supernatural

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

The Whispers of Black Hollow
Chapter 1: The Arrival Jared and Melissa were thrill-seekers. Urban exploration was their passion, and the tales of Graymoor House had always intrigued them. It was said that the Whitlock family, who lived there in 1887, vanished mysteriously one stormy night. No bodies were ever found, and those who dared enter could hear whispers lingering in the walls. One foggy evening, they parked their car near the rusted iron gates of the estate. The path leading to the mansion was choked with weeds and shadows. The sound of the gate grumbling as they opened it was drowned out by the thick mist. 'You sure about this?' Melissa asked, her eyes fixed on the towering silhouette of the mansion.
By Shahidul islamabout a year ago in Horror
Out of Sight. Content Warning.
The short, wide hallway acts as a corridor of captured memories, its walls adorned with an assortment of picture frames, housing a chronicle of Jason and Lizzy's past. Within those frames, a past version of themselves smiled, kissed, and intertwined in intimate embraces. A delicate tapestry of self-portraits, encapsulating their love. Beyond this section of corridor, the cream-colored walls diverge, revealing two paths. One leads to a commodious living room, where a large flatscreen TV illuminates the area, projecting a rerun of a John Wayne western. This is a comfortable place, embodied by a plush sofa and a recliner, where Jason lay asleep. The other path guides one towards a solemn, dark brown wooden door, safeguarding the couple's jackets, no longer needed in the warm summer season. A palpable air of antiquity clings to the house and its weathered door, paying homage to generations past. The tarnished brass handle, slightly askew, beckons visitors with a stoic invitation, permitting only a sliver of light to shine in.
By Emmett Swannabout a year ago in Horror
The 13th Passenger
There were only twelve people on the midnight bus to Black Hollow. So why were there thirteen sets of footprints in the snow when it stopped?”
By USAMA KHANabout a year ago in Horror
The Silent Gospel of Drowned Saints : A Town That Fed Its People to the Water
Season 1 THE BAPTISM LEDGER The Night of 107 Souls June 1903 wasn't the first baptism. The church records burned in 1898 revealed:
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
The Book That Eats People
In an ancient and mysterious town, there was a dilapidated bookstore nestled in the depths of a quiet alley, seldom visited by anyone. The store was run by an old man with a stern expression and deep, inscrutable eyes. He always wore a black robe and silently organized the books in the dim corners of the shop.
By Aiden Wangabout a year ago in Horror
ONE FRIGHTENING NIGHT IN KAZAKHSTAN
Every summer I would visit my grandmother in Kurchatov—a former military town lost in the Kazakh steppe. Empty five-story buildings with broken windows, rusty playgrounds, roads disappearing into the darkness. A place as if stuck in time.
By sagar dhitalabout a year ago in Horror
The Elevator
Lídia was working late. Normally, she was the first to leave work. Even if it was chaos or if someone needed help, she simply didn’t care. But today, fate changed her plans. Everyone had already left, except for her. No one asked if she needed help. The boss had sent a project at the last minute, and it had to be delivered today without fail. Lídia was usually a fast worker, faster than her colleagues. She often boasted about it and thought she had the right to mistreat them.
By Hollisabout a year ago in Horror
Thailand’s Most Haunted Island: The Chilling Secrets of Koh Kham Noi
The Haunted History and Paranormal Evidence of Koh Kham Noi (Ghost Island), Thailand Situated in the Gulf of Thailand, Koh Kham Noi or Ghost Island is one of the country's most infamous haunted places. Its spooky past comes from a dark history, tragic legends, and scores of eyewitness testimony of paranormal activity. Local people and travelers alike have had frightful encounters, making it a blacklisted destination among thrill-seekers and ghost hunters.
