psychological

Mind games taken way too far; explore the disturbing genre of psychological thrillers that make us question our perception of sanity and reality.

David Cronenberg’s Scanners is a Body Horror Triumph with a Unique Spin on Psychic Powers. Top Story - June 2025.
I was finally able to watch David Cronenberg’s Scanners, and I couldn’t believe how incredible and insane the story was. This is probably one of Cronenberg’s most bizarre films ever made, but the concept is genius.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
Cutlery for the quiet ones. Content Warning.
Trigger Warnings: Psychological decay, implied cannibalism, disturbing ritual imagery --- They told me the house would be empty. Just a simple inheritance transfer, they said. Sign a few papers, look around, maybe take something sentimental before the city tore it down. No one told me about the table. Or the place settings. Or the whispers that began when I touched the silver. I didn’t even want the house. It belonged to my great-aunt Meryl, whom I’d never met but was told had a “taste for solitude.” That’s how my mother put it, her voice faltering like she was biting down on memory. She never talked about Meryl growing up—only mentioned once, in passing, that she used to throw “strange dinners” on nights when the wind changed. They said she died peacefully. They didn’t mention the dining room was still... set. --- There were six chairs, evenly spaced, polished and perfect despite the dust. Six plates, bone-white and wide, with gold-rimmed edges. Six sets of cutlery, laid out with surgical precision—forks aligned, knives glinting in the fading light. But there was only one wine glass. And it was full. A deep red. Still shimmering. As if someone had just poured it. I remember standing in the doorway too long, long enough for shadows to lengthen across the carpet, long enough for something inside me to tug, softly, like a thread unraveling in my skull. I told myself to leave. But my feet moved on their own. --- There was a dusty photo on the mantle. Meryl in her twenties, standing beside the same table, except every chair was occupied—blurry silhouettes in old-fashioned clothes. No faces. Just impressions. Like the lens refused to capture what it shouldn’t have seen. In her hands, she held a knife. It looked exactly like the one on the table now. --- It started with a sound. A faint clink of silver on porcelain from the chair to my left. Then a quiet exhale from the chair across. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The table had guests now. I couldn’t see them—just heat distortions in the air, outlines of hands that lifted forks. Shadows that twitched just past the corner of my eye. The wine glass floated a few inches up, tilted back. Something drank. --- One by one, the knives began to move. Scraping. Carving. But the plates were empty. No food. No flesh. Just the suggestion of feasting. The noise was unbearable—wet, chewing mouths and the crack of cartilage, accompanied by the dull scrape of silverware on china. The scent of raw meat filled the air. My stomach turned. Then they turned to me. Not with eyes—there were no faces. Just presence. Cold. Curious. And hungry. A whisper slithered across the linen like a fingernail on glass: “It’s your turn, dear.” --- I didn’t want to move. I shouldn’t have moved. But my hands, shaking, reached for the fork. Then the knife. They moved on their own. My fingers mimicked the others. Cut. Lift. Chew. I gagged on nothing. Still I swallowed. The taste was… familiar. Like bone marrow. Like ash. Like guilt. --- The walls pulsed in and out with my breath. Or theirs. I felt them breathing through me. I wasn’t eating—I was being hollowed out, spoonful by spoonful. My skin prickled. My fingernails darkened. Something inside me opened its mouth, and I couldn't close it again. --- When the others vanished, the air didn’t change. It stayed thick, wet. The room stank of butchered things and ritual. Only one knife remained on the table. Longer. Sharper. Stained. There was a note beneath it, yellowed and cracked: Cutlery for the quiet ones. Use only when necessary. They never leave hungry. --- I stumbled out of the house that night. But I never really left. --- At first, it was just noise—cutlery tapping in my dreams, the echo of six plates being scraped clean. Then came the shapes. Figures seated in train windows. In café corners. In reflections behind my own. Faint, but clearer with each day. Each one looked a bit more... like me. --- I stopped eating. Didn’t stop them. --- I began setting my own table—six places, like before. I don’t know why. Guilt? Fear? Or maybe I was preparing. Each night they came. They didn’t knock. They didn’t speak. They just sat. Their features grew sharper. Neck bones. Chins. Wetness glistening on their lips. I gave them nothing. They came anyway. --- Last night, they brought a new knife Sleek. Surgical. With it, a note written in something darker than ink: Feed us. Or join us. --- I don’t sleep anymore. I don’t eat. I don’t leave the kitchen. The chairs are always full now, and I never remember opening the door. Sometimes I catch my own reflection in the cutlery. It doesn’t move when I do. Its mouth is always open. Waiting. --- Tonight, I will cook. I don’t know what. But I will. For them. For me. For the quiet ones. --- I think I’m becoming something else. A placeholder at the table. A husk with a heartbeat. A host. --- I used to think the cutlery was just silver. Now I know it’s ritual. And it’s hungry. And it knows my name. ---
