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.
He Followed Me Home — A Chilling Tale of Stalking and Fear
I live on the edge of a quiet highway town in northern Utah. There’s not much here—just a few stores, truck stops, and rundown motels clinging to the side of the highway like forgotten relics. Dirt roads branch off to lead into the outskirts, where scattered homes sit on acres of forest and overgrown fields. My home is one of them. Remote, peaceful, isolated. Most days, that’s exactly how I like it. I work remotely, and that day was like any other. I shut my laptop around six, stretched out my back, and decided to head into town for groceries. The sun was beginning to set behind the hills, casting long shadows across the empty roads. The town itself never felt busy. Even though it sat on the edge of a highway, the traffic was light, and the few stores were rarely crowded. I parked at the far end of the grocery store lot, like I always did, and went inside. As I pushed my cart down the first aisle, I noticed a man standing near the end cap looked over at me. I thought nothing of it. People glance at each other all the time. A few minutes later, I saw him again, this time in another aisle. He wasn’t looking at the shelves. He was just standing there, only a few feet away from me, doing nothing. I shifted my eyes in his direction, trying not to be obvious. He was still looking at me. I gave a quick “Hi” and continued shopping. He didn’t reply. By the time I reached the checkout, I had mostly forgotten about him. I bagged my groceries, loaded them into my car, and started back toward home. The lot was still mostly empty, and as I looked out across it, something felt off. He was there again. Standing between two cars, half-hidden, just watching. He didn’t have any bags. He hadn’t bought anything. He didn’t move. I drove away. The road home was darker now. No streetlights. Only the headlights cutting through the thickening night. I reached my house, parked out front, and started carrying the groceries inside. While unpacking the first load, my dad called, and I got sidetracked. By the time I stepped back outside for the second trip, the air felt colder. That’s when I saw it. A truck. Parked far out on my property, just off the dirt road. Its lights were off. No sound. It hadn't been there earlier. I squinted into the darkness. It looked like an old pickup, silhouetted against the night sky. It sat still, engine silent. My property covers nearly 40 acres, but that area was close enough to be unnerving. Too close. If someone had pulled over to sleep, why park with the lights off? Why on private land? I kept an eye on the truck while grabbing the last of the bags. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe someone just pulled off the road to rest. Back inside, I left the curtains open just a bit, just enough to keep watch. An hour passed. Then another. The truck didn’t move. My nerves settled slightly. Still strange, but maybe harmless. Eventually, I closed the curtains and went upstairs to bed. Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up needing to use the restroom. I dragged myself out of bed, still half-asleep, and walked down the hallway toward the bathroom. The moment I opened the door, I heard it. A soft creak from downstairs. Not the kind an old house makes. It was deliberate. It was weight shifting on wood. I stood still and listened. I opened and closed the bathroom door again, trying to recreate the sound. Nothing. I crept to the top of the stairs and peered down. The house was dark, save for faint moonlight spilling through the kitchen window. Then I saw it. A shadow. It moved slightly, casting a shape against the wall. My heart pounded. I couldn’t tell if the figure was inside the hallway or just outside the back door, but I wasn’t going to wait to find out. I backed away quietly and slipped into my room, shutting the door gently. I grabbed my phone and dialed the police. I spoke in a low voice, describing what I saw. Minutes passed. The house stayed quiet. I began to wonder if I’d imagined it. Then the creaking started again. Footsteps. Slow. Careful. Crossing the living room floor. I held my breath. A moment later, I heard running. Fast, heavy footsteps scrambling across the floor below. Then silence. The flashing red and blue lights cut through the window. I heard shouting outside. Then the sound of someone being tackled. The officers had arrived just in time. I went downstairs as one of them escorted a man in cuffs back toward the truck in the field. My stomach turned when I saw his face. It was the man from the store. He had followed me. Worse, he was armed. He didn’t have any tools for robbery, no bag, nothing to carry stolen goods. He hadn’t taken anything. He had just waited. Watching. Waiting for me to