supernatural
The hidden world of all things supernatural; a look inside witchcraft, spells, vexes, black magic and other spine-tingling supernatural phenomena.
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
They Told Me My House Wasn't Haunted. They Lied.
I used to believe that ghosts were just metaphors. Grief, regret, unspoken things we drag behind us like chains. That was before something in my house started whispering my name at 3:12 a.m. every single night.
By Ava Writes Truthabout a year ago in Horror
The Girl in the Wallpaper
Okay, so imagine this: you're spending the weekend at your cousin’s old house, the kind with squeaky stairs, dusty windows, and those weird old wallpapers that look like someone painted them a hundred years ago. That’s where it all started for Liam. He thought it would just be another boring visit. But instead, he met the girl in the wallpaper. This story? It’s creepy. It’s real weird. And it’ll definitely make you think twice before sleeping in a room with old wallpaper. Chapter 1: A Weekend at Aunt May’s Liam was 11, and he hated going to Aunt May’s. Not because she was mean—she was actually super nice. But her house? Total creep zone. It was built in the 1800s, had a cellar that groaned, and the halls always smelled like dusty books and cinnamon. His cousin Ellie lived there too, and she loved it. She said things like, “This house has character,” and, “The walls tell stories if you listen.” Liam thought she was being dramatic. But she wasn’t wrong. Not even a little. Chapter 2: The Room With the Red Wallpaper When Liam got there that Friday, Aunt May said, “You’ll sleep in the Red Room.” That sounded kind of cool… until he saw it. The wallpaper was deep red, almost like dried ketchup (or, as he later thought… blood). It was full of swirling vines and little flowers, but if you looked really close, the pattern also showed tiny faces. Not smiley emoji faces. Weird, stretched-out ones. Some looked surprised. Others scared. “I hate this,” Liam whispered as he dropped his backpack. But that night, the room had other plans. Chapter 3: She Was Already Watching At first, Liam thought it was just his imagination. The wallpaper looked… different in the dark. Like the vines were moving. Like one of the tiny faces was closer than before. Then, around midnight, he heard a soft sound. Like scratching. He sat up, heart racing. “Ellie?” he whispered. No answer. Just scratching. Soft, but steady. Coming from inside the wall. He tiptoed to the spot behind the bed where the scratching was loudest. He touched the wall. It was cold. And then… A pair of eyes opened. Not like a hole. Not like a drawing. Real eyes. In the wall. Liam gasped and fell backward. And the face in the wall smiled. Chapter 4: The Girl with the Black Eyes The next morning, Liam ran to Ellie and told her everything. She didn’t laugh. Instead, she looked worried. “You saw her?” she whispered. “The girl?” “What girl?” “She’s been in this house since before I was born. I think she used to be real. But something happened. She… melted into the wall.” “That’s not possible,” Liam said, even though his stomach felt heavy. “I call her Vera,” Ellie said. “I think she’s lonely. But sometimes… she gets mad.” Liam didn’t want to hear more. But of course, he did. Chapter 5: Don’t Make Her Angry Ellie took him to the attic. Dusty boxes. Spiderwebs. Old trunks. She opened a small wooden chest with her initials carved into the side. Inside were drawings. Dozens of them. They were all pictures of Vera. Black eyes. Tangled hair. Stitched mouth. And vines—twisting around her body like they were growing out of her. “I see her in my dreams sometimes,” Ellie said. “She whispers secrets. She knows things no one should.” “Like what?” “She told me Grandma didn’t die from falling down the stairs. She says Grandma tried to leave the house. Vera didn’t like that.” Liam’s skin turned cold. “This house needs people,” Ellie added quietly. “So it keeps them.” Chapter 6: The Hidden Room That night, Liam couldn’t sleep. He tried not to look at the wall. Tried not to hear the whispers. But the girl… she kept calling his name. “Liiiaaam…” He sat up. “What do you want?!” “Find me,” she whispered. “Where?” The vines on the wallpaper shifted. One moved toward the corner of the room… and stopped. Liam grabbed a flashlight, tiptoed over, and knocked on the wall. Thud. Thud. Hollow. He pressed both hands on it—and part of the wallpaper crumbled like ash. Behind it? A tiny wooden door. No knob. Just a small latch. Chapter 7: Inside the Walls Liam waited until everyone was asleep. Then, flashlight in hand, he opened the door. Behind it was a crawlspace. Barely big enough for a kid. He climbed inside. The walls were lined with old paper dolls. Hundreds of them, pinned up like trophies. Some had names written under them: Molly, George, Rachel, Danny… At the end of the crawlspace was a mirror. Cracked. Covered in dust. He wiped it clean. And in the reflection… he saw her. Not behind him. Not beside him. Inside the mirror. “Help me,” she whispered. “Pull me out.” He almost did. But then—he saw something move behind her. A shadow with too many arms. And suddenly her voice changed. From “help me” to “STAY WITH ME.” Chapter 8: The Final Escape Liam crawled backward, heart racing, flashlight shaking. The crawlspace started closing. The wallpaper vines crept in behind him like fingers. “Liam!” It was Ellie. She had followed him. She reached in, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him out just before the door slammed shut on its own. The wall sealed up again. Like it had never opened. They didn’t sleep that night. Chapter 9: The Truth Comes Out The next morning, they told Aunt May everything. She listened quietly. Then she said, “That girl was real. Vera was my sister.” Liam and Ellie stared. “She disappeared when I was your age. No one believed me when I said she got trapped in the walls. But I saw it happen.” “Why didn’t you leave?” Ellie asked. Aunt May smiled sadly. “Because if I did… she’d come with me.” They moved out a week later. The Red Room was sealed shut. And the house was sold to a new family. Chapter 10: She’s Still Watching Liam never saw Vera again. But sometimes, when he closes his eyes at night, he sees wallpaper. Red. Twisting vines. Tiny faces. And in the center… A pair of black eyes. Still watching. Still waiting.
