monster

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

The Last Light of Blackwood House
The wind, a mournful banshee, tore at the ancient oaks surrounding Blackwood House, a sound Elara had come to associate with the deeper, internal chill that had settled in her bones. She clutched her worn cardigan tighter, the threadbare wool offering little defence against the pervasive cold that seeped from the very stones of the manor. Tonight, it felt different. Heavier. More…final.
By MUHAMMAD JALALabout a year ago in Horror
I Left the Door Unlocked for a Reason. Content Warning.
They always assume it’s a mistake. The lock. The door. The way it rests ajar with just enough darkness behind it to look accidental. That’s what they tell themselves — that maybe I was in a rush. Maybe I forgot. Maybe I’m just careless. I’m patient. I wait behind that door with the lights off, barefoot, silent, head tilted to listen — not for footsteps, but for hesitation. That beautiful, charged silence where prey wonders whether to enter. They always do. Because I’ve done my part. The grocery bags I helped carry up the stairs. The polite smile at the mailbox. The stutter, the shy wave, the worn hoodie two sizes too big. It disarms them. Wraps around them like wool. You can’t fear the quiet one. The pushover. The kind boy in 3C. They never suspect that I want them to come in. I don’t hunt in alleys or wear a mask. That’s for the movies. No, my kills are soft. Tender. Intimate. I invite them in. And they cross that threshold like a lamb stepping into the slaughterhouse—still thinking it’s a church. Tonight, it’s her. Her name doesn’t matter. I don’t name things I plan to break. She’s new. Moved in a week ago. Wears sunflower earrings and says “sorry” when someone bumps into her. She’s exactly the kind I like: the kind that tries to see the good in people. The kind who would rather doubt herself than trust her instincts. She smiled at me in the elevator. Offered banana bread. I took it, even though I don’t eat sweet things. I only smiled back. I know what kindness does to people like her — it makes them reckless. So I left the door unlocked. I timed it. 11:52 PM. She’s a night owl. Goes out to the balcony with her headphones. The music’s always low enough that she hears what she’s not supposed to hear — footsteps, maybe, or a soft creak. She’s heard me. I know. I let her. And now she’s coming. I hear her pause outside. My heartbeat doesn’t rise — it never does — but I feel something stir. Excitement? Maybe. Hunger? Closer. The knob turns slowly. She whispers, "Hello?" It’s precious. Like a sheep asking the wolf if he’s hurt. “Are you okay?” she adds, stepping in. I almost laugh. But I don’t. Not yet. She doesn’t turn the lights on — how polite. She walks carefully, arms out, whispering my name. My fake name. I move behind her like a shadow. My hand brushes the edge of the kitchen counter. She doesn’t even flinch. So trusting. So terribly fragile. “I heard noises,” she says. I could end it now. A twist. A snap. A soft little sigh as the air leaves her lungs. I could do that. I have done that. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m bored. Tonight, I want to play. So I step into the light just enough for her to see me. “Oh,” she gasps. “I—your door was open and I thought—" “You thought something bad happened,” I say softly. She nods. I smile. “Something did.” She pauses. Her eyes search mine. This is the part I love. The moment doubt flutters inside them — like a moth realizing too late it’s not circling a lamp, but a flame. I tilt my head. “Why would you come in?” “I… I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe you needed help.” “I do,” I whisper. She backs up slightly. “Do you want me to call someone?” “There’s no one to call.” Her voice cracks. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” “But you did,” I say, taking a step closer. She’s trembling now. Trying not to show it. She fakes a smile. I know fake smiles. I wear them better. “I’ll just head back—" “I didn’t say you could leave.” Her breath catches. That sweet little breath. It’s almost a shame. Almost. I close the distance slowly, like I’m walking underwater. She’s frozen — cornered between the counter and the sink. “What do you want?” she whispers. I lean in, voice low. “I want to see what kind of person walks into a stranger’s apartment just because the door is unlocked.” “Please,” she says, “please, I won’t tell anyone.” That’s the part they all say. It’s the *script*. Like their brain can't believe what's happening, so it clings to fairy-tale logic. Mercy. Deals. They beg, they plead, they promise. None of them realize… It was never about the outcome. It was always about the choice. She chose to enter. She chose curiosity over caution. And now, I choose what she becomes. But something shifts. A flash in her eyes. She reaches for the knife block. My hand is already there. I smile as I hold up the blade between us. She doesn’t scream. Not yet. She’s trying to calculate her odds. I let her. “You know,” I say, “it’s funny. People always lock their doors out of fear that someone like me might get in.” I raise the blade slowly. Her eyes widen. “But I don’t break into homes.” I step closer. “I don’t chase anyone.” I raise the knife, just above her trembling chest. “I leave the door unlocked.” I tilt my head. And I wait to see who walks in.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
