supernatural
The hidden world of all things supernatural; a look inside witchcraft, spells, vexes, black magic and other spine-tingling supernatural phenomena.
The Haunting of Room 313: A Guest Checked In, But Never Left
This hotel has ageless elegance thanks to its tall ceilings, polished hardwood floors, and sumptuous drapes drawn back to show spectacular city scenes. It gives visitors a great experience rooted in history. By the time the lift arrives at the third level, though, the attraction has disappeared for the employees inside, especially those working the night shift, especially near Room 313.
By Shahjahan Kabir Khanabout a year ago in Horror
The Girl from No. 9 – Part I: Feeding It
Part I: The Girl from No. 9 We never really talked to the girl from No. 9. She moved in during winter, the kind of winter that didn’t feel clean—more gray than white, more silence than snow. The trees outside were bare, brittle things that clawed at the sky. Even the neighborhood dogs stopped barking. It was like the whole street held its breath the day that family arrived. She was a quiet sort of girl—maybe twelve, maybe fourteen—but thin and pale like she hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Her hair was the color of ash, and it hung limp around her face like wet string. Her name was Eira. At least, that’s what the postman said. Her mother never smiled. Her father never came out. They moved in without ceremony. No welcome wagon, no casserole dishes from the neighbors. Just a rusted van, a few boxes, and silence. The curtains went up the same day, thick and black, like they were trying to keep something in—or out. I remember the first time I saw her. I was walking home from school, boots crunching over the thin crust of snow that hadn’t yet melted. The sky was low and heavy, the kind of gray that makes everything feel closer than it should. And there she was—kneeling in the snow in her front yard, drawing circles into the frost with her fingers. No gloves. Her nails were cracked, fingertips bruised blue. She didn’t look up when I passed, just kept tracing those slow, deliberate loops into the ice. I stopped a few feet away, unsure if I should say something. She didn’t seem to notice me. “What are you doing?” I asked. She paused, just for a second. Then she said, without looking up, “Feeding it.” There was no curiosity in her voice. No playfulness. Just a flat, matter-of-fact tone, like she was explaining the weather. I didn’t ask what *it* was. I wish I had. By spring, she was everywhere and nowhere. You’d see her standing at the edge of the park, or sitting under the rusted slide, watching the other kids without blinking. She never joined in. Never smiled. Just watched. Sometimes, if you looked away and looked back—she was gone. Not like she walked off. Just… gone. Some of the younger kids said she talked to the trees. That she whispered to the ground. That she buried things when no one was looking. We laughed it off. Kids make things up. But none of us ever went near her house, not really. Not after dusk. Then the things started. First, it was a cat. Mrs. Lorne’s tabby, the one that always sat in her window. Gone. Then another. Then someone’s dog—found under the porch, its mouth full of splinters, like it had been biting its way out of something. No blood. Just panic in its eyes and teeth worn down to nubs. Old Mr. Jenkins, who lived next to her, stopped coming outside. He used to sit on his porch every evening, radio on, beer in hand. Then he started keeping his windows shut. Said he heard whispering from her basement window at night. Said it called him by name. Two weeks later, they found him hanging in his tool shed. No note. Just a circle carved into the wooden floor beneath his feet. Perfect. Clean. Burned into the grain like it had always been there. No one blamed the girl. But no one didn’t, either. One evening, just after the sky turned that sickly shade of orange before a storm, I saw her again. I was taking the long way home, cutting through the back alley behind her house. I don’t know why. Curiosity, maybe. Or something else. She was sitting on her porch, barefoot, humming to herself. The tune was slow and strange, like something half-remembered from a dream. In her lap, she held a dead bird—small, black, its neck bent at an impossible angle. She was petting it like a kitten. When she looked up at me, her eyes weren’t just pale—they were wrong. Too still. Too deep. Like water that doesn’t reflect light anymore. Like if you stared long enough, you’d fall in and never come back. I asked her what she was doing. She said, “Feeding it. It’s still hungry.” I hesitated. Then I asked, “What is it?” She smiled. Just once. A small, tight curl of the lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “It used to be a girl, too,” she said. That night, her house burned down. No fire trucks came. No neighbors called for help. We all just… watched. Like it was supposed to happen. Like something old and inevitable had finally come to collect. The flames were silent. No crackling, no screaming. Just smoke rising into the sky like a sigh. They said no bodies were found inside. That maybe they weren’t home. But I swear, as the roof collapsed, I saw her standing in the attic window—smiling at me like she was finally full. That was six years ago. The house was never rebuilt. It’s just an empty lot now. Weeds grow tall in the summer. Snow never sticks in the winter. But sometimes, when the wind hits just right, the grass flattens in perfect circles. And the neighborhood dogs start barking again—for the first time in years. I live two streets over now, with my own kids. My daughter started drawing strange symbols in her notebook last week. Circles, mostly. Some with lines through them. Some with little eyes. I asked her where she learned them. She said a girl taught her. From No. 9.
