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 Night My CCTV Caught What Wasn’t Human: A Bone-Chilling True Story That Defies Logic"
Introduction: Why I Installed the Cameras It started with a break-in. Last summer, someone tried to pry open our kitchen window at 2 AM. Though they fled when our dog barked, the incident left my family paranoid. My wife, Priya, begged me to install security cameras. “We need to feel safe,” she insisted. So, I bought a budget-friendly CCTV system: four cameras covering every corner of our suburban home.
By Mian Nazir Shahabout a year ago in Horror
Do Jinns Really Exist? A Mysterious Tale from My Village
Growing up in a quiet village nestled between fields and forests in rural Pakistan, I often heard stories about supernatural beings. My grandmother used to speak of “jinns” with a mix of fear and respect. “They live among us,” she would whisper while lighting an oil lamp, “especially near the old shrine after sunset.” Like most children, I was both curious and skeptical. That changed one summer night. It was the summer of 2007. Electricity was unreliable, and nights were usually lit by lanterns and the soft glow of the moon. My cousin Bilal and I were staying over at our aunt’s home on the far edge of the village. Her house was close to an abandoned well and an old, neglected shrine—both places villagers avoided after dark. That evening, we decided to go for a walk after dinner. It was unusually humid, and the air felt heavy, almost unnatural. As we walked along the dusty path, Bilal dared me to take a shortcut through the field behind the shrine. It was the path the elders always warned us about, claiming strange voices were often heard there. I laughed it off. “We’re grown up now. These are just stories to scare kids,” I said confidently. Bilal grinned, and we took the path. At first, it was quiet—almost too quiet. The sound of crickets had disappeared. The wind had stilled. The trees stood like statues, motionless and observing. As we walked further, I felt a strange chill, even though it was a hot summer night. Then, it happened. We both heard it at the same time—a whisper. Faint, broken, almost like someone calling out from a distance, “Aaao…” We froze. "Did you hear that?" I whispered. "Yes," Bilal replied, his voice trembling. We looked around. No one was there. No footprints, no rustling, nothing. Just the sound again—closer now, more clear—"Aaao… mere paas..." My legs stiffened. I grabbed Bilal’s arm, and we turned around. That’s when we saw it. By the old tree near the shrine, stood a tall, shadowy figure. Its body seemed to flicker like smoke, and it had no face—just two glowing eyes. It wasn’t walking—it was gliding. Slowly. Toward us. I couldn't speak. My body wouldn't move. Bilal finally shouted, "RUN!" and we took off, stumbling, falling, and getting back up. We didn’t look back. We ran until we saw the lights of our aunt’s home and burst inside, panting and terrified. Our aunt looked at us, concerned. “You two went near the shrine, didn’t you?” she asked firmly. We nodded, shaking. She made us sit, gave us water, and whispered a prayer. Then she said something I still remember vividly: “Never doubt what you don’t understand. Some things are not meant to be seen, and some paths are not meant to be walked.” That night, I didn’t sleep. For weeks, Bilal and I avoided that part of the village. The figure we saw—whether real or imagined—haunted us. And we were not the only ones. Later, we discovered that others had seen it too. Some villagers believed it was a guardian jinn of the shrine. Others claimed it was a cursed soul trapped between worlds. Years have passed, and I now live in the city. But every time I visit my village and walk by that old shrine, I feel that same heaviness in the air. The same silence. The same chill. And I wonder… Was it a jinn? Was it fear playing tricks on young minds? Or was it something beyond explanation? I no longer laugh at the old stories. I listen. And I remember. Because in our village, even today, when night falls and the wind stops, the whisper still returns: "Aaao… mere paas..."
By Tahir Mehmoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Man in the Reflection Isn’t Me
The Man in the Reflection Isn’t Me It began the night I decided to quit my job. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing my teeth. I was exhausted, half-zoned out, staring at myself. But for a second — just a flicker — he didn’t move when I did.