The Forgotten Hospital: Where the Lights Never Truly Go Out
On the edge of town, hidden behind overgrown weeds and a rusting iron gate, stands an old hospital long forgotten by the world. Locals call it Mercy Hill, though no one can remember when it last offered any mercy at all. It has been abandoned for decades, its windows shattered and walls stained by time. Yet at night, people claim they see lights flickering inside — as if the building refuses to die. Urban explorers and thrill-seekers often visit, eager to capture eerie photos and share ghost stories. Most return with nothing but dust and a racing heartbeat. But some leave with much more: nightmares, strange scratches on their skin, or a deep fear that follows them home and refuses to leave. A few years ago, a man named Daniel took a job as a night security guard at Mercy Hill. Desperate for work and believing in no such thing as ghosts, he thought it would be an easy way to earn money. His job was simple: keep vandals out and report any break-ins. The first few nights were quiet. He would walk the halls with his flashlight, listening to the echo of his own footsteps. But on the fourth night, everything changed. Daniel was doing his usual rounds when he heard a faint sound coming from the surgical wing. It was a soft humming, almost like a lullaby. Confused and thinking someone had snuck in, he followed the sound. The hallways were dark, lit only by the shaky beam of his flashlight. The further he went, the colder the air became, and the humming grew louder. When he finally reached the surgical wing, Daniel saw a light coming from one of the old operating rooms. He pushed open the door and froze. In the middle of the room stood a woman in a nurse’s uniform from the 1950s, her back turned to him. Her hair was pinned neatly, and she swayed slightly as she hummed. Trying to keep calm, Daniel called out to her, thinking it was a prank. But she did not respond. Slowly, she turned around, and Daniel felt his blood turn to ice. Her face was pale and hollow, with deep black sockets where her eyes should have been. Her mouth opened slowly, revealing darkness that seemed to stretch on forever. She took a step toward him, and the humming stopped. In its place, he heard faint whispers coming from all around the room. The whispers grew louder, forming words he could not understand. Terrified, Daniel stumbled backward, dropping his flashlight. In the darkness, he felt icy hands grasp his shoulders. He struggled to break free, finally managing to sprint out of the room and down the hall. When he reached the exit, he burst through the doors and fell onto the grass outside, gasping for air. Looking back, he saw all the windows on the top floor glowing softly, as if the building itself were alive and watching him. Daniel quit that night and never returned. Friends say he was never the same afterward. He refused to talk about what happened, and his health deteriorated quickly. Within a year, he moved away and disappeared from contact. Local legends suggest that the hospital was shut down in the 1970s after a series of mysterious patient deaths. Nurses and doctors reported seeing figures in the halls and hearing voices calling them into empty rooms. Rumors spread that unethical experiments were performed in the surgical wing and that some patients were never truly discharged. Some believe the spirits of those patients still wander the halls, looking for help that will never come. Others think the building itself has become a vessel for something darker, feeding on the fear and curiosity of those who enter. To this day, people claim they see shadows moving in the windows at night or hear distant humming carried on the wind. Some say if you listen closely near the old iron gate, you can hear the whispers calling you inside. Mercy Hill stands as a silent warning: some places are abandoned for a reason. Curiosity might lead you to thrilling stories and spine-chilling adventures, but it can also open doors that should remain forever closed. Next time you pass an abandoned building with a dark history, think of Daniel and the forgotten hospital. Remember that some lights are not meant to be investigated, and some ghosts do not want to be disturbed. Will you be brave enough to find out what lurks inside? Or will you keep walking, grateful that some mysteries remain in the dark?
