monster

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

You Think Everyone on These Crowded Streets is Human?
Part 1: The Rules of the Road Some stories are told in the dead of night, whispered over the rumble of a diesel engine, tasting of cheap cigarettes and the vast, lonely darkness of the open road. This is one of them.
By SupernaturalEastabout a year ago in Horror
My life was cursed with four trials. The last one was at Narita Airport.
My life has been defined by a prophecy. When I was three years old and dying, my grandmother carried me to a temple on Mount Putuo, a sacred site for Guanyin, the Bodhisattva of Compassion. A wise old abbess told her that my life was not written in the stars; it was a gift, stolen from fate by Guanyin herself. But such gifts come with a price. I would face four great trials—four moments where fate would try to reclaim me. They would come at ages three, thirteen, twenty-three, and thirty-three. Each one would be harder to survive than the last.
By SupernaturalEastabout a year ago in Horror
The Curse of the Sunken God: A True Tale of Suspense from the Guizhou Karst Abyss
Part 1: The Curse of the Sunken God There are stories you hear that burrow under your skin and stay there, cold and wriggling. This is one of them. It’s not my story—not originally—but it found its way to me, and now I feel compelled to pass its chill on to you. It all started a few weeks ago, when I went to visit my old friend, Lao Hei.
By SupernaturalEastabout a year ago in Horror
The Living Dragon's Curse Secrets of Ailao Mountain
Today, I'm going to tell you a mysterious story from China's Ailao Mountains in Yunnan province. It's said that a dragon is hidden there. A living dragon!
By SupernaturalEastabout a year ago in Horror
“The Hotel Room That Vanished Overnight | Creepy Mystery Story”
It was late evening when Amir checked into the old Rosewood Hotel. The city was new to him, a stopover before his conference in the morning, and the narrow cobblestone streets glowed under yellow lamps. The hotel itself looked tired but elegant—its red-brick walls cracked, its entrance framed with ivy. At the front desk, the receptionist, a pale young woman with sharp features, smiled faintly as he wrote his name in the register. “Room 6B,” she said softly. “Up the stairs, second floor. Breakfast at 7.” The key was heavy, brass, with the number engraved. Amir carried his suitcase up creaking wooden stairs, noticing portraits of long-forgotten people staring down from the hallway. When he reached 6B, the door was stiff, the lock reluctant. Inside, the room smelled faintly of lavender and old books. He dropped his suitcase, opened the window, and looked out. Across the street, a man in a black coat stood perfectly still under the lamplight, as if watching the hotel. Amir blinked, and the man was gone. The night passed uneventfully, though Amir dreamed of footsteps in his room, slow and measured. When he woke, the sheets were cold, as if someone had just left. Brushing it off, he dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully. The receptionist frowned. “You must be mistaken. We don’t have a Room 6B.” Amir laughed. “Funny. I slept there last night.” Her expression hardened. She turned the register toward him. His name was missing. The key was gone from his pocket.
By MS Pulseabout a year ago in Horror
Rotflower. Content Warning.
Deline Lowell first saw the flower on a Tuesday morning. It jutted from a crack in the pavement outside her apartment—a black bloom, petals curled like burned velvet. She nearly stepped on it before stopping short. It hadn’t been there yesterday. She bent closer. The smell hit her first—not floral, not earthy. Rot. Sweet and sour, like fruit left to liquefy in the heat. Her stomach turned, yet her eyes stayed fixed on the thing. The bloom looked alive. Breathing. Deline forced herself upright and walked on, telling herself it was only a weed. That night, she dreamed of it spreading. --- In the dream, dozens of black blossoms cracked through the sidewalk, pushed through her walls, wound into her sheets. They thrummed with a pulse she felt in her chest, in her teeth. She woke gagging, certain she could still smell decay, the tang thick in her hair, clinging to her tongue. The next morning, the flower was taller. And now there were two. --- At the hospital, she buried herself in charts and patients, hoping busyness could drown the memory. But exhaustion couldn’t shield her. She began seeing them everywhere. A dark curl at the edge of a waiting room. A petal glinting in glass. Always gone when she blinked, but the smell lingered, sweet, sour, and accusing. By the third week, the flowers weren’t just in her dreams. She woke one night with dirt under her fingernails, her sheets streaked with damp black stains. Her neighbor complained of water damage from her ceiling. Maintenance found nothing. Deline said nothing. She stopped sleeping. --- She confided once, to Morgan, a friend from work. “There’s a flower,” she whispered in the corner of a café, rain streaking the window. “It keeps growing. I see it everywhere. It smells like death.” Morgan frowned. “What kind of flower?” “I don’t know. Black. like a rose, I think it wants something from me.” “You’re overtired,” chuckling he said gently. “Sleep deprivation—” She wanted to believe him. Until his sleeve slipped back. A smear of black soil clung to his wrist. And beneath his skin—something pulsed, like a root pushing deeper.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
Natural Insticts of the Basic Houseplant
“Good morning, Frank, my buddy. I got you some fresh coffee, careful because it is hot,” the gray-haired man with sausagy fingers dangling over my cubicle wall says to me. His voice is like the velvet bench at the center of your hometown strip joint.
