psychological

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

⛔ Three-day wedding procession, returned alone ⛔
⛔ Three-day wedding procession, returned alone ⛔ An upazila in the middle of Bangladesh, its name is Trishal. Just by pronouncing the name, it seems like the rhythm of poetry rings out. It is not very far from Mymensingh city, but once you set foot there, it seems like time has stopped. A mysterious beauty can be found in the combination of rivers, beels, dirt roads and lonely trees.
By Ratul Shrikhabout a year ago in Horror
Who is she inside the mirror?
It’s a cloudy afternoon. The rain has stopped, but the air still smells damp. Rhea walks through the old alleys of northern Kolkata, wearing thick-rimmed glasses and holding a camera.
By Nafiz Hossainabout a year ago in Horror
The One Who Breathes Beyond the Door
In a corner of the village, a small mud house is covered in the shade of a banyan tree. It is very old, but everything inside is tidy—as if someone has left everything in order. Abir lives alone here, in his fifties, a retired school teacher. He has no wife, no children, and no relatives. Loneliness is his only companion.
By Nafiz Hossainabout a year ago in Horror
I Saw My Father Kill My Mother
When I was ten years old, I saw my mother lying on the floor in my parents’ bedroom. I didn’t understand why she wasn’t moving, or why my father was standing over her, holding a hammer. He spotted me, dropped the hammer, and scooped me up into his arms.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
The Commuter’s Secret
Story: The city was abuzz with tales of the "Midnight Slasher," a supposed serial killer targeting late-night train passengers. Most dismissed it as urban legend, a tale to deter night travel. I, however, was skeptical.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Horror
Three Charms, One Revenge
This isn’t just a story—it’s like a real-life curse. It’s about a brave 18-year-old girl who wanted to take care of her family. But she had no idea that her life’s scariest chapter would start one night, after eating a bowl of tripe. It was January 2019. A girl named Alo moved to Gazipur with her mom and older brother. Her parents were splitting up because of family problems, so Alo stepped up to help her mom and brother. On January 1, she started working at a garment factory. Their house in Gazipur had an old mango tree right next to the bathroom. The tree was strangely quiet, like it was hiding something dark from a long time ago. But no one thought it was dangerous back then. A few days after starting her job, Alo began waking up every night at exactly 3 a.m. to take a bath. Every time, she heard a soft voice whispering in her ear, “Don’t be scared, I’m here. Go take your bath.” Weirdly, Alo wasn’t afraid. She’d bathe and go back to sleep without a problem. Her mom noticed Alo waking up at the same time every night to bathe. When she asked about it, Alo didn’t know why she was doing it. This went on for three months straight. Then came the terrifying night—March 8, 2019. Alo’s dad suddenly came to Dhaka to visit. He brought fish, duck meat, and tripe. That evening, her mom cooked a big meal. But as soon as Alo ate some tripe, she felt horrible pain in her stomach. The pain was so bad that she passed out. What happened next wasn’t just physical pain—it was the start of something supernatural. Even while unconscious, Alo was laughing one moment and crying loudly the next. That night, 15 healers came to help her, but none of them could do anything. Some got sick themselves, and others ran away from the house. Around 3 a.m., Alo opened her eyes and saw something so horrifying that no one could handle it. She screamed and fainted again. The next morning, she woke up in her family’s home in Sherpur. She had no idea how she got there. But that evening, the same strange presence took over her body again—laughing, crying, screaming. A religious scholar from India came to help. He started treatment, putting needles under her fingernails, drawing blood, and tying three charms on her body. Each charm cost 3,001 taka. The next morning, all three charms were gone from her body! The scholar said, “I can’t cure her.” Alo and her family went to another healer. For three months, he tried to help, but nothing worked. Alo felt ice-cold all the time, and at night, something invisible wrapped around her. In her sleep, that unseen presence held her tight—but she started feeling like it wasn’t alone. There were others around her. Then came a man they called “Nana,” the father of their neighbor’s wife. He was an experienced healer. At first, Alo felt a little better with his treatment. The strange presence that seemed to protect her told her one day, “Give me something, and all your family’s problems will go away.” Alo believed it and told Nana. He said, “That’s a good thing. It’s here to protect you.” The next day, Nana brought snacks—samosas, puris, and sweets. Alo ate them, not knowing that by eating, she was closing the door to her freedom. Nana trapped the “good” spirit in a tree and sent 11 terrifying, violent spirits into Alo’s body. That’s when her real suffering began. These spirits attacked her every two days. If she didn’t obey them, they bit her or beat her. She couldn’t tell anyone. The pain and fear built up inside her like a fire she couldn’t put out. Nana also made sure she couldn’t get married for 14 years. Alo would stay up at night, wondering, “Why doesn’t God just take me away?” What she saw and went through is so awful that most people wouldn’t have the courage to talk about it. But Alo fought. She’s still fighting. She says, “I’m as strong as a healer now. I could hurt people with my power if I wanted to, but I won’t. I don’t hurt others. But I still haven’t fully saved myself…” This story doesn’t end here. Alo still carries the shadows of that cursed past. There are things she hasn’t said—because those terrifying truths are so dark, they might disturb anyone who hears them.
By Ahsan Sazid about a year ago in Horror
The Last Text
The rain tapped against the window like impatient fingers, the kind that drum on a table when someone is waiting for a reply. Ella checked her phone again—still nothing from Mark. He’d promised to call after his business trip, but three days had passed with only silence.
