slasher
Don't open that door! Psycho made slasher films a hallmark of the horror genre; explore iconic hackers, slashers, and chainsaw-wielding psychopaths, from the safety of your living room.
The Last Person Who Lived Here Left a Note.đđ±
I never believed in ghosts or curses. Iâm a 29-year-old logistics coordinator who moved to Rotterdam for a decent job and cheaper rent than Amsterdam. When I found this apartment in Delfshaven listed at âŹ650 all-in, I thought Iâd won the lottery. The landlord barely looked me in the eyes during the viewing. He just said the previous tenant had âleft in a hurryâ and that the place had been empty for three weeks. The photos looked clean. The building was quiet. I signed the contract the same day. The apartment was on the third floor of an old brick building overlooking a narrow street. Canal water smell mixed with rain most days â typical Rotterdam weather. I moved in on a Thursday evening in late March. By the time I finished unpacking, it was past midnight. Thatâs when I found the note. I was putting away plates in the kitchen cabinet when I saw it: a single folded piece of A5 paper taped neatly to the inside of the door at eye level. The handwriting was shaky but clear, written in black ballpoint. âIf youâre reading this, I didnât make it out. Donât answer the door after 2:37 a.m. Donât look out the living room window if the streetlight flickers three times. Never say your full name out loud after midnight. Iâm sorry.â I laughed nervously. Probably some artsy student trying to freak out the next renter. I took a photo of it, showed it to a couple of friends in the group chat, and then tossed it in the drawer. Life went on. The first week was peaceful. I arranged my furniture, bought a second-hand bike, and started my new job. The building had only six apartments, and the neighbors kept to themselves. The only odd thing was how quiet it got after 11 p.m. No footsteps, no TV sounds â just the occasional creak of old wood. Then the dreams started. In them I was standing at the living room window, staring at the streetlight. My reflection in the glass looked wrong â its eyes were slightly delayed, like a bad video call. I woke up sweating at exactly 2:37 a.m. three nights in a row. Coincidence, I told myself. On the eighth night, my phone rang at 2:37 a.m. Unknown number. I ignored it. It rang again thirty seconds later. This time I answered. Complete silence. Then a faint breathing, followed by a voice that sounded exactly like mine, only flatter, tired. ââŠstop looking for me.â I hung up immediately. My hands were shaking. I checked the call log. It showed the call had come from my own number. I told myself it was a glitch, some spoofing thing. But I couldnât sleep. The calls became regular. Every night at 2:37. Sometimes the voice cried softly. Sometimes it whispered my address. Once it recited my Dutch BSN number â information I had never shared with anyone in this city. I started putting my phone on airplane mode before bed, but the calls still came through. Iâd wake up to missed call notifications from myself. I tried researching the apartment online. The rental listing had been reposted multiple times in the last two years. Previous tenants never stayed longer than six weeks. One review on a Dutch housing forum (which was later deleted) mentioned âstrange night calls and feeling watched from the window.â By the end of the second week I was exhausted. Dark circles under my eyes, coffee addiction worse than ever. I started checking the locks obsessively. I even bought a cheap security camera for the hallway, but it kept losing connection between 2:30 and 3:00 a.m. One Thursday night I broke the third rule by accident. I was half-asleep on the couch watching a boring documentary when the clock hit midnight. I muttered to myself, âCome on, Mark van der Linden, just go to bed.â The words left my mouth before I realized what Iâd done. The temperature in the room dropped noticeably. Not dramatically â just enough that I could see my breath for a few seconds. Then my phone lit up on the table. No ringtone. Just the screen showing an incoming call from âMark van der Linden.â I didnât answer. The voice messages started the next night. Six of them, all recorded at 2:37. In the first, the voice (my voice) sounded calm: âI left the note for you. Why didnât you listen?â In the fourth, it was screaming my full name. In the last one it was just wet, gurgling breathing and the sound of something scratching wood. I finally confronted the landlord. He met me downstairs in the rain, looking uncomfortable. When I mentioned the note and the calls, his face went pale. He admitted the previous tenant was a woman named Lisa who had lived there alone. One morning the neighbors heard her screaming. By the time police arrived the apartment was empty except for her phone on the kitchen table, still recording. The video showed nothing but the ceiling and her voice begging something not to use her hands. He offered to let me out of the contract. I should have taken it. Instead I got angry and said I wasnât going to be scared out of my own home. That was my biggest mistake. Last night the streetlight outside the living room window flickered once⊠twice⊠three times. I froze on the couch. The rule echoed in my head, but curiosity and fear mixed into something stupid. I walked to the window. On the other side of the glass, standing on nothing but air three stories up, was me. Same hoodie, same messy hair, same tired eyes. It raised its right hand slowly and waved. I watched my own fingers move in perfect sync â except I wasnât moving mine. Then it smiled. I donât smile like that. I stumbled backward, heart hammering. Thatâs when the knocking started. Not on the front door. Inside the apartment. Three measured knocks from the bedroom. Then the bathroom. Then the kitchen cabinet where Iâd found the note. I ran to the living room, turned on every light, and grabbed my phone. Iâm typing this now at 2:19 a.m. with all the lights blazing and my back against the wall so nothing can sneak up behind me. The knocking has moved closer. Itâs in the hallway now. Slow, patient, like it has all night. My phone just buzzed. New voice message from myself, sent thirty seconds ago. I played it on speaker. The voice whispered, calm and close: âMark van der Linden⊠open the door. I want to come back inside.â The knocking stopped. Now I can hear the soft sound of bare feet on the wooden floor behind me. If youâre reading this on Vocal, it means I posted it in time. If the story disappears tomorrow⊠youâll know why. Iâm going to try to run. The front door is only five meters away. Wish me luck.