sleep. The police found no signs of forced entry. Which means he had likely entered while I was unloading groceries. Possibly while I was on the phone with my dad. They said he claimed he only wanted to rob me. But nothing about it felt like robbery. He knew I was home. He hid in the dark. He didn’t go through drawers or open doors. He just stood there. Watching. They found something else in the truck. A photograph. Not of me. But of a woman. Taped to the dashboard. She looked a lot like me. Same hair, same build. But it wasn’t me. Her eyes were scratched out. The officers didn’t know who she was. The man wouldn’t say. He just smiled as they put him into the back of the cruiser. I moved a few months later. Sold the land and left the state. But I still have nightmares. And in every single one, I hear footsteps on the floorboards, and the sound of a door slowly creaking open. THE END PLEASE follow CreepVille for more stories
By CreepVille Horror Storiesabout a year ago in Horror
AM I PREETY? 😈😈
The night air in the small village of Sakamura hung heavy with fog. Crickets had long gone quiet, and even the wind seemed afraid to whisper. Beneath a pale moon, narrow streets wound between old houses like veins, pulsing with a fear no one dared to name. The villagers had always whispered of something that walked after dark. Something cursed. Something that once used to be human. High above the village rooftops, a streetlight flickered like a failing heartbeat. Its dim glow spilled over a quiet sidewalk where a boy of sixteen trudged alone, his schoolbag weighing more than usual on his back. Kenji Nakamura had stayed late after cram school to prepare for his university entrance exams. He lived with his grandmother, who always warned him not to take the long road through the old district after sundown. But tonight, he was tired. The shortcut through the abandoned part of town would save him fifteen minutes. He told himself he didn't believe in ghost stories anyway. Until he saw her. At the end of the street, standing beneath the sputtering streetlamp, was a woman in a beige coat. Her long, black hair covered most of her face, and a surgical mask wrapped tightly around her mouth. She stood unnaturally still, as though the world had stopped moving just for her. Kenji froze. "Maybe she needs help," he whispered to himself, though his voice trembled. He took a step forward. The woman looked up. Her eyes locked with his. Then she spoke. "Am I pretty?" Her voice was soft, almost kind. Kenji hesitated. The story his classmates told in hushed tones came rushing back. They had laughed nervously, but now the memory brought no comfort. “Just say yes,” they had told him. “Always say yes.” Kenji managed a nod. “Y-yes. You’re pretty.” The woman tilted her head. Slowly, she reached up to her face and pulled down the mask. Kenji’s breath caught in his throat. Her mouth had been split open from ear to ear. Her lips were stretched into a grotesque, permanent smile, the flesh jagged and scarred, teeth exposed like broken glass. Blood crusted the corners of her mouth. “Am I still pretty?” she asked again, her tone darker, more deliberate. Kenji’s knees buckled. He stumbled back. “Y-yes... You’re beautiful,” he stammered. For a moment, silence. Then, she grinned wider. “Liar.” She lunged. Kenji screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the night. The streetlight above him died with a pop. The next morning, villagers gathered around a small alley just behind the old bakery. Kenji’s body was found sprawled in the dirt, eyes wide with horror, mouth slit open from ear to ear. A single line was carved into the ground beside his corpse, written in his own blood: "She is still pretty." THE END. Please drop a comment after reading and follow CreepVille
By CreepVille Horror Storiesabout a year ago in Horror
The Cave in Younger's Holler. Top Story - July 2025.
I told them we shouldn’t have come, that it’d be a mistake, but they never listen to me. I’m the friend in the group often overlooked, always interrupted as if I weren’t there. Normally, I wouldn’t mind sitting quietly, soaking in the camaraderie of my group. Tonight, it was different. I wish they had listened to me.
By Mother Combsabout a year ago in Horror
Never Hike Alone 2 Review: A Fan Film That Brings Jason Back in Bloody Style. AI-Generated.
If you're a fan of slasher films—especially the Friday the 13th series—there's a good chance you're familiar with the name Jason Voorhees. But while legal limbo has kept the masked killer out of theaters, passionate fans haven't let him rest. One of the best examples of this is Never Hike Alone 2, the latest entry in a standout fan film series created by Vincente DiSanti and Womp Stomp Films.
By Cedric Walker(Gator)about 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