By Muhammad Hakimiabout a year ago in Horror
The Monsoon Lullaby. AI-Generated.
Late one monsoon evening in a quiet village on the outskirts of Dhaka, a young teacher named Leila made her way home through winding mud lanes. The rain had eased, leaving the air thick with the scent of wet earth and jasmine. As she passed the old banyan tree that marked the turn toward her house, she heard the faintest melody drifting on the breeze—a lullaby, sung in a child’s voice.
By Shahruq Hossenabout a year ago in Horror
The Train Killer
I scrolled past the familiar headline on Google, ignoring the black headline of The Train Killer. People had been terrified of a rumored serial killer that had been trending in the media. People love to spread rumors of the most fucked up things, turning it into a conspiracy theory. I was sitting inside of the train, trying my best to not listen to the two women gossiping about the case. They were sitting across from me, arguing about who could be the killer. They were both looking down at their phones, excitement on their faces. The blonde was whispering, a hand over her mouth. The brunette’s eyes were wide, whispering back. I rolled my eyes, and when I turned to the left to ignore the women, I noticed a handsome guy sitting far away, buried in a book. I struggled to make out the title, but from the way the guy was reading the novel, he was hooked. I smiled. It was lovely to see someone reading a book nowadays. The train I was on was going to take a while to take me home, but at least I was going to be entertained by a movie I downloaded on my phone. I didn’t like using my 4G, cause my phone acted up 24/7. I seriously needed to buy a new phone. I plugged in my headphones, and began to watch my movie. I lost track of time, and at some point, the two women had stood up. I assumed they were going to move to a different spot, and went back to my movie. I jumped when I felt a hand grab my arm. I looked up to see the two women standing in front of me. They were both smiling. The blonde was the one holding my arm, and the brunette held a syringe in her hand. “Hey! What the fuck are you -’’ The blonde grabbed me by the throat with both arms, cutting off my breathe, and the brunette was beginning to lower the syringe to my arm. Then a figure slammed into both of the women. They let out screams. The brunette dropped the syringe, and I it clatter on the train floor. The handsome man was standing in front of me, breathing hard. The women were both trying to get up, but they didn’t dare move, their eyes focused on the man. “Call 911,” he said. I called 911, my fingers shaking. My eyes fell onto the syringe, and I let out a small sob, not caring if the two killers and this handsome stranger were staring at me. The train eventually came to a stop, and the police were waiting. They arrested the two women. They put up a fight, but they were no match for the authorities. “That was a close one. I’m sorry you went through that.” I turned around, and found the stranger right behind me. He had a concerned look on his face. I brushed at my tears, thinking of what could have happened to me if it hadn’t been for the stranger. “Thank you for saving me. I had no idea…that the murders were real.” “I’m shocked that it was two killers.” I let out a laugh with no humor. “Yeah…” The man placed a hand on my shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault. Those bitches were psychos.” I nodded. “Yeah. Thank you…?” “Marcus.” I smiled. “Thank you, Marcus.” He looked down, moving his feet back and forth. “Umm…I know how crazy this is…but do you want me to walk you home? I can’t imagine what you’re going through, and I figured you wouldn’t want to go back home by yourself.” “Thank you. I would appreciate that.” Marcus gave me a smile, and we began to walk together back to my apartment. Even though we couldn’t go on the train anymore, it doesn’t matter. I let Marcus walk ahead of me, and I pulled out a syringe from my purse. I can’t believe those assholes were going to steal my thunder. I should have kept my eye on those two. I didn’t know they were the ones who had stolen my second kill. Whoever thought a copycat killer would arrive so soon? Or killers for that matter. And who the fuck tries to murder someone in front of another witness? Idiots. Well, at least I will get that second kill I have been looking for. I applied pressure to the syringe, my fingers shivering with anticipation. The thrill I got in my body every time I was about to kill was a wonderful feeling. My eyes never left the back of my next victim’s neck, and I raised the syringe, preparing to plunge it into his skin.
By Top stories 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 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
