supernatural
The hidden world of all things supernatural; a look inside witchcraft, spells, vexes, black magic and other spine-tingling supernatural phenomena.
Room 313: The Hotel That Erases You
I travel for work—always alone, always late check-ins, and always the same kinds of roadside hotels with peeling wallpaper and vending machines that still sell Tab. I’ve stayed in every kind of weird place. Nothing ever got under my skin. Until I stayed in Room 313.
By Manisha Jamesabout a year ago in Horror
An Unusual Acquaintance
When I opened the front door the smell of burnt food was overpowering. I knew I hadn’t left the oven on before going to work so the culprit had to be Carl. He was always experimenting with new recipes or looking for creative ways to build things. I can’t blame him for wanting to expand his imagination, but a little common sense might make his projects less devastating.
By Mark Gagnonabout a year ago in Horror
A Child’s Imaginary Friend Is Not Imaginary
Rain lashed against the windows of the old countryside cottage, its rhythm echoing through the empty halls like a warning. Eliza wrapped a blanket tighter around herself as she watched her daughter, Lily, seated cross-legged in the center of her bedroom, giggling softly at nothing. Again. It had been weeks since they’d moved into the cottage—an inheritance from Eliza’s late aunt. Quiet, remote, surrounded by woods. Peaceful. Or so she'd thought. Lily had always been imaginative, but ever since they arrived, her “imaginary friend” had taken over every waking hour. “His name is Thomas,” Lily had said one morning, spooning cereal into her mouth without meeting her mother’s eyes. Eliza smiled. “That’s a lovely name. How old is Thomas?” “Older than you.” She laughed awkwardly. “Oh, really?” “He was here before us. He doesn’t like the forest.” That last part lingered. At first, Eliza dismissed it. Children invented companions all the time. But soon the drawings began. Scratchy sketches of a tall, pale boy with dark, empty eyes. Always standing in the corner of a room. Always watching Lily. When Eliza asked about them, Lily only said: > “He doesn’t like when I talk about him. He says you wouldn’t understand.” --- One night, Eliza woke to whispering. The house was cold, too cold. She crept down the hallway, drawn by the low murmur coming from Lily’s room. She opened the door. Lily sat upright in bed, eyes wide open, whispering to the dark corner of the room. There was no one there. “Lily?” Eliza’s voice cracked. The little girl turned her head slowly, eyes glassy. > “Thomas said you shouldn’t be here right now.” The room’s light flickered. Eliza felt something pass behind her. Cold and invisible. She grabbed her daughter and fled into her own bedroom, locking the door behind her. The next morning, Lily had no memory of the night. She played as if nothing had happened. But Eliza could no longer pretend. --- She contacted a local historian, desperate for answers. “There was a boy named Thomas,” the woman told her over the phone. “Lived in that cottage in 1894. Disappeared in the woods. They never found the body. But his mother claimed he came back to visit her… even after death.” The line crackled. “She said he warned her about the forest. Said something else lived out there. Something worse.” --- That night, Lily refused to sleep. She stood by the window, whispering: “He’s scared. He says something’s coming. It wants me.” Eliza kneeled beside her. “Who, baby? Who’s coming?” Lily didn’t answer. Her gaze was fixed on the treeline outside. Suddenly, the night seemed to bend. The woods stirred, not with wind—but with presence. A tall shadow stepped out from between the trees. It didn’t walk. It hovered. No eyes. No face. Just a hunger. And standing in the room beside Eliza and her daughter—was Thomas. A pale figure, eyes dark and hollow, but not evil. He didn’t speak. He only pointed toward the door and shook his head slowly. Eliza understood. She turned, grabbed Lily, and they fled from the house without looking back. --- They never returned. In the months that followed, Eliza read everything she could. About it. About the thing in the forest. About others who had vanished without a trace in those same woods. The shadow had no name. But Thomas—he was real. A ghost, maybe. But not a malevolent one. He had tried to warn them. To protect her daughter. He wasn’t imaginary. He never was.
By Abdu ssamadabout a year ago in Horror
The Phantom Aisles
The attraction of the paranormal has always permeated our daily existence and appeared in unexpected places, including the shiny, customer-focused areas of shopping centers. The "facts" in these cases are the recurring, frequently terrifying tales and anecdotal accounts that have cemented some shopping malls as haunts for the unexplained, even though hard scientific "facts" about paranormal activity are still elusive. These collective stories, shared experiences, and local tales are what give these contemporary buildings a ghostly past—not scientific research.
By Richard Weberabout a year ago in Horror
Salililar. Content Warning.
(From the series: Salyelilar) At the edge of a forgotten village—so far removed from the maps of men and the whispers of pilgrims—lived a girl named Salyelilar. Her blood was purely rural, raised among wheat fields and goats, until one day she grew tired of the suffocating rhythm of ordinary life. She left her family’s home and built a small mud-and-reed hut near the old river, where twisted trees lined the shore like silent guards of ancient time.