By Kyrol Mojikalabout a year ago in Horror
The Whispering Clock
Priya never expected to inherit anything. So when the lawyer handed her a single envelope after her grandmother’s passing, she was surprised. Inside it was a small brass key and a note: “It only whispers at midnight. Always listen.” She didn't know what it meant—until she visited her nani's house one last time. In the dark, dust-filled living room, stood an enormous grandfather clock. Mahogany wood, golden pendulum, a cracked glass face. It ticked slowly, like it carried the weight of time itself. She brought it home to her Delhi apartment. She didn’t believe in superstitions. But something about the clock... felt alive. That first night, out of curiosity—and a little unease—she stayed awake till midnight. At exactly 12:00 a.m., the ticking stopped. Then, a whisper. “Your mother never wanted you.” Priya’s breath caught. It wasn’t the voice of her grandmother. It was older, deeper, like it came from the wood itself. The next night: “Your father was paid to stay.” Each night, a new truth. Whispers only she could hear. “You were born to replace someone who died.” “Your dreams are not your own—they were planted.” The truths grew darker. She confronted her mother, but only received silence and a trembling lip. Her questions were answered with locked doors. Priya began to dig into old papers. Newspaper archives. Medical records. Secret files hidden in drawers she never dared open as a child. She discovered a fire in their ancestral home—one that occurred in 2004, the year she turned six. Her memory of that year? Gone. But the whispers brought it back. Flashes of a woman screaming. Fire licking the walls. Her grandmother, holding her, whispering something in Sanskrit. Then the clock. Standing still while the world burned. --- One night, the whisper said: “You were supposed to die. Time was reversed for you.” Priya dropped the teacup in her hand. The glass shattered, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t know who she was anymore. The next night: “Your grandmother wasn’t protecting you. She was preparing you.” Then came a whisper that chilled her spine: “Tonight, the clock chooses.” --- Midnight came. She sat in front of the clock, heart pounding. The ticking stopped. The pendulum halted. Silence. Then—the chime. Not a soft ring, but a deep, echoing cry. Like time itself exhaled. And then... she remembered everything. She remembered standing before the fire, her mother screaming at her grandmother. A hidden room. Candles. A ritual to bind memory and time. Her grandmother had stopped the flow of time—just for five seconds—to save Priya. And she paid for it with her soul. The clock was no ordinary object. It was a keeper of broken timelines. A vault of truths too heavy for the world. And it demanded a guardian. One who could hear it. One who had died, but lived again. --- Suddenly, the room was flooded with soft, golden light. Shadows circled her. A wind blew from nowhere. The hands of the clock spun wildly. Then… stillness. On the wall behind her, words had burned themselves into the plaster: “Time remembers. Do you?” She walked toward the clock. Placed her palm on the cold glass. “I remember everything,” she whispered. The clock chimed once more. Her apartment melted away. She awoke in her grandmother’s house, but it wasn’t crumbling anymore. It was pristine, untouched by time. She was back in 2004. But she wasn’t six anymore. She was the keeper now.
By TrueVocalabout a year ago in Horror
The Real Haunted Story Enriqueta Martí
In addition to being a child serial killer, kidnapper, prostitute and procures of children, Enriqueta Martiri police was a Spanish serial killer. In the news, she was referred to as the vampire of the rival. The vampire of Barcelona and the vampire of the career opponent. On the other hand, there are scholars who have argued that she was not a child killer, but rather a person with mental illnesses who can only be shown to have kidnapped one young girl, Teresita Guitart.
By TheNaethabout a year ago in Horror
One Truth Per Day
The diary had no title, no lock, no name. Just a plain black leather cover with pages that smelled faintly of old ink and rain. Rayaan found it wedged between the floorboards of his newly rented apartment. He had only moved in two days ago—fresh start, new city, no emotional baggage. At least, that was the plan. The first night, he opened it absentmindedly before bed. "Truth #1: Your boss, Mr. Karan Malhotra, embezzled 4.2 million rupees last year. He buried the evidence in a USB drive labeled wedding photos." Rayaan laughed nervously. He closed the book. Just a joke. Some prank. The previous tenant messing around, maybe. But curiosity is a stubborn itch. The next morning, unable to resist, he asked his boss about wedding photos—casually. Mr. Malhotra froze, dropped his coffee, and asked who told him. Rayaan didn’t answer. He just smiled and walked away, heart pounding. That night, the diary’s second page was filled. "Truth #2: Your neighbor Rekha listens to her dead husband’s voicemails every night. She believes they change depending on her mood." This time, he waited. At 11:58 p.m., the next page was blank. At exactly 12:00 a.m., fresh black ink bled into the cream paper—like it was being written by an invisible hand. By the fifth night, Rayaan had learned: His best friend