psychological
Mind games taken way too far; explore the disturbing genre of psychological thrillers that make us question our perception of sanity and reality.
Soft Walls of the Room
There are rumors that I assaulted a man using a clock as a weapon. I don’t remember doing it, of course — that’s the first thing I told the nurse. The detective. The woman with the kind voice and cold eyes. They all nodded like it was a bedtime story they'd heard too many times before.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Horror
The Return of the Spirit
# **The Return of the Spirit** **Written by: [Faheem ullah]** ### **Part One** Omar was a young psychologist working at a large hospital in Karachi. His specialty was trauma therapy—treating patients who had endured severe emotional or psychological shocks. One day, a new patient was admitted to the hospital: a woman named Zainab. She was around twenty-five years old, her face etched with unmistakable fear. Dark circles framed her eyes, as though she hadn’t slept in weeks. Omar called her into his office. As soon as she entered, Zainab asked him to close the door. "What’s troubling you?" Omar asked gently. Zainab ran her fingers through her hair, trembling. "Doctor… I’m not alone." Omar smiled slightly. "What do you mean?" "There’s… someone else with me." Her voice shook. Omar picked up his pen and began taking notes. "Are you in a relationship?" "No… it’s not a person." Zainab closed her eyes. "It’s a spirit." Omar studied her carefully. He had heard delusions from patients before, but there was something unsettlingly real about Zainab’s words. "Can you see it?" "No… but I can feel it." She wrapped her arms around herself, as if someone were touching her. "It’s close… always." ### **Part Two** Omar tried to learn more about Zainab’s past. She came from a middle-class family and lived alone after her parents passed away. She told him that a month ago, she had been sleeping in her apartment when she felt someone touch her. "I opened my eyes, but no one was there… yet I knew it was standing right beside me." Zainab’s breathing quickened. "Then I saw her in my dreams." "What did you see?" Omar asked. "A woman… long black hair, a white dress. She had no eyes… just hollow black voids." Zainab shuddered. "She whispers to me… ‘You belong to me.’" Omar considered whether Zainab was suffering from repressed trauma, but the terror in her eyes seemed far deeper than a typical psychological issue. "Have you ever seen someone die?" Omar asked. Zainab nodded. "My mother… I watched her die in front of me. She was sick, but the doctors said she would recover. One night, I went into her room and found her… dead. There was a strange smile on her face." Omar noted that perhaps the trauma of her mother’s death was manifesting in these nightmares. He prescribed her some medication and asked her to return the following week. ### **Part Three** But Zainab never came back. Omar called her, but there was no answer. Three days later, the police informed him that Zainab’s body had been found in her apartment. She had committed suicide. Omar couldn’t believe it. He went to her apartment, where the police allowed him inside. The place was eerily silent. Zainab’s body had been taken away, but her room remained untouched. As Omar looked around, he noticed a diary tucked under the bed. He opened it. On the last page, Zainab had written: **"She’s taking me. I can’t stop her. Dr. Omar… if you’re reading this, please help me. She’s not just after me—she’s coming for you too."** A chill ran down Omar’s spine. He closed the diary and turned to leave. As he did, he felt unseen eyes watching him. He spun around—and there, in the corner of the room, stood a woman in a white dress. Her long black hair covered her face, but when she lifted her head… Omar saw she had no eyes. ### **Part Four** Omar screamed and shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the woman was gone. He rushed out of the apartment and into his car, his heart pounding. For days, Omar tried to forget what he had seen, but the woman began appearing in his dreams. Every night, she stood at the foot of his bed, watching him until he woke in terror. One night, Omar decided to return to Zainab’s apartment. Maybe there was a clue there. He arrived at 10 PM. The door was unlocked, as if waiting for him. He stepped inside. The air smelled foul—like stagnant water and rotting flowers. He turned on his flashlight and entered the bedroom. Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind him. Omar whirled around—the woman was there. Her hair was longer now, and her white dress was stained with dark patches of blood. "Who… who are you?" Omar stammered. The woman tilted her head, as if listening. Then she reached out a hand—and Omar saw her fingers were decaying. "Zainab… my daughter…" the woman rasped. Omar tried to back away, but his legs wouldn’t move. The woman lunged forward, her face inches from his. Omar squeezed his eyes shut— ### **Final Part** The next morning, the police found Omar unconscious on the floor of Zainab’s apartment. He was alive, but his eyes were open—empty and unseeing. At the hospital, doctors confirmed that Omar’s brain had completely shut down. He couldn’t speak, hear, or see. But whenever someone entered his room, he would tilt his head slightly… as if listening to something. And sometimes, late at night, the nurses would hear a woman weeping from inside his room. **"My daughter… come back."** [THE END]
By Faheem ullahabout a year ago in Horror
The Perfect Neighbor: A Horrifying Truth
**"The Perfect Neighbor: A Horrifying Truth"** **(1,500-word full description)** **Introduction: A Seemingly Ordinary Neighbor** We've all heard those scary stories as kids about a creepy person taking up residence in a neighborhood. But have you ever thought that this could happen in real life? This story happened to me in the fall of 2021, when I saw a man living in my own apartment complex who I later learned was scarier than any horror movie villain. **Introducing David** David Richardson, about 35 years old, has a low-pitched voice and always wears clean clothes. He rented apartment 303 on the third floor of our building. In the early weeks he had made everyone his fan: - Buying groceries for old Mrs. Jacobson every week - Offering to drop off the young couple's child from school - Always willing to give money to repair the building But... **First alarm** One night I stood on my balcony and saw David doing something in the parking area behind the building. He was taking out some small packets from the trunk of his car with red markings on them. When he saw me, his face immediately changed. He smiled, but the smile was not friendly in any way. **Stranger Events** After this incident I started to notice: 1. **Night noises:** Every Tuesday and Thursday night around 3 am, strange scraping sounds were coming from his apartment. 2. **Bleach Smell:** I would always smell bleach when I passed by his door, which he said he used to keep his "collection" clean. 3. **Unusual Attention to Hands:** I noticed that he never looked at anyone's face, but always stared at people's hands. **That Terrifying Night** I will never forget that night of November 15th. My cat, who usually ran away from David, ran towards his unlocked door that night. I went inside looking for him... **Inside View** - **Pictures on the Walls:** Hundreds of photos that were just close-ups of hands. Each photo had a date and a "subject number" written underneath. - **Toolbox:** Surgical instruments, a bone saw, and a few tools I couldn't even identify. - **Guns:** Glass jars filled with fingernails, fingernails, and some unknown liquid substance. **Notebook Reveal** An old letter pad appeared, detailed with: - "Subject 7: Age 28, soft hands, excellent specimen. Obtained." - "Subject 12: Excessive hand hair, rejected." - The last page read: "My latest masterpiece: The mistress of Apartment 304. Small hands, exactly my standard." **The police arrive** I immediately called 911. When the police arrived, they discovered 17 human hands in David's freezer, each sealed in a vacuum cell and labeled. But the scariest thing was that when they arrested David, both of his hands had fresh bruises on them. He confessed to the judge that he was looking for new hands to replace his "failed" hands. **Court Proceedings and Psychiatric Report** According to the psychiatric report presented in court, David suffered from "collector andromania", a mental illness in which the patient becomes addicted to collecting human organs. He believed that the "perfect hands" would reunite him with his missing mother. **Finally** Even today, when I look out my apartment window at night, I am afraid that another "David" might see my hands. Because the truth is, there are demons in human clothing all around us. **Question for readers:** Is there anyone in your neighborhood about whom you have strange complaints? Be sure to share your experiences in the comments. y is inspired by several true cases, including "The Hand Collector of Seattle" and "The Mad Surgeon of Dewar". Names and locations have been changed. Summarize this in English words by wordsStart writing...