By Amos Gladeabout a year ago in Horror
The House That Whispers
M Mehran The townspeople never went near the Holloway house after dark. Children dared each other to touch its rusted gate, teenagers whispered about the shadows in its windows, and old men swore they heard screams on moonless nights. But still, the house stood—quiet, rotting, waiting. Mara wasn’t one to believe in stories. She was a journalist, trained to seek truth behind superstition. When her editor suggested an article about “the most haunted house in town,” she rolled her eyes. But a deadline was a deadline, and so one autumn evening she walked up the broken path toward Holloway house with nothing but a flashlight, a recorder, and her notebook. The air grew colder as she approached. The trees around the house leaned inward, branches like claws. Shingles dangled from the roof, the porch sagged, and the windows looked less like glass than black, unblinking eyes. “Just a house,” Mara muttered, pushing the gate open. The screech of metal echoed far too loud. Inside, the air was stale, thick with mildew. Dust floated in her flashlight beam. The floorboards groaned under each step, as if the house were shifting in its sleep. She clicked on her recorder. “September 14th, 9:42 p.m. Entering Holloway residence. No activity so far.” Her voice sounded small in the vast silence. She moved from room to room, noting peeling wallpaper, overturned furniture, and the faint smell of smoke. Local legend said the Holloways had died in a fire a century ago—parents and two children, trapped in the attic. Some claimed the house burned without flames, that the family suffocated in smoke that never escaped the walls. Mara didn’t believe it. But when she entered the dining room, her flashlight flickered. She slapped the side of it. “Cheap batteries.” That was when she heard it—a faint sound, so soft she thought she imagined it. A whisper. She froze, holding her breath. The whisper came again, like dry leaves brushing against one another. Too faint to make out words, but undeniably human. “Hello?” she called, her voice trembling despite herself. Silence. She forced herself forward, telling her pounding heart to calm down. “Probably the wind,” she muttered into the recorder. “Old houses make noises.” But the air was perfectly still. Upstairs, the smell of smoke thickened. The hallway stretched longer than it should have, lined with doors that seemed too many for the size of the house. Mara’s skin prickled. She opened one door at random—an empty bedroom. Another—just a closet. Then she opened the third. Inside was a child’s room. A small bed stood against the wall, its sheets gray with dust. Toys lay scattered across the floor: a wooden horse, a doll with one glass eye missing, a puzzle half-completed. Her flashlight beam landed on the mirror above the dresser. For the briefest second, she thought she saw movement—not her own reflection, but someone else standing behind her. She spun around. Nothing. Her chest tightened. “I need air,” she whispered. As she turned to leave, the doll rolled across the floor on its own. Mara’s heart lurched. She backed into the hallway, her breath coming fast. “No. No, that’s not—” The whispering began again. Louder this time. Multiple voices overlapping, weaving into each other. Children’s voices. She staggered backward, her flashlight shaking. “Stop it! Who’s there?” The voices rose into a chorus, filling the hallway. The air grew heavy, choking, like smoke pressing into her lungs. She coughed, dropping to her knees. Through the haze, she saw the end of the hallway stretch farther away, doors multiplying, the walls closing in. The house was shifting, reshaping, trapping her. “No… it’s not real… it’s not real…” But her body didn’t care. Panic clawed at her ribs. She crawled toward the stairs, every breath a struggle. Behind her, footsteps pitter-pattered—light, like children running. She dared not look back. At the bottom of the stairs, the whispering stopped. The air cleared. Her lungs ached, but she could breathe again. Mara bolted for the door. Her flashlight beam shook wildly as she sprinted across the living room. She reached the front door and yanked—locked. She clawed at it, pulling, kicking. The door would not move. Then she heard it. A low, rasping voice, different from the children’s whispers. Closer. Right behind her ear. Stay with us. The flashlight flickered and died. Darkness swallowed her scream. — The next morning, joggers passing the Holloway house saw the gate swinging open. Mara’s recorder was found on the front porch, its red light still blinking. The last words it captured were her frantic breaths, a long silence, and then, faintly, the sound of children laughing. The townspeople shook their heads. Another fool who thought she could outsmart the Holloway curse. And the house remained. Quiet, rotting, waiting.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Horror
Little Siren. Top Story - September 2025. Content Warning.