By Esmat Zafari5 months ago in Horror
Priory . Top Story - May 2026. Content Warning.
It is my unwavering belief that any creature with blood within its veins is capable of grave sins. I now confess my own. They will name me a Brother of the Order of St. Mathieus. A lie. The first of many. I am no brother. I had not yet done the rituals of our order. I was little more than an orphan stableboy, surviving on gruel and stale bread. Unworthy of both my mother and my Orderâs love.
By Matthew J. Fromm5 months ago in Horror
Stay a While: The Lineage of the Mask . Honorable Mention in Stay a While Challenge.
The deepest dark does not hide the hidden; it hides the family we once trusted. There were no main roads here. Far down, there was darkness, a stream and a fallen tree; a dragon was carved into the bark. No signature marked the wood. Its length. Its width. If the light hit the grain, it would reveal a wood that was dead yet grand.
By Caitlin Charlton5 months ago in Horror
The House That Learned Your Name
On the far edge of a forgotten village, where the road dissolved into cracked earth and silence, stood a house no one claimed. It didnât lean like abandoned houses do. It didnât decay the way time usually insists. Instead, it waited. People said it had no owner. But that wasnât true. The house owned them. --- Arif never believed in stories. Ghosts were for people who feared the dark, and he had long ago learned that darkness was just the absence of lightânot something alive. So when his friends dared him to spend one night inside the house, he laughed. âJust a building,â he said. âThen prove it,â they replied. And thatâs how Arif found himself standing before the tall, iron gate just after sunset, a single backpack slung over his shoulder. The gate creaked open before he touched it. He paused. Then shook his head. âLoose hinges,â he muttered, stepping inside. The yard was strangely clean. No weeds. No broken glass. Just dry soil and a narrow stone path leading to the front door. The door was already open. --- Inside, the air felt... still. Not stale. Not dusty. Just watching. Arif stepped in, his footsteps echoing softly across the wooden floor. The house was larger than it looked from outsideârooms stretching deeper than they should, hallways bending in subtle, unnatural ways. He pulled out his phone. No signal. âOf course,â he sighed. He chose a room on the ground floorâa simple bedroom with a bed, a wooden chair, and a mirror on the wall. Too clean. Too normal. That bothered him more than decay would have. --- Hours passed. Nothing happened. No whispers. No shadows. No sudden movements. Arif smirked to himself. âTold them.â He lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Thatâs when he heard it. A soft knock. From inside the wall. --- He sat up slowly. Another knock. Closer this time. Not random. Rhythmic. Like someone trying to communicate. âHello?â Arif called, half amused, half irritated. The knocking stopped. Silence. Thenâ âArifâŠâ The voice was faint. Almost buried in the walls. His name. He froze. âWhoâs there?â he demanded. No answer. Just the quiet hum of the house. --- Arif stood up and walked to the mirror. For a moment, everything looked normal. Then his reflection blinked. He hadnât. He stepped back sharply. âNope,â he whispered. âNot real.â He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Normal. Just his reflection. He laughed nervously. âOkay⊠imagination.â But as he turned away, he heard it againâ âArifâŠâ This time, it came from the mirror. --- He didnât look back. Instead, he grabbed his bag. âThatâs enough.â He moved toward the door. But the hallway outside was⊠wrong. Longer. Much longer. The walls stretched, the lights dimmer than before. And at the far end, something stood. A figure. Tall. Still. Watching. --- Arif swallowed hard. âJust a trick of light,â he said, forcing himself to walk forward. Step by step, the figure became clearer. It wasnât a person. Not exactly. Its limbs were too long. Its face⊠blurred, like something unfinished. And yetâ It smiled. --- Arif stopped. âStay right there,â he whispered, though he wasnât sure if he was speaking to itâor to himself. The figure tilted its head. Then, in a voice that sounded like many voices layered together, it spoke. âYou came back.â Arifâs breath caught. âIâve never been here before.â The thing smiled wider. âYes⊠you have.â --- Suddenly, the hallway shifted. The walls pulsed. And Arif wasnât standing anymore. He was *remembering*. --- A child. Crying. Lost. A small boy wandering through a house much like this one. Calling for his mother. âAmma?â No answer. Only silence. And thenâ A voice. âStay.â --- Arif snapped back to reality, gasping. His head pounded. âThatâs not my memory,â he whispered. The figure stepped closer. âIt is now.â --- The house creaked. Doors slammed shut one by one. Windows sealed themselves. The air grew heavy. âYou shouldnât have come,â the thing said softly. âBut now that youâre hereâŠâ Its smile widened impossibly. ââŠyou canât leave.â --- Arif turned and ran. The hallway twisted behind him, stretching endlessly. Doors appeared where none existed before. He opened oneâ Another hallway. Another doorâ A staircase leading down. Down. Down. --- He didnât remember descending. But suddenly, he was in a basement. Cold. Dark. Breathing. The walls⊠moved. Slowly. Like something alive. --- And then he saw them. Scratches on the walls. Names. Hundreds of them. Carved deep into the surface. Each one trembling slightly, as if still fresh. --- At the center of the room stood a door. Different from the others. Old. Rotting. And yetâ Inviting. --- Behind him, the voice returned. âOpen it.â Arif shook his head. âNo.â âOpen it,â the house insisted, louder now. The walls pulsed faster. The names began to whisper. âOpen itâŠâ âOpen itâŠâ âOpen itâŠâ --- He stepped back, covering his ears. âIâm leaving!â The house laughed. âYou already stayed too long.â --- The figure appeared againâright in front of him. Closer than before. Its face almost human now. Almost. âYou remember now, donât you?â it said. Arif shook his head violently. But the memories came anyway. Flooding in. Drowning him. --- He 'had' been here. Years ago. As a child. Lost. Crying. And the house had spoken to him then too. âStay,â it had said. And he had. For a moment. Just one moment. --- That was all it needed. --- âYou left your name behind,â the thing whispered. Arifâs eyes widened. âNoâŠâ The figure pointed to the wall. And there it was. Fresh. Bleeding into existence. ARIF --- âNo, no, noââ He ran to it, trying to scratch it out. But the letters sank deeper into the wall, as if the house was swallowing them. âYou belong here,â the voice said, now coming from everywhere. From the walls. The floor. Inside his head. --- The door in the center creaked open. Darkness poured out. Not empty darkness. Living darkness. Hungry. --- The whispers grew louder. Screams layered beneath them. Voices of those who had come before. All calling. All trapped. --- Arif stumbled back. âI didnât agree to this!â The house answered calmly. âYou already did.â --- The darkness surged forward. Cold fingers wrapped around his arms. Pulling. Dragging. --- He screamed. But the house swallowed the sound. Just like it swallowed everything else. --- The last thing he sawâ Was the wall. And his name. Joining the others. --- Silence returned. The house stood still again. Patient. Waiting. --- Outside, the gate creaked open once more. Another visitor approached. Curious. Unaware. --- And inside the walls, faint and desperateâ A new voice whispered. âDonât come inâŠâ But the house smiled. Because it had already learned another name.
By Silas Blackwood5 months ago in Horror
The Catalina Anomaly: Something Beneath the Surface
đïž Intro Narration The ocean has always been a place of mystery, concealing countless secrets beneath its vast and shifting surface. It is largely unmapped, often unforgiving, and its depths challenge even our most advanced technology. While humanity has mapped continents, explored the surface, and even ventured into space, much of what lies beneath the waves remains unknown.
By Veil of Shadows5 months ago in Horror
The Cry Beneath the Floorboards
They told us the house had âcharacter.â Five of us stood in the gravel driveway, staring at it like it might blink first. A weekend getaway, thatâs all it was supposed to be. No signal. No neighbors. Just trees pressing in from all sides and a long dirt road that felt like it had forgotten how to lead anywhere.
By Ajan Lori A. 5 months ago in Horror
Myth Tour. Honorable Mention in Stay a While Challenge. Top Story - May 2026.
Light be-smirks outline where the edges blur and form dissolves to shadow. I squint, at dusk, what a trivial action. The sun, tucking its final glow tidily behind the mountain, turns over embers to warm the other side. Unchallenged, frigid dark overtakes the riverbed.
By Jessica McGlaughlin5 months ago in Horror
Weeks before a major volcano erupted, warning signs appeared.
A recent study found that approximately one month prior to its 2022 eruption, the giant Hawaiian volcano Mauna Loa released a detectable heat signature. The same record demonstrates how lava that stopped short of a crucial road might help scientists interpret Venusian volcanoes and intensify warnings on Earth.
By Francis Dami5 months ago in Horror