By Hami Knabout a year ago in Horror
The Lighthouse is the First Horror Movie I Have Seen with Multiple Possible Endings
Have you ever seen a horror film that you really loved and became obsessed with, but you are left conflicted with the ending? I’m not saying this is a bad thing, I think it’s a genius move on the director.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
The Whispering Attic
When the Wren family moved into the weathered Victorian house at the edge of Hollowpine, they believed they had found a bargain. Tall and narrow with ivy-twined pillars, the home stood alone at the end of an old gravel road, surrounded by towering oak trees. It had a certain charm — faded, but undeniable. Mr. Wren, a history professor, called it “a home with character.” His wife, Rachel, hoped it would be a fresh start after her mother’s death. For their daughter, Lila, it was a dream — a real-life haunted house to explore.
By Sultan Zebabout a year ago in Horror
Cursed by My Own Hands
I am a school principal blessed by Allah with wealth, beauty, power, and children. My husband is a man of status and respect. Life was perfect… until he married another woman.
By Ahmad shahabout a year ago in Horror
Room 404: Do Not Enter
Part 1: The Check-In The Fairhaven Hotel was old but elegant—an aging five-story building nestled quietly in a forgotten corner of the city. Its marble floors, vintage wallpaper, and brass chandeliers whispered of a long-lost golden age. Ethan, a travel blogger known for reviewing haunted and abandoned places, had heard about Fairhaven from an obscure Reddit thread. One comment caught his eye: > “Don’t ask about Room 404. Trust me. Just… don’t.” Naturally, that made him curious. At check-in, Ethan wore his usual polite smile. "Hi. I’m here for three nights. Ethan Keller. Reservation under that name." The elderly receptionist scanned her logbook, her face pale and tired. “Room 405,” she said after a moment. “Fourth floor. Elevator’s to your right.” Ethan leaned in, lowering his voice. “What about Room 404?” Her hand froze on the key. “There is no Room 404.” He arched a brow. “But isn’t that standard in tech buildings? Hotels don’t usually skip that number.” The woman’s eyes turned cold. “There is no Room 404,” she repeated. “Do not ask again.” Part 2: The Missing Room That night, curiosity gnawed at Ethan. He paced the hallway of the fourth floor. Room 401, 402, 403... 405. No 404. Just a plain wall between 403 and 405. He knocked on it, lightly. Hollow. There was a door once—he could see faint seams in the paint. As if it had been sealed. He brought out his phone and used the flashlight. Something was scratched faintly into the wallpaper, almost invisible. Letters: "D O N O T E N T E R" His heart thumped. A challenge. By the next morning, Ethan had bribed a janitor with $100 to talk. “You didn’t hear this from me,” the janitor whispered. “Room 404 was closed in the ‘90s. A woman named Violet stayed there. She was... odd. Came in every night with fresh lilies, always talking to someone who wasn’t there.” “What happened to her?” Ethan asked. The janitor hesitated. “One night, the guests on either side reported screaming. When staff opened the door, they found Violet sitting on the bed... rocking... talking to a mirror. There was blood everywhere. Hers. Others'. But no bodies.” “They closed it?” “They sealed it. Management doesn’t even keep records anymore. But... sometimes guests on the fourth floor hear knocks. And whispers.” Part 3: The Door Opens That night, Ethan set up his camera in front of the blank wall. He started recording, whispering updates to his followers. At 3:04 a.m., something happened. A soft click. A seam in the wall slid open. There it was: Room 404. The door was old, wood cracked and stained. It swung open without a sound. Ethan, breathing heavily, stepped inside. The air was freezing. Inside, the room looked untouched since the 1990s—rose-colored wallpaper peeling at the corners, an old rotary phone, a broken lampshade, and a huge cracked mirror above the bed. Ethan whispered, “Hello?” The door slammed shut behind him. Part 4: The Reflection The mirror drew him in. Something was wrong with it. In the reflection, the room looked... cleaner. Brighter. But there was a woman on the bed—sitting, rocking. Violet. She turned, slowly. Her eyes were pure white. "Finally... someone to talk to," she said. Ethan spun around. No one was there. But in the mirror—she stood, inches behind him. He tried the door. Locked. The rotary phone began to ring. Riiinnng... Riiinnng... Trembling, he picked it up. A voice whispered: "You're next." Then a sharp pain hit his chest—he collapsed. Part 5: The Cover-Up Three days later, police arrived after Ethan’s followers reported him missing. The hotel staff claimed he left early. Paid in full. Nothing unusual. His camera was never found. His room was empty. But every so often, a guest in Room 405 complains. They hear... knocking. Soft crying. Sometimes a man’s voice begging, “Let me out...” And when they look into the hallway mirror outside Room 405… They see a second door. Right where Room 404 used to be. --- The End. Or is it?
By Ubaid Khanabout a year ago in Horror
There’s a Man Standing in My Backyard. He Hasn’t Moved in Three Days
It started Sunday morning. I was drinking coffee in the kitchen, half-awake, looking out over the yard through the glass door when I noticed him—just standing by the treeline. Still. Hands at his sides. Staring. At first, I thought he was a hunter, maybe a hiker who got turned around. I live on the edge of a national forest, and it’s not unusual for strangers to pass through the woods. But this one didn’t move. Not a step. Not a twitch. Just… stared. I watched him for several minutes, waiting for some sign of life—a shift of weight, a raised hand, anything. Nothing. Just dead still. Eventually, I slid the door open and called out, “Hey! You okay?” No response. I tried again. Still nothing. He just kept staring at the glass like he could see straight through me. I shut the door and locked it. Told myself he was just confused, probably high or mentally ill. If he didn’t leave in an hour, I’d call someone. --- An hour passed. Then two. He didn’t move. When the sun set, he was still there. Same spot. Same posture. Not even swaying in the wind. I locked every door and window in the house that night. Didn’t sleep much. --- Day Two. Monday. He was still there. Exactly the same. I recorded him on my phone for twenty minutes—nothing changed. I called the non-emergency line. Explained what was happening. They sent a deputy around noon. I watched from inside as the deputy walked up to him cautiously, spoke a few words. I couldn’t hear what was said. The deputy circled him, waved a hand in front of his face, then touched his shoulder. Still nothing. After about five minutes, the deputy came back to my door. > “He’s breathing,” he said. “But he’s not responding to anything. Doesn’t even blink.” > “What do I do?” I asked. > “Legally? Nothing unless he trespasses. If he crosses the fence line or approaches the house, then call us back.” > “So I’m just supposed to ignore him?” The deputy gave me a shrug and a look that said yes. --- That night was worse. Every time I passed the kitchen, I felt drawn to the glass door. I couldn’t stop myself from peeking. And every time, he was still there. Staring. I zoomed in on the video I took. His eyes weren’t just locked in my direction—they were focused on me. No matter where I moved in the house, I felt them tracking me. I set up a camera on the counter to record overnight. --- Tuesday morning. I checked the footage. He never moved. But at exactly 3:17 a.m., the footage glitched—just for a second. The screen warped, like heatwaves. When the image settled, he looked… different. His body was the same, but his face—something was wrong. It was blurry, like it didn’t match