By Faheem ullahabout a year ago in Horror
"The Night the Black-Eyed Children Knocked on My Door"
**The Night the Black-Eyed Children Knocked on My Door** ### **Introduction: A Chilling Encounter** It was an ordinary October night—cold, quiet, and draped in the kind of darkness that made every sound seem louder than it should be. I was alone in my suburban home, wrapped in the false security of locked doors and drawn curtains, when an unexpected knock shattered the silence. Three slow, deliberate raps echoed through the house, too precise to be the wind, too late for visitors. When I peered through the peephole, I saw them: two children, a boy and a girl, no older than ten. Their pale faces were almost gray under the dim porch light, their clothes slightly outdated, like relics from another era. But the most horrifying detail? Their eyes—solid black, no whites, no pupils, just endless voids staring back at me. ### **The Unsettling Request** The girl spoke first, her voice hollow, as if coming from far away: *"Please, sir, can we come in? We’re so cold."* The boy nodded, his head tilting at an unnatural angle. *"Our car broke down,"* he added, though the street behind them was empty—no car, no tracks in the thin layer of frost on the pavement. Every instinct in my body screamed at me: *Do not open that door.* There was something deeply wrong about these children—their presence radiated an unnatural dread, the kind that coils in your gut and whispers of unseen horrors. I hesitated, my hand hovering near the deadbolt, torn between fear and the irrational guilt of leaving kids out in the cold. ### **The Terror Deepens** When I refused, their polite pleas turned eerily persistent. *"We just need to use your phone,"* the girl insisted, her black eyes unblinking. The boy’s lips stretched into a smile that didn’t reach those hollow sockets. The knocking started again, louder this time, and then—impossibly—it seemed to come from *every door in the house*. The back door, the side entrance, even the basement door downstairs—all pounding in unison, a cacophony of demands. I stumbled back, my breath ragged, as the temperature in the house plummeted. My breath fogged in the air, and the walls seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the knocks. I grabbed my phone and dialed 911, my voice shaking as I described the intruders. The dispatcher assured me help was on the way, but the knocking didn’t stop. ### **The Disappearance** When the police arrived minutes later, the children were gone. No footprints in the snow, no signs of forced entry—just an eerie silence. The officers searched the property, their flashlights cutting through the darkness, but found nothing. One cop gave me a skeptical look, and I knew how it sounded: *Black-eyed children? Really?* But as they left, one officer paused. *"You’re not the first to call about something like this,"* he admitted quietly. *"Just… keep your doors locked."* ### **The Aftermath: A Haunting That Never Ended** I tried to rationalize it—sleep deprivation, a prank, a hallucination. But that night, I dreamed of them. They stood at the foot of my bed, their small forms silhouetted in the moonlight, whispering in unison: *"You should have opened the door."* Since then, I’ve researched similar encounters. The legend of the Black-Eyed Children stretches back decades—hundreds of reports describe pale, well-spoken kids with those same void-like eyes, always asking to be let inside. Those who refuse survive. Those who comply… well, their stories often end there. ### **Conclusion: A Warning** Some say they’re ghosts, others claim they’re something far older and darker. All I know is that they’re real, and they’re still out there. So if you ever hear a knock late at night, think twice before answering. Because once you let them in, you can’t make them leave. --- This summary expands on the original story with: - **More atmospheric detail** (cold, isolation, unnatural elements). - **Deeper psychological horror** (the protagonist’s guilt, the police reaction). - **Lore integration** (real-world legends of Black-Eyed Children). - **A haunting ending** that leaves room for reader speculation. Want to adjust the tone (more documentary-style, more personal, etc.)? Let me know!Start writing...
By Faheem ullahabout a year ago in Horror
10 Most Disturbing Found Footage Films You've Never Seen
What if the scariest horror films weren’t the ones plastered across streaming platforms or hyped up in theaters, but instead lurked in the shadows of obscurity, waiting to be uncovered like a cursed VHS tape in a dusty attic? Found footage films, with their raw, unpolished aesthetic, have a unique ability to blur the line between reality and fiction, making you question what’s real and what’s staged. Since The Blair Witch Project shook audiences in 1999, the genre has spawned countless imitators, but some of the most unsettling entries remain under the radar. These films don’t rely on jump scares or big budgets—they dig into your psyche with disturbing premises, raw realism, and haunting imagery that lingers long after the credits roll. Here are 10 obscure found footage horror films that will leave you rattled, sleepless, and maybe even checking your locks twice.
