supernatural

The hidden world of all things supernatural; a look inside witchcraft, spells, vexes, black magic and other spine-tingling supernatural phenomena.

Voices in the Walls
Voices in the Walls Based on true events When my wife and I first moved into the farmhouse, it felt like a dream. A quiet, two-story home just outside of town, surrounded by wheat fields, thick woods, and silence—real silence, the kind you only get far away from the city. It had an old-world charm: squeaky floorboards, crooked shutters, and the smell of wood and dust that only time can create.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
The Cave
--- Dennis had been having the same nightmare for months. He would wake up screaming every night, his blanket wrapped around his body like a cocoon. He hated how Nikki would comfort him, soothing him with kind words.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
The Whisper Game
Okay, so imagine I’m sitting next to you on a rainy night, and I tell you this: “There’s a game kids in Japan used to play. You summon a ghost by whispering her name. If you do it wrong... she whispers back.” And now, let me tell you what happened to Ami, my friend’s cousin from Osaka. This isn’t just a story. This is a warning. 🎌 The Dare Ami was 14—fun, loud, and always looking for trouble. She lived in Osaka, Japan, and went to a super old all-girls school with a creepy history. One day after class, her friends dared her to play something called The Whisper Game, also known as Kuchisake Hime’s Calling. Here’s how the game works: Go into a school bathroom—specifically, the third stall. Turn off the lights. Say “Kuchisake Hime” three times. Then whisper: “Do you want to play with me?” Wait. If you hear nothing, you’re safe. If you hear whispering back… run. Fast. Sounds silly, right? But every school kid knew the rule: Never answer her back. She wants you to talk. Because once you talk to her... she knows your voice. And once she knows your voice… she can follow it. 🚽 The Third Stall So of course, Ami had to do it. She laughed, grabbed her phone, and went into the old school bathroom after dark. Her friends waited outside, nervous but excited. The school was already empty. The halls were quiet. The air felt thick. Ami walked into the third stall, turned off the lights, and said: “Kuchisake Hime. Kuchisake Hime. Kuchisake Hime.” “Do you want to play with me?” She held her breath. Nothing. She was about to open the door when she heard it— A whisper. Right behind her ear. “Yessssss…” She screamed, ran out, laughing and shaking. Her friends were half-scared, half-impressed. They thought it was just a prank. But later that night, Ami started hearing whispering in her own house. 🏠 The Whisper Follows At first, she thought it was wind. Then she thought maybe it was the TV. But the whispers were always saying her name. “Ami… come play… Ami…” She’d walk past mirrors and see a flash of red cloth. Or she’d hear breathing under her bed. One night, while brushing her teeth, she looked up— And her reflection smiled before she did. Her mom thought she was tired. Told her to get more sleep. But Ami stopped sleeping altogether. She kept her lights on. Played loud music. But the whispering only got louder. Then, on the seventh night… She got a message. On her bedroom mirror. Written in fog, even though it wasn’t cold: "Do you still want to play?" 📖 The Legend Terrified, Ami started researching the legend of Kuchisake Hime—aka the Slit-Mouthed Woman. Hundreds of years ago, she was a woman who wore a red kimono and a white mask. People said she was beautiful—until someone sliced her mouth open from ear to ear. Now, she wanders around asking: “Am I pretty?” If you say yes, she removes her mask and shows her torn face. Then she kills you. But the Whisper Game is a modern version of her curse. It’s how she finds new voices—ones she can copy. Because when you play the game, she hears your voice. Then she whispers it back to trick you. And when you reply? You’re hers. 📸 The Disappearance Ami’s friends thought she was just pretending to be scared. Until she stopped coming to school. Her mom said she barely left her room. She talked less and less. And then— One night, Ami’s bedroom light went off at exactly 2:33 a.m. Her mom ran in. The window was open. The curtains were blowing in the wind. But Ami was gone. No signs of struggle. No footprints. No messages. Just her mirror… …with one word written on it: "Yes." 🧣 Where Is She Now? Some people say she ran away. But her friends? They know the truth. Sometimes when they walk home late at night, they hear soft whispering behind them. Sometimes it says: “Do you want to play?” And if they ever say anything back—anything at all— even a whisper… They start hearing their own name in the shadows. One girl even saw a figure in the reflection of a train window. Wearing a red scarf. The face? Was Ami’s. But her mouth was ripped open. And she was still whispering. ☠️ The Real Rule People say the Whisper Game is banned now in most schools in Japan. Teachers destroy any copies of the instructions. Students whisper about it in secret. But here’s the real rule no one tells you: If you’ve heard about the game… she already knows you. So remember—if you hear a voice late at night calling your name, and it sounds just like you… Don’t answer. Because once you do, You’ll never stop hearing her again.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
David Cronenberg’s Scanners is a Body Horror Triumph with a Unique Spin on Psychic Powers. Top Story - June 2025.