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
The Best Horror Books of All Time – The House That Eats You
Okay, sit tight, this is a true what-did-I-just-read kind of horror story. So—there’s this stylish, confident young woman named Noemí Taboada. She lives in Mexico City in the 1950s. Think rich dresses, parties, jazz music—super glamorous, right? One day, her family gets a weird letter from her cousin Catalina, who had married some English guy and moved far away to a creepy house in the mountains called High Place. The letter wasn’t normal. Catalina was rambling, scared, and said things like: “There’s something wrong with the house… It whispers to me… they want to take my body…” Creepy much? Naturally, Noemí’s dad is like, “Go check on her. You’re smart. You don’t take nonsense from anyone.” So Noemí—dressed to the nines and thinking it’ll be a quick visit—heads off into the foggy mountains. And that’s where everything starts going wrong. Welcome to High Place High Place is nothing like her life in the city. It’s a cold, grey, rotting mansion on top of a hill, surrounded by fog, mushrooms, and silence. It feels dead… but like it’s still watching you. The family Catalina married into—the Doyles—are weird. Like, REALLY weird. Virgil (Catalina’s husband) is handsome but creepy. You know that type who smiles too much and stands too close? Florence (the aunt) acts like a strict nun. She has tons of rules. No noise. No late dinners. No talking about the past. Howard (the old man) is the creepiest of them all. Pale, old, and obsessed with eugenics (which is just a fancy, messed-up way of saying he thinks some people are “better” than others). The only semi-normal one is Francis, a shy, sickly guy who likes nature and seems kind—but also kind of trapped. The place smells like rot. There’s mold in the walls. The walls breathe sometimes. Noemí starts getting nightmares almost immediately. And not just spooky dreams. We’re talking full-on visions of blood, gold, worms crawling under skin, and strange people whispering in her ears while she sleeps. The house isn’t just haunted. It’s alive. The House Has a Memory As Noemí tries to help Catalina, she realizes something’s seriously wrong with everyone in this house. Catalina is drugged. The doctor won’t help. And when she tries to leave? Everyone suddenly says Catalina is “too ill” to travel. It’s like the house is holding them hostage. And then—Noemí starts seeing things while she’s awake. She hears walls whispering. She sees visions of the past—people getting murdered, buried, absorbed by the ground. She even sleepwalks into creepy parts of the house she’s never seen before. She asks Francis what’s going on, and that’s when he finally cracks: “The house is made of mushrooms.” Wait. What? Yes. Mushrooms. There’s a type of glowing fungus growing all through the house. Under the floors. Inside the walls. It connects everything—people, memories, even dreams. The Doyles have been breeding it for generations. They’ve used it to live longer. To trap people’s minds. To create visions. It’s like psychic, mind-controlling mold. The house doesn’t just remember the past… it keeps people inside it. Like Catalina. Like Francis. Like maybe soon… Noemí. The Awful Truth You know Howard, the creepy old man? He’s not just some old grandpa. He’s over a hundred years old. Maybe more. He’s using the mushroom’s weird powers to stay alive—by jumping into other people’s bodies. And now, guess who they want next? Noemí. Because she’s strong. Smart. Healthy. The perfect “new vessel.” That’s why they’ve been poisoning her, haunting her, trying to weaken her mind. The house is trying to grow into her. But Noemí is no fool. She fakes being under their spell. She finds a way to talk to Catalina without the family noticing. Together, they make a plan. The Final Escape They find out the main root of the fungus—the source of the Doyles’ power—is beneath the house in a secret cave. It’s ancient. It's pulsing. And in the center lies a corpse— Agnes Doyle—the first woman who discovered the fungus. She’s still alive, sort of. Her body is barely human anymore. But her brain? Still working. The family has been feeding her. Keeping her alive. She’s the reason for all the nightmares. All the pain. All the whispers. So Noemí and Catalina go full final boss fight mode. They burn it. The root. The corpse. The entire house. The fire spreads. The Doyles scream. The fungus dies. And so does the horrible spell holding everything together. Noemí, Catalina, and Francis escape the burning mansion just in time. High Place is gone. Forever. Or so they hope. logue: But What If It’s Not Over? They go back to Mexico City. Catalina starts healing. Francis tries to live a normal life. But Noemí? She dreams about mushrooms sometimes. And once—just once—she hears a whisper in her sleep: “I remember you.”