By Mohamed hgazyabout a year ago in Horror
Don't Bother Alice
Mikey lived in a town that was pretty rural and small. There weren't many kids in his hometown. As a current Junior in high school, barring any unfortunate circumstances and drop-outs, there would only be 74 students graduating along side him. The town itself was as quiet and unchanging as one would expect. Not much to do for teenagers except to join a team of some kind, see a movie, or make up their own trouble. Given just how rural the area was, the trouble the teens got into involved hitting mail boxes or pranking one another. Nothing too serious. After all, all parents in town either knew each other, or knew someone who knew the other. It was too small a town to risk making real enemies with the other residents. Everyone was so connected with everyone else in the community that even parking lot gossip got to parents, school officials, and even town officials right away. Fights were often squashed before they could even begin. Did you not like Diane from 3rd period? Well you better find a way to get over it fast or good luck getting her dad or any of his friends to fix any problems with your pipes in the winter.
By Cari Maxwellabout a year ago in Horror
The Room They Never Rented
I was six hours into a long drive across Pennsylvania when the storm hit. Sheets of rain hammered my windshield, and the GPS rerouted me twice because of road closures. It was close to midnight when I finally saw the flickering neon sign: “Pine Haven Motel - Vacancy.”
By Manisha Jamesabout a year ago in Horror
Houska Castle: The Gateway to Hell
In the northern wilderness of the Czech Republic, far from the romantic spires of Prague and the fairytale villages tourists adore, lies a fortress that was never meant to keep people out. It was built to keep something in.
By Veil of Shadowsabout a year ago in Horror
I Was Forced to Work With Clowns — And No One Believed What I Saw
The moment the lights went out, I knew something was wrong, but when I told the others in the circus, they all laughed. They advised, "Don't be soft; it's just a little bit of darkness." I just felt it. That oppressive, thick fear. The kind that gets into your bones and under your skin. I ought to have left as soon as they gave me the red nose. --- Clowns were never my thing. Not even when I was a kid. My stomach always twisted because of the painted smile and the way their faces never revealed their true emotions. I almost said no when a traveling circus offered me a job after I lost my job. However, rent was past due. My refrigerator was empty. I was forced to act. They said I would sell tickets. Simple work. In no costume No clowns! They deceived. --- My first night was spent in Tent Nine, also known as the "Clown Wardrobe." It smelled like old face paint and sweat. The mirrors were stained by greasepaint. Wig stands lined the shelves like severed heads. Windows were not present. curtains made of thick velvet. Additionally, there was a smell that resembled rotten food and burned sugar. I tried to make light of it. I told myself that it was just work. But then the lights started to move around. I also heard it. Laughter. Not content. Not amusing. It was modest. Raspy. like something that tries to sound human but doesn't. --- I told Mark, the manager of the tent. He grinned. "Clowns enjoy tricking people. It will become second nature. However, I never did. I slept in the caravan behind the main tent that night. The windows were shook by the wind. The tin roof shook as the rain fell. I choked when I awoke at 3:12 a.m. Balloons. Numerous of them. Red, yellow, and blue are taking up space. One slowly deflated over my mouth. I screamed as I tore it away. Nobody arrived. The balloons were gone by morning. The caravan had no filth. Mark gave a head shake. "Yes, rough dream?" However, I wasn't dreaming. My throat continued to burn. --- Three nights later, the worst happened. We were in the vicinity of Sheffield. A chilly, muddy field No crowds. Only the crew I had been asked to assist them with the clown tent's late-night packing. I declined. They demanded it. I made my way inside. Alone. Overhead, only one dim light. The costumes were dangling like bodies. Metal, paint, and sweat all permeated the air. When I turned around, I saw it. a ghoul. Eight feet in height. Like cracked porcelain, pale skin. It had a mouth that was too big. Real teeth, yellow and razor-sharp. It remained still. However, its eyes were on me. I mumbled, "Who's there?" It laughed. Not joking. Giggled. I stepped back. It made one progress. The weight made the floor squeak. I veered off and ran. I collapsed outside, shaking. Mark was present. As I wept and pointed at the tent, I begged them to believe me. He showed up. walked out with a smile. "Love, there's nothing there. You require sleep. I was not believed. --- The following morning, I quit. I took a train, packed my bags, and never looked back. But I was followed by something. I occasionally hear it outside my apartment window. That guffaw. Slow and soft. I wake up sometimes to find balloons attached to my bedpost. Nobody else can see them. I'm stressed, according to my mom. I need to rest, my friends say. But I'm aware of the truth. The monster recognized me after I looked it in the eye. And I'm the only one still alive who can recall that night.
By Abdu ssamadabout a year ago in Horror
The Song Only I Could Hear
The notification blinked: "Unlock your voice’s hidden archive." I almost deleted VoxScan—another AI vocal tool promising "revolutionary audio restoration." But as a failed musician drowning in hospital bills for my daughter’s leukemia treatment, desperation had a way of making miracles seem plausible. I plugged in my headphones and pressed *Scan*.
By Ziafat Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