I was finally able to watch David Cronenberg’s Scanners, and I couldn’t believe how incredible and insane the story was. This is probably one of Cronenberg’s most bizarre films ever made, but the concept is genius.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Horror
Cutlery for the quiet ones. Content Warning.
Trigger Warnings: Psychological decay, implied cannibalism, disturbing ritual imagery --- They told me the house would be empty. Just a simple inheritance transfer, they said. Sign a few papers, look around, maybe take something sentimental before the city tore it down. No one told me about the table. Or the place settings. Or the whispers that began when I touched the silver. I didn’t even want the house. It belonged to my great-aunt Meryl, whom I’d never met but was told had a “taste for solitude.” That’s how my mother put it, her voice faltering like she was biting down on memory. She never talked about Meryl growing up—only mentioned once, in passing, that she used to throw “strange dinners” on nights when the wind changed. They said she died peacefully. They didn’t mention the dining room was still... set. --- There were six chairs, evenly spaced, polished and perfect despite the dust. Six plates, bone-white and wide, with gold-rimmed edges. Six sets of cutlery, laid out with surgical precision—forks aligned, knives glinting in the fading light. But there was only one wine glass. And it was full. A deep red. Still shimmering. As if someone had just poured it. I remember standing in the doorway too long, long enough for shadows to lengthen across the carpet, long enough for something inside me to tug, softly, like a thread unraveling in my skull. I told myself to leave. But my feet moved on their own. --- There was a dusty photo on the mantle. Meryl in her twenties, standing beside the same table, except every chair was occupied—blurry silhouettes in old-fashioned clothes. No faces. Just impressions. Like the lens refused to capture what it shouldn’t have seen. In her hands, she held a knife. It looked exactly like the one on the table now. --- It started with a sound. A faint clink of silver on porcelain from the chair to my left. Then a quiet exhale from the chair across. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The table had guests now. I couldn’t see them—just heat distortions in the air, outlines of hands that lifted forks. Shadows that twitched just past the corner of my eye. The wine glass floated a few inches up, tilted back. Something drank. --- One by one, the knives began to move. Scraping. Carving. But the plates were empty. No food. No flesh. Just the suggestion of feasting. The noise was unbearable—wet, chewing mouths and the crack of cartilage, accompanied by the dull scrape of silverware on china. The scent of raw meat filled the air. My stomach turned. Then they turned to me. Not with eyes—there were no faces. Just presence. Cold. Curious. And hungry. A whisper slithered across the linen like a fingernail on glass: “It’s your turn, dear.” --- I didn’t want to move. I shouldn’t have moved. But my hands, shaking, reached for the fork. Then the knife. They moved on their own. My fingers mimicked the others. Cut. Lift. Chew. I gagged on nothing. Still I swallowed. The taste was… familiar. Like bone marrow. Like ash. Like guilt. --- The walls pulsed in and out with my breath. Or theirs. I felt them breathing through me. I wasn’t eating—I was being hollowed out, spoonful by spoonful. My skin prickled. My fingernails darkened. Something inside me opened its mouth, and I couldn't close it again. --- When the others vanished, the air didn’t change. It stayed thick, wet. The room stank of butchered things and ritual. Only one knife remained on the table. Longer. Sharper. Stained. There was a note beneath it, yellowed and cracked: Cutlery for the quiet ones. Use only when necessary. They never leave hungry. --- I stumbled out of the house that night. But I never really left. --- At first, it was just noise—cutlery tapping in my dreams, the echo of six plates being scraped clean. Then came the shapes. Figures seated in train windows. In café corners. In reflections behind my own. Faint, but clearer with each day. Each one looked a bit more... like me. --- I stopped eating. Didn’t stop them. --- I began setting my own table—six places, like before. I don’t know why. Guilt? Fear? Or maybe I was preparing. Each night they came. They didn’t knock. They didn’t speak. They just sat. Their features grew sharper. Neck bones. Chins. Wetness glistening on their lips. I gave them nothing. They came anyway. --- Last night, they brought a new knife Sleek. Surgical. With it, a note written in something darker than ink: Feed us. Or join us. --- I don’t sleep anymore. I don’t eat. I don’t leave the kitchen. The chairs are always full now, and I never remember opening the door. Sometimes I catch my own reflection in the cutlery. It doesn’t move when I do. Its mouth is always open. Waiting. --- Tonight, I will cook. I don’t know what. But I will. For them. For me. For the quiet ones. --- I think I’m becoming something else. A placeholder at the table. A husk with a heartbeat. A host. --- I used to think the cutlery was just silver. Now I know it’s ritual. And it’s hungry. And it knows my name. ---
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
The Man Who Came To His Own Funeral
The moment the church doors creaked open, the organist missed a note. Everyone turned. And then they froze. Because the man standing in the doorway—soaking wet from the storm, eyes scanning the room—was supposed to be dead.