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
🩸 "The Thirteenth Room"
It started with a floor plan. Evelyn moved into the old Ashcroft building in late October, chasing a job and cheaper rent. The building was strange—tall and narrow, with creaky wood floors and a permanent draft—but it had character. And at night, the halls smelled faintly of lilac, like someone, somewhere, had spilled perfume years ago that never faded.
By Pir Ashfaq Ahmadabout a year ago in Horror
The Red Eyes at Midnight
“The Red Eyes at Midnight” by Ali Asad Ullah There are moments in life that don’t just haunt your memory—they consume it. For me, it was the red eyes. I saw them when I was sixteen, and I’ve never been the same since. I grew up in a small, remote village surrounded by endless wheat fields and dense forests. Our home was modest, and the nights were so quiet and dark that you could hear your own heartbeat. There were no streetlights, no passing cars, just the thick presence of nature and shadows. And stories. My grandmother, a deeply spiritual woman, used to tell me tales of djinns, cursed places, and the one legend that chilled me the most—the red eyes that appeared at midnight.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
"I Found a Hidden Room in My House"
I Found a Hidden Room in My House I never expected to inherit anything from my great-uncle. He was the kind of relative you heard about only at funerals—quiet, distant, strange. When he passed away in 2022, I received a letter from his lawyer informing me that I’d inherited his house. No explanation, just a key and an address scribbled on thick parchment.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
The 3:17 Visitor” horror story
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a light sleeper. Every sound, every creak, and even the faintest whisper of wind wakes me. So when I moved into my grandfather’s old countryside house after his death, I expected many sleepless nights. What I didn’t expect was what began exactly one week later—at 3:17 a.m.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
My Favorite Short Scary Stories
My Favorite Short Scary Stories By: Zoea Marland, Class 12 There’s nothing I enjoy more than a good scary story—the adrenaline rush, the sudden chill down your spine, and that irresistible suspense that makes your heart race. If you know me, you know that I live for eerie tales, especially the kind you share during a late-night sleepover, flashlight in hand and blankets pulled up to your chin.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
The Farmer and the King of Beasts
The wind carried dust across the quiet village of Bhairavpur. Crops rustled in the distance, and the sun was still a sleepy orange on the horizon. In this rural corner of northern India, life moved slowly. Predictably. That morning, it was supposed to be just another day in the fields. Raghu, a seasoned farmer whose skin bore the sun’s hard touch and whose hands told the story of decades of labor, rose before the roosters. At fifty-eight, his bones ached more than they used to, but he had no time to complain. The land didn’t wait for anyone. He picked up his sickle, wrapped a cotton cloth around his head, and stepped outside. The scent of earth greeted him like an old friend. His wife, Leela, handed him a tiffin. “Don’t forget what they said last night,” she murmured. “There was another animal sighting. Near the southern boundary.” Raghu waved a hand dismissively. “It’s probably a jackal. They scare easily.” But something in Leela’s eyes stayed with him longer than he expected. A shadow of worry. Raghu walked the familiar path between houses, past the well, and toward the open expanse of farmland. He noticed the silence—no dogs barking, no early bird songs. Still, he pressed