So, here we are again. My travels have taken me far and wide since last we met, Friend. I've got plenty more stories of the dark and disturbing to tell, and I do so enjoy having an audience to listen to them. If you believe your constitution is strong enough, then let us begin.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Horror
The Vanishing Light: The Flannan Isles Mystery
I. The Island at the Edge of the World The Flannan Isles are a scatter of jagged rocks adrift in the cold Atlantic, some twenty miles west of Scotland’s Outer Hebrides. No trees. No towns. Just the scream of seabirds, the howl of wind, and the ceaseless crash of waves on stone. These islands, haunted by superstition and folklore for centuries, were once known to the locals as the “Seven Hunters.” Not exactly a name that screams safe weekend getaway.
By Veil of Shadowsabout a year ago in Horror
SEASON FINALE : The Black Lung Communion: How a Surgeon’s Journal Sparked a Demonic Outbreak
CHAPTER 9: THE WHITE SILENCE Consciousness returned not as a light, but as a suffocating weight. Liam’s first sensation was of pressure...a dense, pillowy mass crushing his chest, filling his mouth and nose. Panic flared, primal and blind. He thrashed, but his limbs were pinned, heavy as stone.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
The Spider Bride
had just stepped into my apartment, carrying a shopping bag with the dress I’d been dreaming about for weeks—the dress I would wear the day Daniel finally came to set the date for our engagement. Excitement bubbled inside me. As soon as I entered my bedroom, I tossed the bag onto the bed and sighed with relief, imagining the moment I would try it on. Then—*ding, ding*. Two messages in a row. My heart leapt. I had set a special notification tone for Daniel’s chats. I grabbed my phone quickly, smiling as I opened the messages. But what I saw wiped the smile straight off my face. The first was a picture of Daniel’s hand. His veins were bulging, darker than I had ever seen them. But that wasn’t what terrified me. Crawling across the center of his veins was a spider—huge, black, its legs stretching unnaturally wide, as if it were living inside his skin. My breath caught. I closed the image immediately, but the second message popped up beneath it: *“Do you see the veins in my hand when I get angry, Lena? This is what they look like now.”* A nervous laugh escaped me as I typed back: *“Okay, that’s creepy. Nice trick. Now remove the toy spider, it looks too real.”* He didn’t answer right away. For a full minute the screen showed “typing…” Then finally, his reply came: *“Remove it? I’m not joking. I told you—this appears when I’m angry.”* My blood ran cold. I typed furiously: *“You’re messing with me, right? This is just some sick joke because you don’t want to set the engagement date? Daniel, this isn’t funny!”* I sat frozen, waiting, my heart hammering against my ribs. After several minutes, another message appeared: *“Why would I joke? It started the day I asked you to marry me.”* I dropped the phone onto my lap, staring at the shopping bag on my bed. The dress inside, once a symbol of joy, now looked like a cruel mockery. My happiness twisted into dread. *“What do you mean it started that day?”* I typed with trembling fingers. *“What are you trying to tell me?”* This time his reply was quicker: *“I’m serious, Lena. Since the moment I decided to propose, I’ve felt something gripping my hand, squeezing my veins. And whenever I get angry—or even think about you—the mark appears.”* The phone almost slipped from my hand. My breathing grew uneven. *“That’s not normal! You need to see a doctor,”* I wrote desperately. *“Maybe it’s some circulation issue—”* His response cut me off, longer this time: *“I’ve been to doctors. They found nothing. They said I was perfectly healthy. But I know something is wrong. Every night, I dream of a massive spider crouching over my bed, whispering in a language I don’t understand. When I wake up, there are marks on my body—scratches, as if something touched me.”* Tears blurred my vision as I typed: *“Daniel, you’re scaring me… Don’t ruin this for me. Don’t make me hate the moment I’ve been waiting for.”* The next message made my entire body go numb: *“I’m not trying to scare you. But maybe… you’re the reason.”* I froze. *The reason?* Before I could type, another message appeared: *“An old woman told me last week… she said there’s a curse on you. She called it a ‘demon lover.’ Anyone who gets too close to you will suffer. The moment I decided to marry you, it chose me.”* My hands went limp. The phone dropped onto the floor. My chest felt like it was caving in. When I finally picked the phone back up, my fingers were shaking. *“Daniel, are you serious? You’re listening to some fortune-teller? This is nonsense, witchcraft! You can’t just believe this and dump it on me!”* He replied almost instantly, as if he’d been waiting for me: *“I didn’t believe it either… until this started happening. You don’t see the scratches on my arms? You don’t see the spider that crawls out of my veins? Lena, I’m not crazy!”* I pressed my palm over my mouth, fighting back a sob. My room suddenly felt suffocating, as though invisible threads were tightening around me. *“Then what do we do?”* I finally typed. Minutes passed before his answer came: *“There’s one way. The woman said the only way to break it is to confront it together. If I leave you, it will stay with you forever and hurt you worse. But if we face it… maybe it will let go.”* The word *confront* sent shivers down my spine. My body trembled violently, but a deeper fear told me there was no escape. That night, Daniel begged me not to sleep alone. He asked me to come to his house. His parents would be there, he said—it would feel safer. I agreed. My parents came with me, but the unease never left. We sat in their living room. His mother and mine spoke quietly, but I barely heard them. My eyes stayed on Daniel. His face was pale, his eyes distant, as if he were listening to something no one else could hear. Suddenly—the power went out. The entire house plunged into darkness. Gasps echoed around the room. My heart slammed against my chest. Daniel grabbed my hand, whispering: *“It’s here.”* The air grew heavy. My nostrils filled with the smell of dust and rot. Dim light from our phones illuminated the room, revealing silvery threads stretched across the furniture—spider webs, fresh and glistening. Then came the skittering sounds. Dozens of tiny shadows darted across the walls. His brother shouted in terror: *“What the hell is that?!”* But before anyone could move, a colossal shadow appeared on the wall beside us. A spider—larger than a man, its eyes glowing red like embers. A voice, thick and unnatural, vibrated through the room: *“She is mine…”* Screams filled the air. I clung to Daniel, paralyzed. His hand burned in mine as the veins glowed crimson, the spider-mark pulsing like it was alive. His father’s voice broke through the chaos: *“Recite the Scripture, Daniel! Now!”* Daniel’s voice rose in a trembling shout, chanting verses he knew by heart. His words cut through the suffocating silence, and the spider shrieked in rage. The webs tightened around me, wrapping my arms and legs like prey. My mother screamed and tried to reach me, but invisible threads dragged her back. Daniel lunged forward, seizing my hand with both of his, reciting louder, his voice steadier. His veins glowed brighter, as though light itself was burning through the curse. The monstrous shadow convulsed, its form breaking apart. Its glowing eyes flickered and dimmed. The webs dissolved into dust. Then—silence. The lights flickered back on. The room was as it had been before. No webs. No shadow. Nothing. Everyone stood frozen, pale and trembling. My mother clutched me in her arms, sobbing. Daniel collapsed in front of me, his face white, his body trembling. But when he looked up, he smiled faintly. *“It’s over. It can’t hurt you anymore.”* I grabbed his hands, tears streaming down my cheeks. *“This is all my fault. You suffered because of me.”* He shook his head. *“No… it was a test. And we faced it together. Love won.”* I looked around the room, still half-expecting the monster to return. But everything was ordinary again. Daniel’s father whispered, his voice shaky: *“We’ll never forget this night.”* Daniel turned to me in front of everyone, holding my hand firmly. *“From now on, there’s no more fear. Our engagement will happen, Lena. Just like we dreamed.”* Through my tears, I managed a trembling smile. For the first time since this nightmare began, I felt something stronger than fear—hope. The demon had tried to claim me. But instead, it had proven that nothing—not even darkness—could tear us apart.
By محمد السبكيabout a year ago in Horror