By Shaheerabout a year ago in Horror
The Storm
The village of Meriden had always been calm. Life moved slowly among the green hills and quiet streets. But on the night the storm came, everything changed — not just the landscape, but the life of a young girl named Elara. Elara was fifteen, the daughter of a fisherman. Her father had taught her to respect the sea, to read the skies, and to always listen to the wind. “The wind speaks,” he often said. “You just have to be quiet enough to hear it.” On the day the storm began,Days turned into weeks, and Elara’s father slowly began to heal. His wounds were deep, but the spirit within him remained strong—much like the village, which began to rebuild, piece by piece. People mended roofs, cleared fallen trees, and shared what little they had with neighbors. But something else had changed too — the way they looked at Elara. Once seen as just a quiet fisherman's daughter, she was now known as “the girl who followed the storm.” Children followed her with wide eyes, and elders spoke her name with respect. But Elara didn’t feel like a hero. She had simply done what her heart demanded. One evening, as the sun sank low over the sea and painted the sky in shades of orange and rose, Elara sat beside her father on the hill overlooking the water. “You didn’t give up on me,” he said, his voice still hoarse. “I couldn’t,” she replied. “I knew you were out there.” He looked at her with pride. “You’ve always listened to the wind. I thought it was just me who could hear it—but I was wrong. You’ve got the sea in your soul too.” That night, the stars returned in full glory. The sky, which had once roared with thunder, now glittered like a quiet celebration. But even as peace returned, Elara felt something stir inside her—a restlessness she had never known before. The storm hadn’t just tested her courage—it had awakened it. She began to spend more time at the docks, not just watching the boats, but helping repair them. She learned how to tie stronger knots, how to read the currents better, and how to navigate by the stars. Her father, though still recovering, taught her everything he knew. “Why do you want to learn so much now?” he asked one day. “Because I want to be ready,” she said. “For the next storm. For anything.” Then came the day a letter arrived from a town across the sea. A coastal village that had heard of Elara’s bravery was asking for help. They needed someone to teach young girls about sailing, survival, and strength. They wanted her. Her mother hesitated. “You’re still so young.” “But the sea doesn’t wait for anyone,” Elara said with a quiet smile. “And neither does courage.” After much thought, her parents agreed. Elara packed a small bag, tied her hair back, and set sail—this time not in search of someone lost, but of a new life. As her boat glided away from the familiar shore, she looked back at the village one last time. Children waved. Her father stood tall, leaning on a cane, his face proud. The wind danced around her face, tugging gently at her coat. And once again, she heard it speak. “Go.” With the wind at her back and a heart full of purpose, Elara sailed into the horizon — not away from her home, but toward her destiny.
By Movies Channelabout a year ago in Horror
The Best Horror Books of All Time – The House That Eats You
Okay, sit tight, this is a true what-did-I-just-read kind of horror story. So—there’s this stylish, confident young woman named Noemí Taboada. She lives in Mexico City in the 1950s. Think rich dresses, parties, jazz music—super glamorous, right? One day, her family gets a weird letter from her cousin Catalina, who had married some English guy and moved far away to a creepy house in the mountains called High Place. The letter wasn’t normal. Catalina was rambling, scared, and said things like: “There’s something wrong with the house… It whispers to me… they want to take my body…” Creepy much? Naturally, Noemí’s dad is like, “Go check on her. You’re smart. You don’t take nonsense from anyone.” So Noemí—dressed to the nines and thinking it’ll be a quick visit—heads off into the foggy mountains. And that’s where everything starts going wrong. Welcome to High Place High Place is nothing like her life in the city. It’s a cold, grey, rotting mansion on top of a hill, surrounded by fog, mushrooms, and silence. It feels dead… but like it’s still watching you. The family Catalina married into—the Doyles—are weird. Like, REALLY weird. Virgil (Catalina’s husband) is handsome but creepy. You know that type who smiles too much and stands too close? Florence (the aunt) acts like a strict nun. She has tons of rules. No noise. No late dinners. No talking about the past. Howard (the old man) is the creepiest of them all. Pale, old, and obsessed with eugenics (which is just a fancy, messed-up way of saying he thinks some people are “better” than others). The only semi-normal one is Francis, a shy, sickly guy who likes nature and seems kind—but also kind of trapped. The place smells like rot. There’s mold in the walls. The walls breathe sometimes. Noemí starts getting