on. Work was waiting. By midmorning, the sun stood bold in the sky. Raghu’s shirt clung to his back with sweat as he worked the edge of his wheat field, inspecting the stalks. Each step he took was careful. He bent, checked roots, trimmed leaves. Then something changed. A subtle sound—too heavy for a dog, too deliberate for the wind. He paused, hand tightening around the handle of his sickle. The rustling came again. This time, closer. Raghu looked up, scanning the line where the field met the wild scrub beyond. What he saw made his stomach twist. There, between two rows of sugarcane, stood a lion. It was not a figment of fear or heatstroke. Its presence was real. Terrifyingly real. Its golden fur caught the sunlight like flame. Eyes like molten amber locked onto Raghu’s. The distance between them was too small for comfort. Twenty, maybe thirty feet at most. Time slowed. His heart slammed against his ribs, loud enough to drown out everything else. He knew stories—village whispers about wildcats leaving the reserve. Most were exaggerated. But this… this was no exaggeration. The lion stepped forward. Raghu didn’t move. He didn’t run. Instinct screamed at him to flee, but every part of his soul knew better. He had no weapon, no cover. He was prey if he made one wrong move. The lion stopped again, paw settling on the soft earth. There was no roar. No growl. Just heavy breath and crushing tension. The air grew thick with heat and adrenaline. Raghu’s grip tightened on his sickle, not as a weapon, but as a tether to the moment—to his courage.
By Aliabout a year ago in Horror
The Vanishing of Kenny Veach: Into the M Cave
In the unforgiving heat of the Nevada desert, a place riddled with stories of lost gold, secret military projects, and modern myths, a real-life mystery unfolded—one that would haunt internet forums, conspiracy communities, and wilderness lovers for years. This is the story of Kenny Veach, an experienced solo hiker and adventurer who vanished without a trace in November 2014 after claiming he found a strange, unnatural cave hidden in the mountains near a restricted military base. A cave that made his body vibrate and filled him with a terror he couldn’t explain. He called it the M Cave, and his disappearance is now one of the internet’s most unsettling real-world horror stories.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
Dead Mountain: The Dyatlov Pass Incident
Prologue: Footsteps Into Silence In the frozen heart of the Ural Mountains, where the winds scream through the pines and the snow buries all memory, nine young hikers vanished into legend.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
Don’t Play in the Red Room
I’m going to tell you something weird that happened to my cousin Ayaan when he was 11. ‎ ‎And no, this isn’t a joke. ‎ ‎It all started with a creepy link. ‎ ‎You know how sometimes your friends send you weird stuff? Like "Don’t Google this!" or "Watch this video alone at night"? ‎ ‎Well, one night, Ayaan was in his room playing games on his laptop. He had just finished watching some horror YouTubers and was feeling kind of brave. Then he got a message from his friend Zara. It was just a link with the words: ‎ ‎“Have you played Red Room? Only for brave kids.” ‎ ‎He clicked it. ‎ ‎The screen went black. Then red text appeared: ‎ ‎“Welcome to the Red Room. You have 5 minutes. Can you survive?” ‎ ‎There was a timer. 