the rest of the frame. And then, frame by frame, his mouth twisted into a wide, unnatural grin. Only for a second. Then it was gone. Back to normal. I felt sick watching it. --- That afternoon, my neighbor came by to return a borrowed snow shovel. She’s 87, tough as nails, been here since the 60s. I asked her if she’d seen the man. She peered through the glass for a long moment and muttered: > “He’s back.” My heart stopped. > “What do you mean back?” She didn’t take her eyes off him. > “He came here once before. ’72. Same spot. Didn’t move for days. Then one morning, he was gone.” > “What is he?” She didn’t answer right away. Just stared harder. > “Not human,” she whispered. “They wear us. Like clothes.” Then she left. I didn’t sleep at all that night. --- Day Four. Wednesday. Something changed. The back door was unlocked this morning. I know I locked it. And there were muddy footprints on the wood floor. Leading from the door to the hallway—and stopping. No return prints. Like someone came in, then vanished. I checked every room. Closet. Attic. Nothing. The man was still in the yard. Still standing there. Still watching. --- Around 2:30 a.m., I was jolted awake by a loud knock. Three slow pounds on the glass. I grabbed my phone and crept to the kitchen. The lights were off, but the full moon lit the yard in silver. He was standing closer. Right up against the glass. His face was inches from the door. He hadn’t moved in days—but now he was right there. Still not blinking. Still smiling. And written in fog on the inside of the door was a message: > “LET ME IN.” I ran upstairs, locked myself in the bedroom, and called the police again. This time, the line was filled with static. Then a voice—not the operator’s. Not mine. A whisper: > “You already did.” --- I didn’t open the door for hours. When I finally checked the kitchen at sunrise… he was gone. The yard was empty. Grass undisturbed. No footprints. No fog on the glass. Just silence. But something’s wrong. The air in the house feels… off. Heavily still. Like the moment before a thunderclap. I checked the camera footage again. And I saw it. At exactly 3:17 a.m.—the same time as before—the camera shows me walking into the kitchen in my sleep. I open the door. I let him in. And then? Nothing. Just static. --- I don’t remember doing that. But now, I feel it. There’s something here. In the walls. In the mirrors. Sometimes I see him behind me, just for a second, when I pass a window. Not outside. Inside. Watching. Waiting. ---
By Habibullah. Shoukat Aliabout a year ago in Horror
I Bought a Haunted Mirror Off Facebook Marketplace — Now It Won’t Let Me Sleep
It started with a Facebook Marketplace listing. > “Antique Victorian mirror — $30 OBO. Must pick up. ASAP.” No details, just a grainy photo and a location only twenty minutes away. I’d just moved into my new apartment and needed something to fill the blank wall in my hallway. I messaged the seller. She responded in seconds. > “If you come today, it’s yours.” That should have been my first red flag. --- The house was old — weathered wood, flaking paint, and a porch that creaked under my feet. A woman in her late 60s opened the door. Her eyes were bloodshot, like she hadn’t slept in weeks. She didn’t smile. She led me straight to the mirror without saying much. It stood nearly six feet tall, framed in dark oak with ornate carvings of twisting vines and faces—yes, actual carved faces. The glass was flawless, despite its age. I reached for my wallet. > “No,” she said. “Just take it.” > “Are you sure?” She stared past me. “It doesn’t want to stay here.” I laughed awkwardly, thinking she was joking. But her hands were trembling as she helped me carry it out. --- I set the mirror in the hallway, directly across from my bedroom. It looked stunning. Heavy. Regal. I remember thinking how lucky I was to score something so vintage for free. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Not from fear—just unease. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the hallway in my mind. The mirror, waiting. At 2:13 a.m., I got up for water. As I stepped into the hallway, I glanced at the mirror and froze. I was in it. But I wasn’t moving. My reflection just stood there, arms at its sides, watching me. Then—blink. The reflection blinked, but I hadn’t. I staggered backward, heart hammering in my chest. When I looked again, it was normal. Just me. Tired. Shaken. I told myself I was overtired. Stress. Shadows. Head games. I went back to bed and left the lights on. --- The next night, it got worse. Every time I passed the mirror, I could feel something watching me. Not just from the glass—from behind it. I covered it with a bedsheet, but it didn’t help. At 3:06 a.m., I woke to the sound of fabric sliding. I stepped into the hallway. The sheet was on the floor. I didn’t sleep after that. --- On night four, I dreamt of water. Drowning. Gasping. But not in an ocean—in a mirror. I could see my own face, pressed against the glass from the other side, screaming silently. When I woke, my pillow was soaked with sweat—and tears. That morning, I noticed something else. In the mirror’s reflection, the hallway was different. Subtly. The shadows stretched the wrong way. The picture frames on the opposite wall were crooked in the glass, but perfectly straight in real life. And in the very back of the reflection—at the end of the hallway—I saw a figure. Small. Female. Pale face, long hair. But when I turned around, the hallway was empty. --- I tried to move the mirror into the garage. It wouldn’t budge. No matter how hard I pushed or pulled, it stayed locked in place. Like it had rooted into the wall. I even tried to break the glass. The hammer bounced off. No crack. Not even a scratch. When I looked into the mirror afterward, I swear I saw it smile. --- That night, I left the apartment. Booked a hotel. I needed sleep, even just one night. It didn’t help. The mirror came with me in my dreams. It stood at the foot of the hotel bed. My reflection sat up on its own, turned to look at me, and whispered one word: > “Stay.” --- Back home the next day, I noticed the hallway light flickered constantly. Bulbs died faster than I could replace them. My dog, Penny, refused to go near the hallway. She’d sit outside the bedroom, whining, tail between her legs. On day ten, I found claw marks inside the mirror frame. Deep gouges along the bottom edge, as if someone—or something—had tried to crawl out. And that night, I saw her again. She was in the hallway. Not in the mirror—in real space. Pale skin, matted hair, no eyes. Just empty sockets leaking dark liquid down her cheeks. I ran. Locked myself in the bathroom. From the hallway, I heard knocking. Slow. Deliberate. Then a voice, hoarse and wet: > “Let me in.” --- The next morning, the hallway was empty. The mirror reflected only me. But I looked… wrong. Thinner. Paler. My eyes had a shadow to them, like something was pressing against the back of my skull. I posted the mirror back on Facebook Marketplace. > “Antique Victorian mirror — FREE. Must pick up today.” A girl messaged me within minutes. > “I’ve been looking for something just like this!” I responded immediately. > “Come quick.” She arrived that afternoon. As she pulled away with the mirror strapped in the back of her SUV, I felt like I could breathe again. The hallway seemed brighter. My dog wagged her tail for the first time in days. That night, I slept. For the first time in nearly two weeks. --- But I still hear it sometimes. The knocking. The whisper. > “Stay.” And last week, I woke up with my phone open to Facebook Marketplace. Scrolled down. Heart racing. There it was. > “Antique Victorian mirror — $30. Must pick up ASAP.” Same grainy photo. Different seller. Different town. But the mirror… is the same. --- [The End] ---
By Habibullah. Shoukat Aliabout a year ago in Horror
The Lantern Path. Content Warning.
They told us never to follow the lights in Barlow Wood. Not that anyone warned me directly. I wasn’t from here. I came with Delilah—my partner—after her mother passed. The cabin was part of her inheritance, buried somewhere between the dying pines, shrouded in mist thick enough to choke on. She called it a “quiet place to grieve.” But the forest never felt quiet. It listened. We stayed three nights before it began. --- The first light came at midnight. I woke to a pale blue glow flooding through the window, rippling like breath against frost. Delilah was gone. Her side of the bed was cold, the sheets undisturbed. I called her name once. The house didn’t echo. Stepping outside, the forest was alive—not with birds or wind—but with silence so heavy it rang in my ears. The trees loomed black, stretched too tall, their trunks thinned to bone. And there it was: the light. Hovering just above the ground, a bluish orb pulsing between the trees. I should’ve gone back inside. Instead, I followed. They say the lights are lures—will-o’-the-wisps that feed on sorrow. They mimic lanterns from faraway homes, the voices of lost loved ones. But I didn’t know that yet. I only knew the forest had swallowed Delilah. The path beneath my feet was soft with rot, slick with dew, and threaded with roots that tugged at my ankles. The deeper I went, the thicker the mist grew, like old breath held too long. I saw her, eventually. Or something like her. She stood beneath the moonlight, barefoot, hair dripping with moisture. Her eyes—wide, glassy, locked on me—didn’t blink. “Delilah?” I whispered. She smiled. The light above her head flickered—and dove into her mouth. She opened wide to receive it. I ran. Branches clawed at my face. The trees groaned. I didn’t stop until I stumbled back into the cabin, breathless, mud-streaked, shaking. The door slammed behind me without my touch. She was there. In bed. Sleeping. When I touched her shoulder, she stirred and turned. “You’re freezing,” she murmured. “Come back to sleep.” I didn’t sleep. I watched her all night, waiting for her to open her mouth and let the light back out. The next day, I searched for answers in town. Locals looked through me, like my questions were fog. But one old man, blind in one eye, whispered a single word when I asked about the forest: Lanternpath. He said it hadn’t been called Barlow Wood in generations. Not since the fire. Not since the children disappeared. “They don’t kill you,” he rasped. “They replace you.” That night, I found the journal. Delilah’s mother had hidden it under a loose floorboard. The pages were warped, stained, filled with frantic handwriting. Notes on “the watchers,” on dreams that bled into waking. A passage repeated again and again: “If the light finds you hollow, it will wear you like skin.” I confronted Delilah. Or the thing wearing her. She blinked at me with her perfect face. “You’re not well,” she said softly. “There are no lights.” I tried to leave. She followed. She never blinked. I packed everything before dusk. I waited for her to fall asleep. I didn’t even trust her shadow—it moved wrong. It lingered after she left the room. It stretched across walls like spilled ink. When I finally stepped into the night, I didn’t care where I went. I just needed distance. But the forest doesn’t let go once it marks you. The fog was waiting. Thicker now. Colder. Soundless. I didn’t see the lights this time—I heard them. Whispers coiling like smoke in my ears. Voices that sounded like Delilah, then my mother, then me. Words I never said. Secrets I never told. Then, a lantern appeared ahead. Golden this time. Different. It beckoned, swaying gently in the mist. I followed again. God help me, I followed again. My legs moved like I was dreaming. The woods bent around me, trees curving inward like ribs. I was inside something now. The ground sloped, the path narrowing until I reached a clearing. There were others. People—or what remained of them—stood in the circle of trees. Hollow-eyed. Mouths agape. Lanterns flickering in their throats. Their skin sagged like wet cloth. One of them stepped forward. Delilah. Or her shell. She reached for me with fingers glowing from within. “You came back,” she sang. I ran again. I don’t know how long I’ve been running. Time here doesn’t tick. The sky doesn’t change. I’m still in the forest. I pass the same gnarled tree every few hours. The bark splits open in a grin sometimes. The fog hums when I cry. My reflection in puddles no longer moves when I do. I found this journal—not mine, but hers. Her mother’s. It writes back now. Tonight, I saw a light ahead—not blue, not gold-white. It feels colder. Older. I think it might be the real Delilah. Maybe she never left. Maybe the thing in the cabin was always wearing her skin, waiting for someone to mourn. If you find this—if you see lights in the woods—don’t follow. Even if it sounds like someone you love. Especially then. END
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
👾 Polybius: The Video Game That Didn't Just Play You — It Played With Your Mind. Content Warning.
In the murky haze of early 1980s arcades—amid the buzz of CRT screens and the scent of stale popcorn—there was said to be a machine unlike any other. Unmarked, dark, and strangely magnetic, the game known as Polybius allegedly appeared in a few suburbs of Portland, Oregon… and then disappeared forever.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
The Round Room
No one remembered building the house at the edge of Leland Hill. It appeared in the county records one spring listed as "abandoned." Locals said it had been there forever-but no one could say what "forever" meant anymore.
By Halie Rawlinsabout a year ago in Horror