By Ozjan Kackarabout a year ago in Horror
The Girl from No. 9 – Part I: Feeding It
Part I: The Girl from No. 9 We never really talked to the girl from No. 9. She moved in during winter, the kind of winter that didn’t feel clean—more gray than white, more silence than snow. The trees outside were bare, brittle things that clawed at the sky. Even the neighborhood dogs stopped barking. It was like the whole street held its breath the day that family arrived. She was a quiet sort of girl—maybe twelve, maybe fourteen—but thin and pale like she hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Her hair was the color of ash, and it hung limp around her face like wet string. Her name was Eira. At least, that’s what the postman said. Her mother never smiled. Her father never came out. They moved in without ceremony. No welcome wagon, no casserole dishes from the neighbors. Just a rusted van, a few boxes, and silence. The curtains went up the same day, thick and black, like they were trying to keep something in—or out. I remember the first time I saw her. I was walking home from school, boots crunching over the thin crust of snow that hadn’t yet melted. The sky was low and heavy, the kind of gray that makes everything feel closer than it should. And there she was—kneeling in the snow in her front yard, drawing circles into the frost with her fingers. No gloves. Her nails were cracked, fingertips bruised blue. She didn’t look up when I passed, just kept tracing those slow, deliberate loops into the ice. I stopped a few feet away, unsure if I should say something. She didn’t seem to notice me. “What are you doing?” I asked. She paused, just for a second. Then she said, without looking up, “Feeding it.” There was no curiosity in her voice. No playfulness. Just a flat, matter-of-fact tone, like she was explaining the weather. I didn’t ask what *it* was. I wish I had. By spring, she was everywhere and nowhere. You’d see her standing at the edge of the park, or sitting under the rusted slide, watching the other kids without blinking. She never joined in. Never smiled. Just watched. Sometimes, if you looked away and looked back—she was gone. Not like she walked off. Just… gone. Some of the younger kids said she talked to the trees. That she whispered to the ground. That she buried things when no one was looking. We laughed it off. Kids make things up. But none of us ever went near her house, not really. Not after dusk. Then the things started. First, it was a cat. Mrs. Lorne’s tabby, the one that always sat in her window. Gone. Then another. Then someone’s dog—found under the porch, its mouth full of splinters, like it had been biting its way out of something. No blood. Just panic in its eyes and teeth worn down to nubs. Old Mr. Jenkins, who lived next to her, stopped coming outside. He used to sit on his porch every evening, radio on, beer in hand. Then he started keeping his windows shut. Said he heard whispering from her basement window at night. Said it called him by name. Two weeks later, they found him hanging in his tool shed. No note. Just a circle carved into the wooden floor beneath his feet. Perfect. Clean. Burned into the grain like it had always been there. No one blamed the girl. But no one didn’t, either. One evening, just after the sky turned that sickly shade of orange before a storm, I saw her again. I was taking the long way home, cutting through the back alley behind her house. I don’t know why. Curiosity, maybe. Or something else. She was sitting on her porch, barefoot, humming to herself. The tune was slow and strange, like something half-remembered from a dream. In her lap, she held a dead bird—small, black, its neck bent at an impossible angle. She was petting it like a kitten. When she looked up at me, her eyes weren’t just pale—they were wrong. Too still. Too deep. Like water that doesn’t reflect light anymore. Like if you stared long enough, you’d fall in and never come back. I asked her what she was doing. She said, “Feeding it. It’s still hungry.” I hesitated. Then I asked, “What is it?” She smiled. Just once. A small, tight curl of the lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “It used to be a girl, too,” she said. That night, her house burned down. No fire trucks came. No neighbors called for help. We all just… watched. Like it was supposed to happen. Like something old and inevitable had finally come to collect. The flames were silent. No crackling, no screaming. Just smoke rising into the sky like a sigh. They said no bodies were found inside. That maybe they weren’t home. But I swear, as the roof collapsed, I saw her standing in the attic window—smiling at me like she was finally full. That was six years ago. The house was never rebuilt. It’s just an empty lot now. Weeds grow tall in the summer. Snow never sticks in the winter. But sometimes, when the wind hits just right, the grass flattens in perfect circles. And the neighborhood dogs start barking again—for the first time in years. I live two streets over now, with my own kids. My daughter started drawing strange symbols in her notebook last week. Circles, mostly. Some with lines through them. Some with little eyes. I asked her where she learned them. She said a girl taught her. From No. 9.
By Muhammad Shoaibabout a year ago in Horror
The Cursed Five-Storey Mansion: Unmasking Penang's Shih Chung School Hauntings
Shih Chung Branch School's destroyed hulk rests like a shattered monument along Northam Road, George Town, Penang—a faded silhouette against steel skyscrapers, where colonial bricks are smothered by vines and shadows cling with an unnatural stubbornness. To locals who park their cars to eat dim sum at Fu Er Dai, it's a run-down eyesore. To ghost hunters and historians, it's Malaysia's most haunted site, where 130 years of glory, revolution, and unimaginable tragedy have made their indelible mark on recollections even time can't wipe away.
By Kyrol Mojikalabout a year ago in Horror