nightmares almost immediately. And not just spooky dreams. We’re talking full-on visions of blood, gold, worms crawling under skin, and strange people whispering in her ears while she sleeps. The house isn’t just haunted. It’s alive. The House Has a Memory As Noemí tries to help Catalina, she realizes something’s seriously wrong with everyone in this house. Catalina is drugged. The doctor won’t help. And when she tries to leave? Everyone suddenly says Catalina is “too ill” to travel. It’s like the house is holding them hostage. And then—Noemí starts seeing things while she’s awake. She hears walls whispering. She sees visions of the past—people getting murdered, buried, absorbed by the ground. She even sleepwalks into creepy parts of the house she’s never seen before. She asks Francis what’s going on, and that’s when he finally cracks: “The house is made of mushrooms.” Wait. What? Yes. Mushrooms. There’s a type of glowing fungus growing all through the house. Under the floors. Inside the walls. It connects everything—people, memories, even dreams. The Doyles have been breeding it for generations. They’ve used it to live longer. To trap people’s minds. To create visions. It’s like psychic, mind-controlling mold. The house doesn’t just remember the past… it keeps people inside it. Like Catalina. Like Francis. Like maybe soon… Noemí. The Awful Truth You know Howard, the creepy old man? He’s not just some old grandpa. He’s over a hundred years old. Maybe more. He’s using the mushroom’s weird powers to stay alive—by jumping into other people’s bodies. And now, guess who they want next? Noemí. Because she’s strong. Smart. Healthy. The perfect “new vessel.” That’s why they’ve been poisoning her, haunting her, trying to weaken her mind. The house is trying to grow into her. But Noemí is no fool. She fakes being under their spell. She finds a way to talk to Catalina without the family noticing. Together, they make a plan. The Final Escape They find out the main root of the fungus—the source of the Doyles’ power—is beneath the house in a secret cave. It’s ancient. It's pulsing. And in the center lies a corpse— Agnes Doyle—the first woman who discovered the fungus. She’s still alive, sort of. Her body is barely human anymore. But her brain? Still working. The family has been feeding her. Keeping her alive. She’s the reason for all the nightmares. All the pain. All the whispers. So Noemí and Catalina go full final boss fight mode. They burn it. The root. The corpse. The entire house. The fire spreads. The Doyles scream. The fungus dies. And so does the horrible spell holding everything together. Noemí, Catalina, and Francis escape the burning mansion just in time. High Place is gone. Forever. Or so they hope. logue: But What If It’s Not Over? They go back to Mexico City. Catalina starts healing. Francis tries to live a normal life. But Noemí? She dreams about mushrooms sometimes. And once—just once—she hears a whisper in her sleep: “I remember you.”
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
🩸 "The Thirteenth Room"
It started with a floor plan. Evelyn moved into the old Ashcroft building in late October, chasing a job and cheaper rent. The building was strange—tall and narrow, with creaky wood floors and a permanent draft—but it had character. And at night, the halls smelled faintly of lilac, like someone, somewhere, had spilled perfume years ago that never faded.
By Pir Ashfaq Ahmadabout a year ago in Horror
The Red Eyes at Midnight
“The Red Eyes at Midnight” by Ali Asad Ullah There are moments in life that don’t just haunt your memory—they consume it. For me, it was the red eyes. I saw them when I was sixteen, and I’ve never been the same since. I grew up in a small, remote village surrounded by endless wheat fields and dense forests. Our home was modest, and the nights were so quiet and dark that you could hear your own heartbeat. There were no streetlights, no passing cars, just the thick presence of nature and shadows. And stories. My grandmother, a deeply spiritual woman, used to tell me tales of djinns, cursed places, and the one legend that chilled me the most—the red eyes that appeared at midnight.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
"I Found a Hidden Room in My House"
I Found a Hidden Room in My House I never expected to inherit anything from my great-uncle. He was the kind of relative you heard about only at funerals—quiet, distant, strange. When he passed away in 2022, I received a letter from his lawyer informing me that I’d inherited his house. No explanation, just a key and an address scribbled on thick parchment.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror
The 3:17 Visitor” horror story
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a light sleeper. Every sound, every creak, and even the faintest whisper of wind wakes me. So when I moved into my grandfather’s old countryside house after his death, I expected many sleepless nights. What I didn’t expect was what began exactly one week later—at 3:17 a.m.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Horror