By Muhammad Shoaibabout a year ago in Horror
The Cursed Five-Storey Mansion: Unmasking Penang's Shih Chung School Hauntings
Shih Chung Branch School's destroyed hulk rests like a shattered monument along Northam Road, George Town, Penang—a faded silhouette against steel skyscrapers, where colonial bricks are smothered by vines and shadows cling with an unnatural stubbornness. To locals who park their cars to eat dim sum at Fu Er Dai, it's a run-down eyesore. To ghost hunters and historians, it's Malaysia's most haunted site, where 130 years of glory, revolution, and unimaginable tragedy have made their indelible mark on recollections even time can't wipe away.
By Kyrol Mojikalabout a year ago in Horror
There’s a Man Standing in My Backyard. He Hasn’t Moved in Three Days
It started Sunday morning. I was drinking coffee in the kitchen, half-awake, looking out over the yard through the glass door when I noticed him—just standing by the treeline. Still. Hands at his sides. Staring. At first, I thought he was a hunter, maybe a hiker who got turned around. I live on the edge of a national forest, and it’s not unusual for strangers to pass through the woods. But this one didn’t move. Not a step. Not a twitch. Just… stared. I watched him for several minutes, waiting for some sign of life—a shift of weight, a raised hand, anything. Nothing. Just dead still. Eventually, I slid the door open and called out, “Hey! You okay?” No response. I tried again. Still nothing. He just kept staring at the glass like he could see straight through me. I shut the door and locked it. Told myself he was just confused, probably high or mentally ill. If he didn’t leave in an hour, I’d call someone. --- An hour passed. Then two. He didn’t move. When the sun set, he was still there. Same spot. Same posture. Not even swaying in the wind. I locked every door and window in the house that night. Didn’t sleep much. --- Day Two. Monday. He was still there. Exactly the same. I recorded him on my phone for twenty minutes—nothing changed. I called the non-emergency line. Explained what was happening. They sent a deputy around noon. I watched from inside as the deputy walked up to him cautiously, spoke a few words. I couldn’t hear what was said. The deputy circled him, waved a hand in front of his face, then touched his shoulder. Still nothing. After about five minutes, the deputy came back to my door. > “He’s breathing,” he said. “But he’s not responding to anything. Doesn’t even blink.” > “What do I do?” I asked. > “Legally? Nothing unless he trespasses. If he crosses the fence line or approaches the house, then call us back.” > “So I’m just supposed to ignore him?” The deputy gave me a shrug and a look that said yes. --- That night was worse. Every time I passed the kitchen, I felt drawn to the glass door. I couldn’t stop myself from peeking. And every time, he was still there. Staring. I zoomed in on the video I took. His eyes weren’t just locked in my direction—they were focused on me. No matter where I moved in the house, I felt them tracking me. I set up a camera on the counter to record overnight. --- Tuesday morning. I checked the footage. He never moved. But at exactly 3:17 a.m., the footage glitched—just for a second. The screen warped, like heatwaves. When the image settled, he looked… different. His body was the same, but his face—something was wrong. It was blurry, like it didn’t match the rest of the frame. And then, frame by frame, his mouth twisted into a wide, unnatural grin. Only for a second. Then it was gone. Back to normal. I felt sick watching it. --- That afternoon, my neighbor came by to return a borrowed snow shovel. She’s 87, tough as nails, been here since the 60s. I asked her if she’d seen the man. She peered through the glass for a long moment and muttered: > “He’s back.” My heart stopped. > “What do you mean back?” She didn’t take her eyes off him. > “He came here once before. ’72. Same spot. Didn’t move for days. Then one morning, he was gone.” > “What is he?” She didn’t answer right away. Just stared harder. > “Not human,” she whispered. “They wear us. Like clothes.” Then she left. I didn’t sleep at all that night. --- Day Four. Wednesday. Something changed. The back door was unlocked this morning. I know I locked it. And there were muddy footprints on the wood floor. Leading from the door to the hallway—and stopping. No return prints. Like someone came in, then vanished. I checked every room. Closet. Attic. Nothing. The man was still in the yard. Still standing there. Still watching. --- Around 2:30 a.m., I was jolted awake by a loud knock. Three slow pounds on the glass. I grabbed my phone and crept to the kitchen. The lights were off, but the full moon lit the yard in silver. He was standing closer. Right up against the glass. His face was inches from the door. He hadn’t moved in days—but now he was right there. Still not blinking. Still smiling. And written in fog on the inside of the door was a message: > “LET ME IN.” I ran upstairs, locked myself in the bedroom, and called the police again. This time, the line was filled with static. Then a voice—not the operator’s. Not mine. A whisper: > “You already did.” --- I didn’t open the door for hours. When I finally checked the kitchen at sunrise… he was gone. The yard was empty. Grass undisturbed. No footprints. No fog on the glass. Just silence. But something’s wrong. The air in the house feels… off. Heavily still. Like the moment before a thunderclap. I checked the camera footage again. And I saw it. At exactly 3:17 a.m.—the same time as before—the camera shows me walking into the kitchen in my sleep. I open the door. I let him in. And then? Nothing. Just static. --- I don’t remember doing that. But now, I feel it. There’s something here. In the walls. In the mirrors. Sometimes I see him behind me, just for a second, when I pass a window. Not outside. Inside. Watching. Waiting. ---
