monster
Monsters and horror go hand in hand; explore horrific creatures, beasts and hairy scaries like Freddy Krueger, Frankenstein and far beyond.
The Girl in the Wallpaper
Okay, so imagine this: you're spending the weekend at your cousin’s old house, the kind with squeaky stairs, dusty windows, and those weird old wallpapers that look like someone painted them a hundred years ago. That’s where it all started for Liam. He thought it would just be another boring visit. But instead, he met the girl in the wallpaper. This story? It’s creepy. It’s real weird. And it’ll definitely make you think twice before sleeping in a room with old wallpaper. Chapter 1: A Weekend at Aunt May’s Liam was 11, and he hated going to Aunt May’s. Not because she was mean—she was actually super nice. But her house? Total creep zone. It was built in the 1800s, had a cellar that groaned, and the halls always smelled like dusty books and cinnamon. His cousin Ellie lived there too, and she loved it. She said things like, “This house has character,” and, “The walls tell stories if you listen.” Liam thought she was being dramatic. But she wasn’t wrong. Not even a little. Chapter 2: The Room With the Red Wallpaper When Liam got there that Friday, Aunt May said, “You’ll sleep in the Red Room.” That sounded kind of cool… until he saw it. The wallpaper was deep red, almost like dried ketchup (or, as he later thought… blood). It was full of swirling vines and little flowers, but if you looked really close, the pattern also showed tiny faces. Not smiley emoji faces. Weird, stretched-out ones. Some looked surprised. Others scared. “I hate this,” Liam whispered as he dropped his backpack. But that night, the room had other plans. Chapter 3: She Was Already Watching At first, Liam thought it was just his imagination. The wallpaper looked… different in the dark. Like the vines were moving. Like one of the tiny faces was closer than before. Then, around midnight, he heard a soft sound. Like scratching. He sat up, heart racing. “Ellie?” he whispered. No answer. Just scratching. Soft, but steady. Coming from inside the wall. He tiptoed to the spot behind the bed where the scratching was loudest. He touched the wall. It was cold. And then… A pair of eyes opened. Not like a hole. Not like a drawing. Real eyes. In the wall. Liam gasped and fell backward. And the face in the wall smiled. Chapter 4: The Girl with the Black Eyes The next morning, Liam ran to Ellie and told her everything. She didn’t laugh. Instead, she looked worried. “You saw her?” she whispered. “The girl?” “What girl?” “She’s been in this house since before I was born. I think she used to be real. But something happened. She… melted into the wall.” “That’s not possible,” Liam said, even though his stomach felt heavy. “I call her Vera,” Ellie said. “I think she’s lonely. But sometimes… she gets mad.” Liam didn’t want to hear more. But of course, he did. Chapter 5: Don’t Make Her Angry Ellie took him to the attic. Dusty boxes. Spiderwebs. Old trunks. She opened a small wooden chest with her initials carved into the side. Inside were drawings. Dozens of them. They were all pictures of Vera. Black eyes. Tangled hair. Stitched mouth. And vines—twisting around her body like they were growing out of her. “I see her in my dreams sometimes,” Ellie said. “She whispers secrets. She knows things no one should.” “Like what?” “She told me Grandma didn’t die from falling down the stairs. She says Grandma tried to leave the house. Vera didn’t like that.” Liam’s skin turned cold. “This house needs people,” Ellie added quietly. “So it keeps them.” Chapter 6: The Hidden Room That night, Liam couldn’t sleep. He tried not to look at the wall. Tried not to hear the whispers. But the girl… she kept calling his name. “Liiiaaam…” He sat up. “What do you want?!” “Find me,” she whispered. “Where?” The vines on the wallpaper shifted. One moved toward the corner of the room… and stopped. Liam grabbed a flashlight, tiptoed over, and knocked on the wall. Thud. Thud. Hollow. He pressed both hands on it—and part of the wallpaper crumbled like ash. Behind it? A tiny wooden door. No knob. Just a small latch. Chapter 7: Inside the Walls Liam waited until everyone was asleep. Then, flashlight in hand, he opened the door. Behind it was a crawlspace. Barely big enough for a kid. He climbed inside. The walls were lined with old paper dolls. Hundreds of them, pinned up like trophies. Some had names written under them: Molly, George, Rachel, Danny… At the end of the crawlspace was a mirror. Cracked. Covered in dust. He wiped it clean. And in the reflection… he saw her. Not behind him. Not beside him. Inside the mirror. “Help me,” she whispered. “Pull me out.” He almost did. But then—he saw something move behind her. A shadow with too many arms. And suddenly her voice changed. From “help me” to “STAY WITH ME.” Chapter 8: The Final Escape Liam crawled backward, heart racing, flashlight shaking. The crawlspace started closing. The wallpaper vines crept in behind him like fingers. “Liam!” It was Ellie. She had followed him. She reached in, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him out just before the door slammed shut on its own. The wall sealed up again. Like it had never opened. They didn’t sleep that night. Chapter 9: The Truth Comes Out The next morning, they told Aunt May everything. She listened quietly. Then she said, “That girl was real. Vera was my sister.” Liam and Ellie stared. “She disappeared when I was your age. No one believed me when I said she got trapped in the walls. But I saw it happen.” “Why didn’t you leave?” Ellie asked. Aunt May smiled sadly. “Because if I did… she’d come with me.” They moved out a week later. The Red Room was sealed shut. And the house was sold to a new family. Chapter 10: She’s Still Watching Liam never saw Vera again. But sometimes, when he closes his eyes at night, he sees wallpaper. Red. Twisting vines. Tiny faces. And in the center… A pair of black eyes. Still watching. Still waiting.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Mirror Room
You know how when you first enter a place, it just doesn't feel right? Not because something’s obviously scary. No blood, no ghosts. Just that quiet feeling in your chest like something is watching you—even though no one is there? Yeah. That’s what this story is about. A room full of mirrors. Seven of them. And one rule: Never look into the seventh mirror.
By Lucien Hollow about a year ago in Horror
The Shadow Beyond the Door
It was an old, creaky house on the edge of the forest—long abandoned, with shattered windows and ivy crawling over the stone like veins. Locals whispered about it, calling it cursed, haunted, or worse. But seventeen-year-old Zayan didn’t believe in ghost stories. When dared by his friends to spend one night there, he agreed without hesitation. He was curious by nature and never backed down from a challenge. With only a flashlight, his phone, and a sleeping bag, he stepped inside just before sunset. Dust swirled in the air, and every step on the wooden floor moaned under his weight. Spiderwebs hung like curtains, and the silence felt unnaturally heavy. He wandered through the rooms until he reached the drawing room. There, a grand fireplace stood cold and empty, and above it hung a crooked painting of a woman whose eyes seemed to follow him. But it wasn’t the painting that caught Zayan’s attention. It was the black door in the corner of the room—tall, wide, and with an iron lock. Unlike the rest of the house, this door was clean. No dust, no cobwebs. Just smooth, polished wood, and a key already sitting in the lock. Zayan stared at it for a long while. Something about it felt wrong. The air near it was colder. But his curiosity won. He turned the key. The lock clicked. He pulled the door open. Behind it was a narrow staircase, spiraling down into complete darkness. A foul, musty smell hit his nose. The kind that clings to your clothes and soul. He switched on his flashlight and descended slowly. The staircase led to a long hallway lined with old portraits. Each frame held a person, yet their eyes were all black—empty sockets staring into nothing. At the end of the hallway stood a mirror. Tall, cracked, and strange. His reflection was distorted—not matching his movements. Then, the lights flickered. No—his flashlight didn’t flicker. The hallway did. It was like reality trembled for a second. And in the mirror, Zayan saw it—a tall, dark figure standing behind him, its face hidden in shadow, but eyes glowing red. He spun around. Nothing. When he looked back at the mirror—it was gone too. Just his own face, pale and terrified. He ran. Up the stairs, out of the room, slamming the black door shut. He threw his sleeping bag into a corner and tried to convince himself it was just his mind playing tricks. But as the night grew deeper, the sounds began. Scratching behind the walls. Whispering in a language he didn’t understand. A faint, rhythmic tapping from inside the black door. He blocked his ears. But the whispers grew louder. He messaged his friends: “Not funny. Stop trying to scare me.” They replied: “We’re at home, man. What are you talking about?” The tapping turned to banging. He stared at the door. The key was missing. The air turned icy. His breath formed mist. And then, the door slowly opened on its own. From the darkness stepped the same shadow he had seen in the mirror. Tall. Hollow eyes. A mouth stitched shut. It raised its hand and pointed at him. Zayan couldn’t scream. He backed into the wall, breathless, heart racing. “W-what do you want?” he whispered. The shadow didn’t speak. It simply touched the wall—and it melted into blackness. The floor disappeared beneath him. He fell. Fell into darkness. --- The next morning, his friends came to find him, thinking he’d be asleep or trying to scare them with fake ghost stories. But the house was empty. No sign of Zayan. Except for the black door—now sealed shut, the key missing, and a new portrait on the wall in the hallway below. A painting of Zayan. With black, empty eyes. --- Moral: Some curiosities are better left unexplored. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.