once left a hit-and-run victim to die. His landlord has been watching tenants through hidden cameras. His ex is pregnant—and it’s not her current boyfriend’s child. Every night at midnight: One page. One truth. One person he knows. Each one was verifiable. Every page turned into a dark mirror reflecting the filth behind friendly smiles. But on the tenth night, everything changed. "Truth #10: Someone close to you is planning to kill you." Rayaan’s breath hitched. His eyes darted across the apartment. Every creak of the building sounded like footsteps. Every shadow deepened. He didn’t sleep that night. By morning, he had installed a lock on his bedroom door and texted vague warnings to all his acquaintances. He even carried a pocket knife. The diary gave no names. Just truths. Cold, sharp, and cruel. He wanted to burn it—but couldn’t. It felt alive now, like destroying it would invite worse things. Day 12: "Truth #12: Your mother lied about your father’s death. He’s alive and in a mental institution two cities away." He visited. The truth checked out. His father wept at the sight of him. "They told me you were dead," he whispered. Rayaan couldn’t speak. He had no room left for grief or rage. --- By the 17th night, the diary took a darker turn. "Truth #17: You killed someone when you were six. Your parents erased the memory to protect you." He laughed. “Ridiculous.” Until he found the newspaper clipping: "Local Child Accidentally Causes Death of Babysitter With Firearm." It was dated the same week he had that recurring childhood nightmare—the one with blood and sirens. The next night: "Truth #18: The diary feeds on your disbelief. The more you doubt, the stronger it becomes." He stopped laughing. The diary had more than just ink. It had power. It wasn’t recording truths—it was revealing what the world wanted hidden. --- On the 30th night, the diary gave him the final blow. "Truth #30: Tomorrow, you will write the next truth. With blood. Or the truths will start writing themselves in the bodies of those you love." Rayaan stared at the words. His fingers trembled. There was a small silver blade beside the diary that hadn’t been there before. Was it always going to end like this? The next night, he picked up the blade. He pricked his finger. Red drops stained the page. Then he wrote: "Truth #31: I am not the first. I won’t be the last." The ink shimmered. Then sank into the page like it had always belonged there. The diary closed itself. And Rayaan understood. The truths never end. Only the writers do.
By TrueVocalabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers of the Empty House
Ali had always dreamed big, but he felt trapped in this small town, his ambitions buried beneath the weight of routine. He longed for a change, a break from the mundane, but life had wrapped him in the tight grip of ordinary days. One day, he heard whispers about an old, abandoned house on the edge of town. The locals said strange things about it – that whispers echoed through its walls at night, and that it seemed to breathe, alive with forgotten memories. "Just rumors," Ali reassured himself, but his curiosity only grew stronger. One evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, Ali found himself standing before the house. Its front door creaked open with a groan, and a cold draft wrapped around him like a forgotten embrace. Dust coated the wooden floor, capturing his hesitant footsteps as he stepped inside. "Is anyone here?" Ali's voice trembled as it echoed through the dimly lit hall, but only silence replied. The air hung thick with the scent of aged wood and forgotten memories. Cobwebs clung to the corners, and the floorboards creaked beneath his weight. Then, from a dark corner, a faint glimmer of light caught his eye. It flickered like the last breath of an old lantern. Heart pounding, Ali moved toward it, each step drawing him deeper into the house's grasp. The stairs groaned as he climbed to the second floor, every creak a whisper of warning. As he reached the top, the door to a small room slowly swung open on its own. The room was surprisingly clean, its walls lined with old family portraits, a wooden chair and desk resting near the window. On the desk lay a dusty family photo album. Ali picked it up, his hands trembling. As he flipped open the album, his heart froze. The photographs showed him – at different ages, in places he'd never been, in eras that existed long before his birth. "This... this can't be real," Ali whispered, turning the pages with growing dread. Each photo felt like a stolen moment, a glimpse into lives he had never lived. Suddenly, a cold, whispering voice echoed in his ears, "Welcome, Ali. The house has been waiting for you." The album slipped from his hands and hit the floor. The room felt alive, the walls seemed to lean in, the floor groaning as if awakening. Ali spun toward the door, but it had silently shut behind him. Outside, faint light began to glow through the windows, as if the house itself had found a new heartbeat. From that night on, no one ever approached the old house again. They say Ali remains there, just another shadow in its twisted family album, forever a part of its haunted halls. Your Voice Matters! Have you ever felt the chilling presence of an abandoned place? Share your story in the comments below!
By Shafi khan about a year ago in Horror