By Habibullah. Shoukat Aliabout a year ago in Horror
I Bought a Haunted Mirror Off Facebook Marketplace — Now It Won’t Let Me Sleep
It started with a Facebook Marketplace listing. > “Antique Victorian mirror — $30 OBO. Must pick up. ASAP.” No details, just a grainy photo and a location only twenty minutes away. I’d just moved into my new apartment and needed something to fill the blank wall in my hallway. I messaged the seller. She responded in seconds. > “If you come today, it’s yours.” That should have been my first red flag. --- The house was old — weathered wood, flaking paint, and a porch that creaked under my feet. A woman in her late 60s opened the door. Her eyes were bloodshot, like she hadn’t slept in weeks. She didn’t smile. She led me straight to the mirror without saying much. It stood nearly six feet tall, framed in dark oak with ornate carvings of twisting vines and faces—yes, actual carved faces. The glass was flawless, despite its age. I reached for my wallet. > “No,” she said. “Just take it.” > “Are you sure?” She stared past me. “It doesn’t want to stay here.” I laughed awkwardly, thinking she was joking. But her hands were trembling as she helped me carry it out. --- I set the mirror in the hallway, directly across from my bedroom. It looked stunning. Heavy. Regal. I remember thinking how lucky I was to score something so vintage for free. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Not from fear—just unease. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the hallway in my mind. The mirror, waiting. At 2:13 a.m., I got up for water. As I stepped into the hallway, I glanced at the mirror and froze. I was in it. But I wasn’t moving. My reflection just stood there, arms at its sides, watching me. Then—blink. The reflection blinked, but I hadn’t. I staggered backward, heart hammering in my chest. When I looked again, it was normal. Just me. Tired. Shaken. I told myself I was overtired. Stress. Shadows. Head games. I went back to bed and left the lights on. --- The next night, it got worse. Every time I passed the mirror, I could feel something watching me. Not just from the glass—from behind it. I covered it with a bedsheet, but it didn’t help. At 3:06 a.m., I woke to the sound of fabric sliding. I stepped into the hallway. The sheet was on the floor. I didn’t sleep after that. --- On night four, I dreamt of water. Drowning. Gasping. But not in an ocean—in a mirror. I could see my own face, pressed against the glass from the other side, screaming silently. When I woke, my pillow was soaked with sweat—and tears. That morning, I noticed something else. In the mirror’s reflection, the hallway was different. Subtly. The shadows stretched the wrong way. The picture frames on the opposite wall were crooked in the glass, but perfectly straight in real life. And in the very back of the reflection—at the end of the hallway—I saw a figure. Small. Female. Pale face, long hair. But when I turned around, the hallway was empty. --- I tried to move the mirror into the garage. It wouldn’t budge. No matter how hard I pushed or pulled, it stayed locked in place. Like it had rooted into the wall. I even tried to break the glass. The hammer bounced off. No crack. Not even a scratch. When I looked into the mirror afterward, I swear I saw it smile. --- That night, I left the apartment. Booked a hotel. I needed sleep, even just one night. It didn’t help. The mirror came with me in my dreams. It stood at the foot of the hotel bed. My reflection sat up on its own, turned to look at me, and whispered one word: > “Stay.” --- Back home the next day, I noticed the hallway light flickered constantly. Bulbs died faster than I could replace them. My dog, Penny, refused to go near the hallway. She’d sit outside the bedroom, whining, tail between her legs. On day ten, I found claw marks inside the mirror frame. Deep gouges along the bottom edge, as if someone—or something—had tried to crawl out. And that night, I saw her again. She was in the hallway. Not in the mirror—in real space. Pale skin, matted hair, no eyes. Just empty sockets leaking dark liquid down her cheeks. I ran. Locked myself in the bathroom. From the hallway, I heard knocking. Slow. Deliberate. Then a voice, hoarse and wet: > “Let me in.” --- The next morning, the hallway was empty. The mirror reflected only me. But I looked… wrong. Thinner. Paler. My eyes had a shadow to them, like something was pressing against the back of my skull. I posted the mirror back on Facebook Marketplace. > “Antique Victorian mirror — FREE. Must pick up today.” A girl messaged me within minutes. > “I’ve been looking for something just like this!” I responded immediately. > “Come quick.” She arrived that afternoon. As she pulled away with the mirror strapped in the back of her SUV, I felt like I could breathe again. The hallway seemed brighter. My dog wagged her tail for the first time in days. That night, I slept. For the first time in nearly two weeks. --- But I still hear it sometimes. The knocking. The whisper. > “Stay.” And last week, I woke up with my phone open to Facebook Marketplace. Scrolled down. Heart racing. There it was. > “Antique Victorian mirror — $30. Must pick up ASAP.” Same grainy photo. Different seller. Different town. But the mirror… is the same. --- [The End] ---
By Habibullah. Shoukat Aliabout a year ago in Horror