By Movies Channelabout a year ago in Horror
The Mirror That Showed Tomorrow
I moved into the apartment because it was cheap. That’s the kind of decision you make when you're broke, tired, and trying to start over. The building was old — cracked tiles, flickering lights, and a hallway that always smelled faintly of mold and burnt toast.
By Muhammad Kaleemullahabout a year ago in Horror
The Voice at the Door
The rain was a steady, mournful rhythm against the windows, a soundtrack to the oppressive silence inside our small cottage. Three days. It had been three days since we’d buried my mother, Clara. Three days since her vibrant laughter, her comforting presence, had been reduced to a cold, sterile memory. The grief was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, making every breath an effort. My wife, Sarah, sat across from me, her face pale and drawn. She hadn't cried much, not openly, but I could see the sorrow etched in the lines around her eyes, the way she clutched the steaming mug of tea, as if seeking warmth against an internal chill. She had loved my mother, truly loved her, and her quiet suffering was almost harder to bear than my own. A sudden, sharp rap echoed through the house, cutting through the rain and our unspoken grief. We both stiffened, our eyes meeting across the dimly lit room. It was late, past midnight. Who could it be? Another rap, louder this time, more insistent. I pushed myself up from the armchair. “I’ll get it,” I murmured, my voice raspy. “No!” Sarah’s voice was sharp, a sudden tremor in her tone. She stood up, her eyes wide, almost pleading. “Don’t, Daniel. Don’t open it.” I paused, surprised by her vehemence. “Sarah, it’s probably just a neighbor, or someone lost. It’s pouring outside.” “No,” she repeated, stepping towards me, her hand reaching out to grasp my arm. Her fingers were cold. “Please, just… don’t.” Before I could question her, a sound, faint but unmistakable, drifted from the front door. A voice. A voice that sent a jolt of ice through my veins, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. “Daniel? Are you there, my son? It’s your mother. Let me in, it’s so cold out here.” My blood ran cold. It was Mother’s voice. Her gentle, slightly reedy tone, the familiar way she elongated the ‘so’ in ‘so cold.’ Impossible. My mind screamed in protest. This had to be a cruel, sadistic prank. But who would do such a thing? I turned to Sarah, my face a mask of disbelief and dawning horror. “Sarah… did you hear that? It’s Mother! But… how?” Sarah’s grip on my arm tightened, her nails digging into my skin. Her eyes, usually so warm, were filled with a profound, terrifying dread. “Don’t open the door, Daniel!” she hissed, her voice barely a whisper, yet filled with an urgency that terrified me. “Please, for God’s sake, don’t!” Another series of knocks, more frantic now, accompanied by that voice, pleading, cajoling. “Daniel, darling, please. My old bones are freezing. Just a moment, let me come in. I need my son.” My heart was a war drum in my chest. Every fiber of my being yearned to rush to the door, to throw it open, to embrace the mother I had just buried. My grief-stricken mind wrestled with the horrifying reality. She was dead. We had stood by her grave just three days ago, watched the coffin lowered into the earth. “It’s not her, Daniel,” Sarah choked out, tears finally streaming down her face. “It can’t be. It’s… it’s something else. Something trying to get in.” Her words made a chilling kind of sense, even as my emotions fought against them. The raw, desperate need in that voice, the way it played on my deepest sorrow, felt predatory. But the resemblance was uncanny. Every inflection, every nuance, was exactly like Mother. The knocking escalated into a frantic pounding, rattling the doorframe. And the voice changed, subtly. The soft pleading took on a sharper edge, a hint of impatience, even anger. “Daniel! Are you going to leave your mother out in the storm? After all I’ve done for you? After all these years?” A shiver of genuine fear ran down my spine. Mother, for all her love, had never