supernatural
The hidden world of all things supernatural; a look inside witchcraft, spells, vexes, black magic and other spine-tingling supernatural phenomena.
"The Witch Who Waits in the Well"
Startriting The Witch Who Waits in the Well Subtitle: Don’t Look Down, She’s Looking Up In the forgotten village of Thornevale, surrounded by skeletal woods and blanketed in perpetual mist, there stood an old stone well—long abandoned, shunned even by wild animals. The villagers called it Mira’s Mouth. They said it was cursed.
By Top stories about a year ago in Horror
"The Curse That Built the Town"
The Curse That Built the Town They say the town of Black Hollow was founded on blood and betrayal—and some believe that its prosperity is a debt long overdue. In the late 1800s, settlers came to the region seeking fertile land and a fresh start. Among them was the Whitlock family, devout and driven. Nathaniel Whitlock, the patriarch, led the way with a vision of building a town that would thrive for generations. He brought with him not just his wife and children, but also a mysterious black-bound book—one he never let out of his sight. The land, however, refused to be tamed. Crops rotted. Livestock died. Children sickened. The other settlers spoke in hushed tones of a shadow in the woods, of whispers at night, of strange symbols carved into trees no one claimed to mark. As fear grew, so did resentment. They turned to Nathaniel for answers—and he gave them one. “We must make a sacrifice,” he said one evening as the town gathered under the failing moonlight. “Not of blood, but of faith. This land is not dead. It is sleeping. And it must be awoken.” That night, three strangers—drifters who had come through looking for shelter—were taken into the woods and never seen again. No one asked what happened. No one dared. But the very next day, the river that had dried up for months flowed once more. The land began to yield. Crops sprouted within days. Animals gave birth in healthy litters. The town of Black Hollow began to flourish. And so the ritual began. Every seven years, under the same moonlight, someone disappeared. A traveler, a criminal, an orphan—always someone without ties, someone who wouldn’t be missed. And the town always prospered. The Whitlocks were revered—guardians of the town’s "good fortune." But behind closed doors, their family was crumbling. Madness crept into their bloodline. Children were born wrong—eyes too wide, skin too pale. Some screamed for hours at nothing. Some walked into the woods and never returned. One Whitlock child, Evelyn, grew up questioning everything. She found her grandfather's black-bound book buried in the floorboards. Its pages pulsed with an ancient language, ink that shimmered and writhed. She learned the truth. The rituals weren’t gifts—they were trades. The town’s luck was bought in flesh. And the price, she read, would one day come due. Evelyn ran. She escaped Black Hollow and tried to warn others, but no one believed her. The town had grown powerful. Wealthy. Influential. It had its hands in politics, law, media. And those who pried too deeply—reporters, scholars, even clergy—vanished. Years passed. Evelyn kept the book, locked away. She never married. Never had children. But she kept a journal—hoping that one day, someone would find it and believe. In 2025, a construction crew dug up old foundations outside Black Hollow to make way for a new luxury housing development. Beneath the earth, they found bones—hundreds of them. Arranged in perfect spirals. Some were animal. Most were not. The project was quickly shut down. The town mayor, a direct descendant of the Whitlocks, claimed it was a “misunderstood historical site.” But that winter, the river turned black. A sickness swept through the town. Children whispered in voices not their own. And every night, without fail, someone disappeared. Locals claimed they saw Evelyn Whitlock—her eyes hollow, her mouth sewn shut—walking the old roads. The curse, it seemed, no longer needed permission. It had become the foundation, the soil, the air. Every brick laid, every dollar earned, every child born in Black Hollow carried its stain. The town still stands. Beautiful. Prosperous. Hollow.
By Top stories about a year ago in Horror
A Mother's Lullaby Never Dies horror story.
Cradle Songs for the Forgotten A Mother's Lullaby Never Dies By [Dr. Nivara Bloom] The wind sang tonight. Not the kind of melody that calms you. No. This wind carried something old. Something broken. Something that hummed lullabies only forgotten children remembered.
By Dr nivara bloomabout a year ago in Horror
The Cursed Brides
The Cursed Brides: They Were Married to the Darkness In the small, secluded village of Ashmore, there was an ancient tradition that had been passed down for generations. It was a twisted and macabre custom, one that no one dared question. On the eve of each spring solstice, a wedding was held, though it was not the joyous occasion one might expect. The bride was always chosen from the most vulnerable of the village’s young women, often those with troubled pasts or families in debt. And though the groom was never seen, the wedding always went on, and the bride always disappeared. Eliza Thompson, a young woman of 18, had never heard the full story of the cursed weddings. She grew up in the shadows of Ashmore, a town where secrets were as thick as the fog that rolled in from the mountains. Her parents, quiet and reserved, rarely spoke of the past. But when Eliza’s name was whispered by the elders and her fate was sealed, she began to hear the rumors—the ones about the darkness that lingered, the unholy union that demanded a soul every year. Eliza’s parents tried to protect her, but tradition was a powerful force. The night of her wedding, she was led to the altar, her hands trembling beneath the heavy white lace of her dress. Her heart hammered in her chest as she passed by the candle-lit procession of villagers. They all watched in silence, eyes hollow with dread. They knew what this night meant, what it had meant for the past hundred years. But for Eliza, it was the first time she felt the weight of the curse. As she stepped onto the platform, the air turned cold. The wind howled like a distant scream. A figure in dark robes appeared at the far end of the altar. His face was hidden beneath a hood, but Eliza could feel his presence like a pressing weight. The villagers remained silent, their gazes fixed on the scene as if they were mere spectators to something far greater than themselves. The figure spoke in a voice that echoed through her bones. "Do you take this man to be your husband, to honor and obey him, until death do you part?" Eliza didn’t know what to say. She had been taught to say the words, to obey the ceremony. But something within her hesitated. The stories of past brides—their blank, lifeless eyes when they returned from the altar—flashed through her mind. There were no true marriages in Ashmore, only sacrifices to the darkness that dwelled beneath the earth, to something ancient and hungry. But it was too late. The villagers’ chants filled the air, drowning her thoughts, as if they were compelling her to speak. And, with a voice that trembled like the wind outside, she whispered the words, “I do.” The figure raised his hand, and a wave of coldness swept over her. A shadow seemed to stir beneath the altar, thick and viscous, like a living thing. Eliza felt a pull deep within her chest, a force drawing her towards it. The darkness around her began to take shape, twisting into monstrous forms. And then, she felt it—something cold, something evil—wrap around her soul, binding her to the shadow. The villagers began to chant louder, their voices rising in intensity. Eliza tried to scream, but her voice was drowned out by the deafening roar of the wind. The darkness seeped into her body, filling her veins with a black poison. She could feel the life being drained from her, her spirit slipping away, becoming one with the curse. She thought of her family, of her parents’ desperate faces as they watched her transform. But they could do nothing. Tradition had already claimed her. In an instant, the figure in the robe stepped forward, his hands reaching for her. The ceremony was almost complete. Eliza’s vision blurred, her body growing numb as she felt herself being consumed by the darkness. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. The world grew still. The figure before her dissolved into nothingness, leaving her standing alone on the altar. The villagers slowly began to disperse, as if nothing had happened. Eliza looked around, confused. Was it over? Had she survived? But as she turned to leave, she saw something in the reflection of the altar's silver mirror. Her own face, pale and ghostly, stared back at her. Her eyes were empty, lifeless. The wedding veil that had once been white was now a deep, dark crimson. She had become one of them. The cursed brides. The ones who were never truly free, bound to the darkness for all eternity. And as Eliza felt the cold presence wrap around her once more, she understood the truth: the bride’s soul was never meant to return. They were married to the darkness, and the darkness was their groom—forever. And so, year after year, Eliza would stand at the altar, waiting for the next unfortunate girl to take her place, as the curse of the cursed brides lived on.
By Top stories about a year ago in Horror
The Archivist. AI-Generated.
There's a small, forsaken building hidden behind a centuries-old mosque in one of the grimy alleys of Old Dhaka. Few even see it. But if you stand still and listen—really listen—you can hear the soft whisper of pages being turned.
By MD NAZIM UDDIN about a year ago in Horror