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Horror
The Whispers Beneath Room 13
I was never the type to believe in ghost stories. I grew up in a world where logic ruled and science explained everything. But after what happened during my final year in college, I no longer sleep with the lights off—or sleep much at all.
By Muhammad Hakimiabout a year ago in Horror
The Café of Second Chances – Where Strangers Meet and Fate Intervenes
Introduction: A Place Where Time Stands Still In a bustling city where people rush past each other without a second glance, there exists a peculiar little café tucked between a laundromat and an old bookstore. Its sign, slightly crooked and weathered, reads: "The Café of Second Chances."
By 47 jokerabout a year ago in Horror
The House That Hums
I never believed in haunted houses. That was the kind of thing people whispered about in old diners or posted on forums with usernames like “GhostHunter88” and “DeadInside13.” I believed in creaky pipes, bad wiring, and wind howling through gaps in the roof. That was before I moved into the house on Brookmere Lane.
By Muhammad Hakimiabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers Between Worlds
Elmridge was not proud. It crouched behind ancient pines, a single gravel road snaking among shut storefronts and sagging porches. On most afternoons, the sun filtered gently through the trees—until night, when a thick, blue‑gray fog crept in and wrapped itself around roofs, grave markers, and empty streets alike. Folks murmured about the fog's persistence, but quietly. Because in Elmridge, there were silences that spoke louder than words.
By Filiponsoabout a year ago in Horror
The Final Broadcast
The rain hammered against the windows of Station WZRD, Dark. With his deep baritone voice and eerie playlists, Vincent had become a cult favorite. But tonight’s broadcast would be unlike any other. "Welcome to *Echoes After Dark," Vincent murmured into the mic, the red ON AIR light casting a faint glow on his pale face. "Tonight, we explore the whispers that live in static, and the truths hidden in silence." Behind the glass, producer Dana typed swiftly, loading up sound effects. The station was unusually quiet. Only the hum of old electronics and the steady ticking of the wall clock kept Vincent company. Thirty minutes in, the call came. “I have a story,” the voice rasped. It was dry, gravelly, almost mechanical. “But it’s not for the faint of heart.” Vincent’s eyes lit up. He loved a good live scare. “Let’s hear it,” he said smoothly. The caller laughed, low and slow. “In 1983, there was a girl named Evelyn Marsh. She lived right here in Elmridge. She disappeared one rainy night. Police never found her. Her last known contact? A call to this very station… during Echoes After Dark.” Vincent blinked. That wasn’t a coincidence. “That’s quite the story,” he replied, stalling. “You got a connection to Evelyn?” Silence. Then: “She was my sister.” Dana looked up, startled. Vincent gave her a shrug. It might still be a prank. “She was sixteen,” the caller continued. “Loved the show. Called in one night with a poem she’d written. That was the last anyone heard her voice.” Vincent vaguely recalled the urban legend — something about a haunted recording lost in the archives. “I think you’ve got the wrong station, friend,” Vincent said, suddenly uneasy. “No,” the voice snapped. “I don’t.” The line went dead. Dana walked in from the control room, frowning. “That wasn’t in our call queue. Came straight through. No caller ID.” Vincent nodded, tapping his pen nervously. “Dig up the old logs. 1983. If there’s any record of Evelyn Marsh, I want to know.” While Dana left to check the archives, Vincent killed time with music and ghost stories from listeners. Forty minutes passed. Then Dana came back, pale, holding a dusty tape. “This was filed under E.M.,” she whispered. “It’s real, Vin.” Vincent slipped on the headphones and played the tape. A girl’s soft voice crackled through: “…and in the dark, I see his face, A hollow grin, a tight embrace. He waits for me, he holds my breath, I dance with silence, I sleep with death…” Suddenly, the girl gasped on the tape. “He’s here—no—please—” A loud thud. Then static. The room chilled. Dana’s lips trembled. “Vin, that tape… it’s never aired. No one outside this station should’ve heard it.” Vincent turned to the mic. “Listeners… we may have stumbled onto something more than folklore.” He was about to elaborate when the phone rang again. “You found it,” the voice hissed. “She warned you.” Vincent’s throat tightened. “Who are you?” A long pause. “I’m the one who silences the voices.” The power cut. Lights, soundboards, everything — dead. Only the emergency exit sign glowed red. Dana grabbed her phone’s flashlight. “We need to go.” But Vincent stood frozen, staring at the tape deck. “It’s recording,” he said. Despite no power, the tape was spinning. And voices — dozens — whispered from the speakers. “Help me…” “He’s here…” “I never left…” Suddenly, the tape screamed — a horrible, grinding shriek. Dana covered her ears. Vincent’s nose bled. Then: silence. The lights flickered back. Vincent blinked. The studio looked… older. Dustier. A calendar on the wall read: October 1983. He stumbled to the glass. Dana was gone. The computers, gone. Replaced by rotary phones and analog equipment. The ON AIR sign lit up. Echoes After Dark. The mic hissed. “Welcome back, Vincent,” a familiar, gravelly voice said through the speaker. “It’s time for your show.” Vincent looked at his reflection. His hair was grayer. His face… older. Much older. The door slammed shut behind him. --- TWIST: The show was a trap — a looping broadcast that absorbed hosts over time. Vincent hadn’t just uncovered a mystery; he had become the next ghost in the machine.
By Muhammad Ahmar about a year ago in Horror