resorted to emotional manipulation, not like this. This was a twisted mimicry, a violation of her memory. “Who are you?” I yelled back, my voice trembling, cracking. “Leave us alone!” A silence fell, thick and unnerving, broken only by the relentless rain. My heart pounded so loudly I thought Sarah must hear it. Then, a low, guttural chuckle emanated from the other side of the door. It wasn't Mother’s laughter. It was something else. Something ancient and malevolent, devoid of humor, filled with contempt. And then the voice returned, but this time, it was a chilling, distorted parody of my mother’s voice, stretched and deepened, laced with a faint, gurgling sound, like water bubbling through mud. “You buried me, Daniel. You put me in the cold, dark ground. But I’m still here. And I need to come home.” The pounding on the door intensified, becoming violent, as if something heavy was slamming against it. The entire frame shuddered. Sarah let out a strangled cry, burying her face in my shoulder. I could feel her shaking uncontrollably. “It knows,” I whispered, my eyes fixed on the trembling wood of the door. “It knows we buried her.” “It’s not her, Daniel,” Sarah sobbed into my shirt. “It's using her… to get to us.” Suddenly, the pounding stopped. Another silence, even more terrifying than the last. Then, a scratching sound began, slow and deliberate, like long, sharp nails dragging across the wood, moving from the doorknob, upwards. And then, I heard it. A faint, wet sniffing sound from directly outside the keyhole, followed by a soft, almost inaudible sigh. Then, the voice again, a whisper now, right at the keyhole, raw and intimate, filled with a horrific intimacy that turned my stomach. “I can smell your fear, Daniel. And I can smell your grief. Such a heavy grief. It’s almost as heavy as the earth on my coffin.” I stumbled back, pulling Sarah with me, away from the door. My mind reeled. This wasn't some trick of sound or light. This was real. Something was out there. Something that had taken on my mother’s voice, her memories, to gain entry. Something that was preying on my sorrow. The scratching continued, now higher up the door, then lower, as if whatever was outside was circling, testing, searching for a weakness. A faint, earthy scent, like damp grave soil, began to seep through the cracks around the doorframe, mixing with the clean smell of rain. Sarah clung to me, her face buried against my chest. “What does it want?” she whimpered. The voice answered, a low, satisfied murmur from the other side of the door. “I want to be warm again, my son. And you are so warm. You held my hand when I was cold. Now, let me hold yours. Forever.” A chilling sound, like a wet, sucking noise, came from the keyhole, followed by a faint, clicking sound, as if something was attempting to turn the lock from the outside. Panic surged through me, cold and absolute. It wasn't just a voice. It was trying to get in. It was trying to claim me, just as it had claimed Mother’s voice. I dragged Sarah back, away from the door, towards the deepest part of the house, the small, enclosed pantry where we kept emergency supplies. We huddled there, in the oppressive darkness, listening to the rain, and to the faint, persistent scratching that continued at the front door. It went on and on, punctuated by the chilling whispers of a voice that was both familiar and utterly alien. I knew then, with a sickening certainty, that the grave had not held her. And now, the thing that had followed her back was patiently waiting, clawing at the door, to finally claim what it believed was its due. My mother's voice, transformed into a siren's call from the abyss. And the night was long. So very long.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
“The Secret Room My Landlord Never Told Me About”
When I first moved into Apartment 3B on Halstead Street, I thought I'd found the deal of a lifetime. Two bedrooms, high ceilings, vintage windows, and a view that didn’t face another brick wall. It was oddly affordable, the kind of place that makes you pause and think, "What's the catch?"
By Hamad Haiderabout a year ago in Horror
The Voice in the Static
Alright, you have to promise not to freak out when I tell you this story. Because this one? It’s not about haunted dolls or creaky basements. It’s about something you probably have right now in your bedroom. A radio. Or a Bluetooth speaker. Or an old TV. Any device that plays sound can be used by… it. And once it finds you, you can’t un-hear it.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
Don't Answer the Knock
Okay, promise you won’t freak out? Because this story I’m about to tell you… it’s not like the others. It’s not about ghosts in castles or monsters under your bed. It’s about a house. Just a regular house. In a normal neighborhood. With one weird rule: Don’t answer the knock. Not even if it sounds friendly. even if they mention your name. The New House So, this all started when my cousin Zayan moved into a new house with his parents. It was kind of old, but cool—two stories, a big oak tree in front, and weird little gargoyle statues on the porch. The house came cheap, and his parents were happy. Zayan? Not really. He told me that the first night the walls creaked as if they were breathing. Additionally, the attic door opened by itself. But hey—it’s an old house, right? Still, something about it didn’t feel right. Especially the front door. The Note on the Door On their first night, they found a note taped to the inside of the front door. It wasn’t signed. It was written in shaky, old handwriting: “If you hear knocking after midnight, do not open the door. Not even if you know the voice. Not even if it begs. Wait until sunrise.” Zayan interpreted it as a joke. His dad laughed and threw the note in the trash. The First Step That night, Zayan was lying in bed, scrolling on his phone. It had passed twelve o'clock. The house was super quiet. Then he heard it. There will be knocks. Three knocks. Not loud. Not soft either. Just… wrong. He sat up. It could have been his parents. Maybe the wind. Then came a voice. “Zayan… it’s me. Let me in.” His body became cold. Because the voice? It sounded just like me. However, I was absent. The Message Zayan grabbed his phone and called me right away. “Why are you outside my house?” “I’m not,” I said. “I’m in bed. At home.” He told me about the voice. Until I heard it over the phone, I didn't believe him. “Come on, Zayan. It’s cold out here. Let me in…” Same voice. Same tone. Perfect imitation. But I swear on my life—I was in my bed. Then, just as suddenly as it came… it stopped. The Eyes in the Keyhole The next night, Zayan stayed up again. He left all the lights on. At exactly 12:07 a.m.: Knock knock knock. He crept to the front door, trying not to make a sound. And this time? He looked through the peephole. There was no one there. Just the empty porch. But when he stepped back… He saw something move. Something was standing just below the peephole. It is too low to see. Too tall to be a child. Too still to be human. The Background Zayan began looking into the house. It used to belong to a man named Mr. Embers, who was known around town for being “strange.” He never let visitors in. People said he kept something trapped in the basement. Others claimed he’d whisper to the front door at night. He died in that house. Alone. And when they found him, he’d scratched one word on the floorboards with his fingernails: “Don’t.” The Third Night Zayan called me again. “I’m coming over,” I told him. But he said no. He wanted to record it this time. So he set up his phone facing the door. At midnight, he turned off the lights, sat on the stairs, and waited. At 12:07… Knock knock knock. Then the voice. This time, though? It wasn’t me. It was his mom’s voice. “Open the door, sweetheart. I forgot my key.” His mom was asleep upstairs. He stayed silent. Frozen. The voice got angry. “Zayan, open this door now!” KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. “You’re a terrible son!” Zayan nearly cried. He didn't move, though. It was gone by 12:16. The Movie The next morning, he showed me the video. And Mehedi, I’m telling you—it was messed up. There was no person in the video. Just the door. But at 12:07, something strange happened. The door handle started jiggling. Then, faintly on the audio—something breathing. Sniffing. And then—a shadow moved past the bottom of the door. It didn’t walk. It crawled. And it dragged long fingers across the doormat. We immediately halted the video there. The Final Night The next night, Zayan had enough. A dresser was dragged by him in front of the front door. He taped paper over the peephole. He put on headphones and blasted music so he wouldn’t hear any knocking. But it didn’t work. At 12:07, all the power went out. His music died. His lights shut off. Even his phone screen went black. After that, Knock knock knock. Zayan ran upstairs. Locked the door. hid beneath the bed like a young child. Then he heard footsteps inside the house. Slow. Wet. Heavy. Something got in. Even though the door was still locked the next morning. The Second Note The next morning, a new note was taped to the door. Same shaky handwriting: “You answered with your silence. That bought you time. But it’s inside now. And silence won’t save you again.” Zayan moved out that same day. They never found out how the notes got there. Or what happened to the people who lived there before. So What Was Knocking? A ghost? A demon? Something pretending to be someone you trust? We don’t know. But here’s the thing. Two days ago, my doorbell rang. At 12:07 a.m. I looked outside. No one was there. But taped to my door… Was a note. It stated: “You’ve been told. Now you know the rule. Don’t answer the knock.” If You Hear Three Knocks... Do not open the door. Don’t peek. Don't talk. And don’t believe the voice. Because if you do... You come next.
By Lucien Hollow about a year ago in Horror
