supernatural
The hidden world of all things supernatural; a look inside witchcraft, spells, vexes, black magic and other spine-tingling supernatural phenomena.
Unlock the Shadows: What You Need to Know About Vocal’s Horror Story Prompt Challenge
For writers who have a taste for the macabre, the eerie, and the psychologically unsettling, opportunities to showcase their talent don’t often come knocking. But when they do, they arrive cloaked in mystery, dripping with suspense, and beckoning the brave to test the limits of their imagination.
By Nora Arianaabout a year ago in Horror
Pathogen: Ch. 14
Marnie's hands were shaking as she smoothed them over her hair, checking for any frizzy fly-aways that had gotten loose. Instinctively, she cupped the large ballet bun on the back of her head, wincing a little at the bobbi pins jammed into her scalp. How did her mom do this every day? It was no wonder now why Lt. Nightingale didn't have a single wrinkle on her face. Marnie's hair was pulled so tight, she didn't think she'd ever be able to use her facial muscles again. She only touched the bun for a second before Bianca swatted her hand away lightly.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Horror
The Eater of Men
The Eater of Men: In His Eyes, You're Meat There are some people who walk into a room and make the air colder. Not because of who they are, but because of what they are. When Malcolm Grieve walked into the diner off Route 41, his smile was wide and pleasant—but his eyes didn’t see people. They weighed them. Counted the ribs. Measured the muscle. In his eyes, you weren’t a person. You were meat. The locals barely noticed him at first. He was polite, well-dressed, paid in cash, and tipped well. Stayed in a dusty motel three miles outside town, room 6, curtains always drawn. If you asked the girl at the front desk, she’d say he smelled faintly of metal and cloves, and that she never saw him eat breakfast. Never once. The first to vanish was Jody Whitley, a hitchhiker who played guitar outside the gas station. No one noticed for a day or two—Jody came and went. But then her case was found in the woods, snapped in half like a wishbone. Sheriff Lane filed a report. Nothing came of it. But there were others. A drifter with a limp, a traveling nurse, a teenager skipping town. Each gone like smoke. Each leaving behind little more than a stain in the silence. Malcolm visited the diner every Tuesday at 9:13 p.m. sharp. He always ordered pot roast, but barely touched it. Instead, he watched. He studied the waitress’s arms when she handed him his bill. He watched the way the cook moved, the way his shoulders flexed under the grease-stained shirt. His pupils would dilate—not with admiration, but with hunger. A hunger so old it seemed to hum beneath the floorboards. They didn’t know what he was. Not at first. But he was careful. Precise. And terribly clean. One night, a drunk named Tyler made the mistake of grabbing Malcolm by the coat, demanding a cigarette. Witnesses said Malcolm just stared at him for a moment—his smile didn’t move, but his eyes darkened, like a light had gone out inside him. Tyler was found two days later, or at least most of him was. His chest cavity had been opened like a cabinet, the ribs separated with surgical precision. No blood, though. None at all. Rumors began to circle. “The Devil in a tie,” someone called him. “The Butcher in Room 6.” But no one dared confront him. Fear settled over the town like smoke. Even the sheriff looked the other way. People locked their doors and kept their heads down. But some people don’t scare easy. Marla, the waitress, had a brother who’d disappeared. She remembered the way Malcolm had looked at him. The way he smiled as if savoring something he hadn’t eaten yet. She followed him one night. It was raining. Malcolm took the back road, the one that led toward the abandoned slaughterhouse. Marla kept her lights off and stayed two cars behind. When he parked, she waited ten minutes before stepping out. The slaughterhouse had been shut for years, but inside, it smelled like rust and old breath. She followed the light of his lantern through the corridor of hanging chains. Then she saw it. The table was stone. There were hooks, tools—ancient, stained things. Bones piled like firewood. And Malcolm stood over something writhing. He was humming. Something soft. Something not meant for ears. His coat was off. His hands worked quickly, folding skin away from muscle as though peeling fruit. The thing on the table cried once. Only once. Marla couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even breathe. But she snapped a photo. Flash—too bright. Too loud. Malcolm turned. His eyes met hers. And in that split second, she understood what it meant to be prey. She ran—slipped on wet concrete, lungs tearing with panic. She didn’t stop until she hit the road and screamed for help, waving the phone with the photo still glowing. The police came. Room 6 was empty. The slaughterhouse was burned to the foundation that same night, flames licking the sky like a warning. They never found Malcolm. But every year, on the same night, someone disappears. Always someone alone. Always someone strong. Some say they’ve seen him—at truck stops, in diners, walking the shoulder of some back road. He doesn’t age. He doesn’t change. He smiles with perfect teeth. And when you meet his gaze, you’ll feel it: the chill of being sized up. Because in his eyes, you're not a soul. You're supper.
By Top stories about a year ago in Horror
The Haunting of the Mango Tree:The Three Sky Sisters
My name is Asha Akter. I live in the Bode Bazaar in Gazipur. This incident occurred about four years ago by my own aunt (my mother's sister). It's an experience that still spreads the fears of our family - not just once, but several times. I would like you to read this patiently, as there are some truths we may not see, but you can hurt us in silence.
By Joyprokash Royabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers in the Attic
When Daniel inherited his grandfather's old countryside house, he was more annoyed than grateful. The property, isolated on the edge of a forgotten village, was a creaking relic of the past. Still, he decided to visit for a weekend, thinking he might sell it after a few repairs.