5:00… 4:59… 4:58… ‎ ‎At first, Ayaan thought it was just a scary game. The screen showed a red room—like, literally all red, with a single wooden chair in the middle. In the corner, there was a dark door with a handle. ‎ ‎The game said: ‎ ‎“Click the door when you’re ready. But once you enter, you can’t leave.” ‎ ‎He clicked the door. Duh. What 11-year-old wouldn’t? ‎ ‎Inside was another room—but this time, it looked like his bedroom. Same posters, same bed, same cracked corner in the ceiling. The only difference? The colors were all weird. The walls were red, and everything looked… dusty. Like it hadn’t been touched in years. ‎ ‎Then he saw the chat box at the bottom: ‎ ‎“Ayaan, we’ve been waiting for you.” ‎ ‎He froze. ‎ ‎How did the game know his name? ‎ ‎He typed: ‎“Who is this?” ‎ ‎The game replied: ‎ ‎“You. But not the you from here.” ‎ ‎Suddenly, the camera moved by itself and turned toward the mirror in the corner of the red bedroom. ‎ ‎And there was another Ayaan in it. ‎ ‎Same face. Same clothes. ‎ ‎But this one… was smiling too big. ‎ ‎Ayaan shut his laptop so fast he almost cracked the screen. He was sweating. His heart was hammering in his chest. ‎ ‎But when he looked up… ‎ ‎The walls of his real room looked a little darker. ‎ ‎And his mirror was foggy. Like someone had breathed on the inside. ‎ ‎He didn’t sleep well that night. He kept the lights on. Every time he blinked, he saw that red room in his mind. ‎ ‎He thought it was over. ‎ ‎But the next morning, something terrifying happened. ‎ ‎He was brushing his teeth, and in the mirror, his reflection blinked a second too late. ‎Like a delay in a bad video call. ‎ ‎He screamed. ‎ ‎His mom came in, but of course, she didn’t see anything. Mirrors don’t act creepy when adults are around. ‎ ‎The next day at school, Ayaan asked Zara about the link. ‎ ‎She looked confused. ‎ ‎“What link?” ‎ ‎“The Red Room game you sent me,” he said. ‎ ‎She shook her head slowly. ‎ ‎“I never sent you anything last night.” ‎ ‎His blood went cold. ‎ ‎That night, when he turned on his laptop, it turned on by itself before he even touched it. The Red Room game was open. ‎ ‎The timer was back. ‎ ‎5:00... ‎ ‎But this time, the message read: ‎ ‎“You left the door open. He’s already crossed over.” ‎ ‎He slammed the laptop shut again and ran to his parents. They didn’t believe him. Just told him to stop watching creepy videos and focus on school. ‎ ‎But things kept getting worse. ‎ ‎His mirror started whispering at night. Just soft words he couldn’t fully understand—like a crowd mumbling behind a closed door. ‎ ‎And every night at 3:00 a.m., he’d hear footsteps in his room. But when he turned on the light—no one was there. ‎ ‎Until one night… ‎ ‎He woke up to his closet door wide open. ‎ ‎And in the mirror, he saw two Ayaans. ‎ ‎One in bed. ‎ ‎And one standing behind him. ‎ ‎Except when he turned around—there was nothing there. ‎ ‎But the reflection stayed. ‎ ‎The other Ayaan looked at him. Smiled. Then reached toward the glass, like he was trying to pull himself out. ‎ ‎Ayaan screamed louder than ever before. ‎ ‎The lights in his room exploded. His laptop fried. And the next morning, he had deep scratches on his arms he couldn’t explain. ‎ ‎Now here’s the creepiest part. ‎ ‎After that night, Ayaan… changed. ‎ ‎He stopped talking about the Red Room. ‎ ‎Stopped laughing. ‎ ‎And sometimes, Zara said, he just stared at people without blinking, like he was studying them. ‎ ‎His parents said he was “just going through something.” ‎ ‎But one time, Zara slept over. She swears that in the middle of the night, she saw Ayaan standing in front of the mirror—talking to it. ‎ ‎And the voice that replied? ‎ ‎Wasn’t his. ‎ ‎💀 The Ending ‎Ayaan’s mirror broke one morning. Shattered without anyone touching it. ‎ ‎They replaced it. ‎ ‎But now, every mirror in the house shows Ayaan’s reflection smiling—even when he’s not. ‎ ‎And if you ever see him online, don’t click his messages. ‎ ‎Because rumor says… the other version of Ayaan is still sending links. ‎ ‎And if you get one that says: ‎ ‎“Want to play in the Red Room?” ‎ ‎Whatever you do... ‎ ‎Don’t click. ‎
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror