travel vlogger exploring forgotten towns for her YouTube channel, “WanderDark.” On a stormy afternoon, while driving through the countryside of northern England, her GPS rerouted unexpectedly, pointing toward a location labeled “Rookmere.” But the strange thing was—Rookmere didn’t appear on any map. Google. Apple. Even paper roadmaps. Nothing. She turned off the main road, curiosity burning like a fuse. As the rain poured and mist rolled in, a faded wooden sign emerged from the gloom: > “Welcome to Rookmere. Population: 31.” But no one seemed to live there. II. The Silent Village The village looked like a painting—cobbled streets, ivy-covered stone cottages, and a church tower that rose like a broken finger against the gray sky. Yet, not a single soul was seen. Shops stood with doors open, candles burned in windows, bread lay warm on bakery shelves—but no people. Only crows. Hundreds of them. She knocked on doors. No answer. She called out. Her voice vanished like smoke. Amelia set up her camera, documenting everything. “An abandoned village with warm food?” she said on camera. “Something’s not right here.” She would be right. And horribly wrong. III. The Note In the old inn, she found a guest ledger. The last name was from 1974. Underneath it, scribbled in a hurried hand: > “If you see them, don’t speak. If you hear them, don’t run. If you stay past dusk— You’re one of us.” Suddenly, the air turned heavier. The sun, still high minutes ago, now dipped fast behind the hills. She decided to leave. Her car wouldn’t start. Her phone had no signal. And when she returned to the road, the sign at the entrance was gone. There was no exit. IV. Shadows at Dusk At twilight, they came. Not people. Figures. Translucent, jerking like broken puppets, drifting between the buildings. Their mouths hung open, but no sound emerged. Their eyes were hollow. One of them reached toward Amelia. She screamed, bolting into the church. Inside, the air was different. Still, but safe. On the pulpit was a journal. It told the story of Rookmere. V. The Curse In 1842, a traveling priest cursed the village for its sins—unknowable, unforgivable. The curse erased Rookmere from maps, memories, and time itself. Now, the village lingers between worlds, appearing only to those who stumble upon it. And once seen, it doesn’t let you leave. Every visitor becomes part of it. The shadows outside? They were once travelers too. The journal’s last page was signed: > Amelia Knight. March 3rd, 2021. The same name. Her name. Same date. Same handwriting. Her hands trembled. She didn’t write it. Not yet. But she would. VI. Loop Day resets. Every morning she wakes in the same inn, bread still warm, streets still silent. Every night the shadows return. Every escape leads her back to the center of Rookmere. She’s recording every day, filling tapes with warnings, hoping someone will find them. But she knows the truth: > Rookmere only shows itself to those already lost. The Twist Months later, a man named Theo receives a strange package: a weathered camcorder and a journal with the name Amelia Knight inside. There's no return address. He watches the footage—her eyes wide with fear, her voice breaking as she pleads, > “If you see Rookmere… Don’t go.” He opens his GPS. It reroutes. To Rookmere. And so it begins again.
By Rakibul Islamabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers of the Palasik
In a quiet village nestled between the misty highlands of West Sumatra, there lived an old healer named Mak Rina. Known for her midwifery skills and potions made from forest herbs, she helped many women during childbirth. But some whispered that she never aged… and that babies born near her hut often fell mysteriously ill — or vanished.
By Maulana Dimasiqi Akhnakhauri Akeyla Syahabout a year ago in Horror
The Curse of Hantu Kum-Kum
In the heart of Kalimantan’s thick rainforest, in a small Dayak village nestled by the banks of the Mahakam River, lived a midwife named Nek Tini. Known for her herbal knowledge and powerful mantras, she was both respected and feared. Rumors whispered that she once dabbled in black magic — using spells from the old days, when shamans would speak to spirits and sacrifice animals to keep peace between the worlds.
By Maulana Dimasiqi Akhnakhauri Akeyla Syahabout a year ago in Horror
Pathogen, Ch. 11
While Marnie was still reeling from shock, Julian leaned over the center console and took a peek out her window. A second later, he threw himself violently in the other direction, kicking open the passenger side door in the process. Marnie grimaced at the sound of him tossing his cookies onto the asphalt, but she couldn't blame him for it a bit. Honestly, it was all she could do to keep from tossing her own cookies. Tossing cookies felt like a very appropriate response to seeing a gore-covered zombie sitting in a pile of what used to be a person.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Horror
The Midnight Caller
The phone would ring every night at midnight; nobody was ever on the other end. Up until one night, I answered. The first call arrived exactly one week following my arrival at the old Victorian on Maple Street. From the brink of sleep, a loud ring sliced through the nocturnal calm, shocking me. Fumbling in the dark, I responded groggily, "Hello?" only to be confronted with emptiness—not even the politeness of breathing or background sounds. just nothing.
By A S M Rajib Hassan Choudhuryabout a year ago in Horror
The Haunting of Rumah Hantu
It was a cool evening in the bustling city of Jakarta, Indonesia. The city was alive with the hum of traffic, the call of street vendors, and the bright lights that pierced through the haze of smog. But amidst the life of this sprawling urban landscape stood a house that time had forgotten, or perhaps, one that no one dared remember.
By Sabiha Sumsabout a year ago in Horror
The Hollow God of Semarung
Deep in the forgotten jungles of Semarung, where no satellite signal dares to linger, there is a whispered myth passed down by trembling lips of the village elders: the tale of Raksha Naya, the Hollow God.
By Maulana Dimasiqi Akhnakhauri Akeyla Syahabout a year ago in Horror