By M Kamrul Islam about a year ago in Horror
Forever
My name is Professor Edwin Price, and I am currently on the verge of a breakthrough in finding a cure for the AIDS virus. However, things have been complicated by the reappearance in my life of a young man called Barnaby Sedge, whose body now lies at my feet. It is the third separate occasion our paths have crossed over the past twenty or so years and to fully understand his effect on my life, I will start with our first meeting in 1979. Barnaby was a first-year medical student who had been sent to me for extra tuition in the evenings. He was struggling with haematology and even back then I was considered the foremost expert in the field. I never usually took on private tutoring as I found it interfered with my research time too much. In this case however it was for an old friend to whom I owed a favour, so I agreed. My colleague said he had seen great potential in this young man and wanted him to have every opportunity to fulfil this. Barnaby Sedge presented himself at precisely the allotted time outside my office door, and unlike most of his generation, he gave two firm wraps on the old oak door and then waited for a response.
By Phil Tennantabout a year ago in Horror
Death Inc.
Technically, Jerry Carroll had been dead for seven days now. That was, dead in every conventional medical sense of the word anyway. It had all come as a bit of a shock to him, as you would imagine. Firstly, he had been somewhat down on his luck anyway, but being killed had really been a downer. Secondly, his death had been a huge mistake and it should have been someone else who’d copped it. He attempted a heavy sigh as he pondered this, but it sounded more like he was blowing a raspberry, as the flap of skin where his throat had been cut vibrated noisily in the escaping rush of air. Typically, he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had gotten involved with the wrong people. There was no denying he had been involved with some slightly dodgy dealings but had never intentionally hurt anyone and certainly didn’t deserve this. It should have been one of the other couriers, Al the Snake, who went on this particular delivery. Admittedly his memory was patchy at best; but now it was cracking up like an iceberg drifting further and further into warm waters.
By Phil Tennantabout a year ago in Horror
Diary of a Forgotten Vampire
Diary of a Forgotten Vampire When You Read It, He Wakes. It was supposed to be a simple thesis. Emily Karr, a folklore graduate student, had been researching 17th-century vampire myths in Eastern Europe. Most of it was academic filler—plague hysteria, buried bodies, ancient rituals. But when she came across the legend of Valen the Pale, something clicked. He was different. The records called him The Silent One—a vampire so ancient, he no longer fed to live, but to remember. Every drop of blood restored part of his forgotten self. His victims didn’t just die; they vanished from memory, erased from photographs, from journals, even from their family’s minds. And then there was the diary. According to a forgotten priest’s letter buried in a monastery archive, Valen kept a book—a diary that chronicled his centuries of hunger, isolation, and madness. The letter ended with a warning: “When the final page is read, so too is his name remembered. And when his name is remembered, he wakes.” Emily was hooked. She traced the diary to a private collector in Romania—an eccentric recluse named Daciana Ionescu. Daciana lived alone in a fog-shrouded manor, guarded by rusted iron gates and aggressive dogs. Emily pleaded, argued, begged. Finally, Daciana agreed—but only for one night, and under strict conditions: Do not read the last page aloud. Do not copy it. Do not stay past midnight. Emily nodded. She had no intention of reading the final page. She just wanted a glance. Maybe a few photos for her thesis. She had no idea what she was really opening. --- The diary was smaller than she expected. Bound in cracked leather, it bore a symbol on its cover: a circle of thorns surrounding a single vertical eye. Inside, the pages were brittle, written in ancient ink that shimmered faintly under candlelight. The writing changed over time—centuries of scrawl growing increasingly wild, fragmented, and desperate. Some entries were horrifying: “I drank a mother and child together. I do not recall their names. But I recall their warmth.” “The stars blink now. I think I have eaten too many souls.” “The silence is louder than screams. It calls me by a name I no longer know.” But others… others were heartbreakingly human: “I remember snow. I remember music. I remember love, and it sickens me.” Emily was shaking by the time she reached the second-to-last page. She knew she should stop. But curiosity is a louder predator than fear. The final page was blank—at first. Then, as she stared at it, the ink began to rise, like blood surfacing through paper veins. “He waits for the reader. The one who dares speak the end. For the end is the beginning. Speak, and he remembers.” Emily didn’t speak. But she whispered. And that was enough. --- The candle blew out. The room grew impossibly cold. Emily looked up—and saw her breath hanging in the air. Behind her, the sound of parchment tearing echoed. She turned. The diary had flipped itself shut. A drop of blood fell from its spine. Then another. From the shadows near the bookcase, a shape began to emerge. Tall. Bone-thin. Wrapped in a tattered cloak that moved as if underwater. His face was pale, featureless—except for the mouth. Too wide, too full of blackened teeth. His eyes were hollow, yet they saw her. They remembered her. "Emily," he whispered, in a voice like crumbling paper. "You gave me my name." She tried to run. But her legs didn’t move. "You read me. So now, I write you." He opened his hand. A blank page appeared. Her name scrawled itself across the top in crimson. "Chapter One," he said. --- Emily was never found. Daciana claimed she never arrived. The footage from the front gate security camera was mysteriously corrupted. Her apartment was untouched. Her university laptop deleted every file related to the vampire research. The only thing left behind was a journal, sitting on the library desk she used every day. It had no title. Inside, every page was blank. Except the last one. It read: “When you read it, he wakes.” And underneath, a name slowly appeared—your name.
By Top stories about a year ago in Horror
The Thirteenth Door. AI-Generated.
Rain slapped the windows of the Greystone Orphanage with the fury of a fist. Inside, the halls were dim and the lights flickered with every crack of thunder. Annie, barely twelve and newly arrived, sat on her cot clutching a flashlight and a dog-eared book, though her eyes weren’t on the pages.
By Hamdan Khanabout a year ago in Horror