By Silas Blackwoodabout 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 Shadow Beyond the Door
It was an old, creaky house on the edge of the forest—long abandoned, with shattered windows and ivy crawling over the stone like veins. Locals whispered about it, calling it cursed, haunted, or worse. But seventeen-year-old Zayan didn’t believe in ghost stories. When dared by his friends to spend one night there, he agreed without hesitation. He was curious by nature and never backed down from a challenge. With only a flashlight, his phone, and a sleeping bag, he stepped inside just before sunset. Dust swirled in the air, and every step on the wooden floor moaned under his weight. Spiderwebs hung like curtains, and the silence felt unnaturally heavy. He wandered through the rooms until he reached the drawing room. There, a grand fireplace stood cold and empty, and above it hung a crooked painting of a woman whose eyes seemed to follow him. But it wasn’t the painting that caught Zayan’s attention. It was the black door in the corner of the room—tall, wide, and with an iron lock. Unlike the rest of the house, this door was clean. No dust, no cobwebs. Just smooth, polished wood, and a key already sitting in the lock. Zayan stared at it for a long while. Something about it felt wrong. The air near it was colder. But his curiosity won. He turned the key. The lock clicked. He pulled the door open. Behind it was a narrow staircase, spiraling down into complete darkness. A foul, musty smell hit his nose. The kind that clings to your clothes and soul. He switched on his flashlight and descended slowly. The staircase led to a long hallway lined with old portraits. Each frame held a person, yet their eyes were all black—empty sockets staring into nothing. At the end of the hallway stood a mirror. Tall, cracked, and strange. His reflection was distorted—not matching his movements. Then, the lights flickered. No—his flashlight didn’t flicker. The hallway did. It was like reality trembled for a second. And in the mirror, Zayan saw it—a tall, dark figure standing behind him, its face hidden in shadow, but eyes glowing red. He spun around. Nothing. When he looked back at the mirror—it was gone too. Just his own face, pale and terrified. He ran. Up the stairs, out of the room, slamming the black door shut. He threw his sleeping bag into a corner and tried to convince himself it was just his mind playing tricks. But as the night grew deeper, the sounds began. Scratching behind the walls. Whispering in a language he didn’t understand. A faint, rhythmic tapping from inside the black door. He blocked his ears. But the whispers grew louder. He messaged his friends: “Not funny. Stop trying to scare me.” They replied: “We’re at home, man. What are you talking about?” The tapping turned to banging. He stared at the door. The key was missing. The air turned icy. His breath formed mist. And then, the door slowly opened on its own. From the darkness stepped the same shadow he had seen in the mirror. Tall. Hollow eyes. A mouth stitched shut. It raised its hand and pointed at him. Zayan couldn’t scream. He backed into the wall, breathless, heart racing. “W-what do you want?” he whispered. The shadow didn’t speak. It simply touched the wall—and it melted into blackness. The floor disappeared beneath him. He fell. Fell into darkness. --- The next morning, his friends came to find him, thinking he’d be asleep or trying to scare them with fake ghost stories. But the house was empty. No sign of Zayan. Except for the black door—now sealed shut, the key missing, and a new portrait on the wall in the hallway below. A painting of Zayan. With black, empty eyes. --- Moral: Some curiosities are better left unexplored. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.
By Movies Channelabout a year ago in Horror
The Third Door
Miles Granger didn’t remember falling asleep, but when he woke up, the lamp was off. That wasn’t right. He’d left it on—he was sure of it. The bulb had been casting that sickly yellow cone of light over the motel’s floral carpet when he laid down fully clothed, exhausted from eight hours of driving and two cups of burnt diner coffee. He didn’t trust the room’s darkness—not with the humming ice machine just outside, or the mildew creeping up the walls.
By Silas Graveabout a year ago in Horror
Echoes in the Crawlspace. Content Warning.
When Claire and Nathan Rivers moved into their fixer-upper in the sleepy town of Windmere, they thought they’d hit a jackpot—a four-bedroom craftsman with a wraparound porch, surrounded by pine and fog, all for half the price of similar homes in the city. “We’ll flip it,” Nathan had said, optimistic. “A year tops.”
By Silas Graveabout a year ago in Horror
The Mirror Doesn’t Blink. Content Warning.
It was nearing 1:30 a.m. when Eli Mercer’s phone buzzed with a new delivery request. He debated ignoring it—he was already five hours into his shift and one energy drink past tired—but the payout was unusually high: $120 to deliver a package less than six miles away.
By Silas Graveabout 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
