supernatural
The hidden world of all things supernatural; a look inside witchcraft, spells, vexes, black magic and other spine-tingling supernatural phenomena.
Taboos about paranormal phenomena
1. **Be Wary of Umbrellas on Cloudy Days**: If it’s neither raining nor sunny and you see someone carrying an umbrella, especially a black one, be cautious. Such a person is either mentally unstable or a ghost, with the latter being more likely.
By Aiden Wangabout a year ago in Horror
A Mirror Showing a Different Person
The mirror arrived in a dusty crate without a sender’s name. Amelia had just moved into her grandmother’s house after her passing. The cottage was old, tucked away in a quiet village, filled with antique furniture, creaky floors, and the scent of lavender. The crate sat on the porch with a small, yellowing tag: “For Amelia. Don’t ignore this.” She dragged it inside, curious. As she peeled away the layers of packing straw, her breath caught. It was a tall, wooden mirror, elaborately carved with symbols she didn’t recognize—stars, moons, and a single eye etched at the top center. She tilted it upright and stood before it. And froze. The reflection was not her own. The room behind her was the same, down to the flickering lamp and crooked picture frame. But the girl in the mirror was older, with streaks of silver in her hair and a scar across her brow. Her eyes, though… her eyes were identical to Amelia’s. “What the hell…” Amelia whispered. The reflection smirked. “Hello, Amelia,” it said, though Amelia’s lips hadn’t moved. She stumbled back, heart racing, but the reflection remained—calm, watching her. “I’m you,” the woman in the mirror said. “Or at least, a version of you.” Amelia stared, breathless. “Is this some hallucination?” “No. You’ve inherited the mirror. And the responsibility.” “What responsibility?” The woman leaned closer, her voice turning grave. “To change what’s coming.” Amelia avoided the mirror for days, throwing a cloth over it and keeping the door to the spare room shut. But every night, without fail, the cloth would be on the floor, the door ajar, and her reflection—the other her—waiting. Finally, unable to take it anymore, Amelia faced the mirror again. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What do you want from me?” The older version of herself sighed. “I didn’t listen. When I was you, I ignored the warnings. I made the wrong choices. And it cost everyone.” “Warnings?” “You’ll meet a man next week. He’ll seem perfect. Charming, smart, kind. He’ll offer you help with your writing, with your dreams. But he’s not who he claims to be. He’s part of something darker.” Amelia frowned. “That sounds like a bad movie plot.” The woman’s eyes sharpened. “He’s the reason I lost Mom. Lost everything. I made a deal I thought I could control. He only wanted the mirror.” Amelia shook her head. “This is insane.” “You don’t have to believe me. But remember this—he will say his name is Elijah. And he’ll know too much about you.” Exactly a week later, in the local bookstore, she met him. “Elijah Kane,” he said, offering a charming smile. “You must be Amelia. I’ve read your short stories online.” Chills ran down her spine. He was perfect. Too perfect. Over the next few days, he helped her polish a story, sent her editor contacts, made her laugh. But something always felt…off. One night, she caught him in her grandmother’s study, staring at the old mirror. “This is a remarkable piece,” he said. “Do you know where it came from?” Amelia played dumb. “No idea.” Elijah looked at her. “Some mirrors are more than reflections. Some are doors.” Her blood ran cold. That night, she spoke to the mirror again. “I think I believe you now,” she whispered. The older version of her smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Good. Then you must make a choice. Burn the mirror… or use it.” “Use it how?” “To trap him.” “What?” “Elijah is not human. He hunts the Seers—people like you and me who can speak across time through the mirror. He collects their mirrors, their power.” Amelia stared. “Why me?” “Because you’re the last. The bloodline ends with you.” Elijah returned the next evening. But Amelia was ready. She led him into the spare room. The mirror stood tall, uncovered, glowing faintly in the lamplight. “You were right,” she said, forcing a smile. “It’s more than a mirror.” Elijah grinned. “You finally see.” As he stepped closer, the mirror shimmered. The reflection in the glass changed—now it was Elijah’s face, but distorted. Older. Monstrous. He froze. “What—?” “You’re not the only one who can use the mirror,” Amelia said softly. The mirror’s surface rippled like water. A hand—her older self’s hand—reached out, grabbed Elijah by the wrist, and yanked him inside. The room went silent. Only her reflection remained. The older Amelia looked tired, but peaceful. “You did it,” she said. “You’ve changed our future.” Amelia nodded. For the first time, she truly saw herself in the mirror. And smiled.
By Tanveer Ahmadabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers Beneath the Floorboards
Whispers Beneath the Floorboards Secrets Buried in Silence, Waiting to Be Heard The house on Windmere Lane had been empty for years, its once-vibrant windows now clouded with dust, the paint on its frame curling like dried leaves. Neighbors whispered about the place in the same way children whispered about monsters—soft, careful, half-believing. When Clara inherited the house from her grandmother, she hadn't expected anything more than a dusty old structure in need of repairs. She was used to old buildings. As a freelance writer with a love for vintage aesthetics, she saw charm in the creaking floorboards and cobwebbed corners. But something about this house was different. From the first night, Clara heard it: faint murmurs just beneath the edge of hearing. At first, she blamed the wind, maybe mice in the walls. But no wind whispers names. And mice don’t say “help me.” She lay awake in the upstairs bedroom, covers pulled up to her chin, as the noises came again. Soft. Insistent. Almost human. Whispers beneath the floorboards. The next morning, Clara began her inspection. Her grandmother had sealed off the basement years ago after an old heating system collapsed. The floorboards in the living room were oddly new compared to the rest of the house—sanded and varnished, yet somehow uneven. She knelt and knocked. Hollow. She tried to forget about it. She told herself she was being dramatic—too many horror books, too little sleep. But the whispers returned that night. Louder. More desperate. “Why did she leave us here?” Clara bolted upright. This was no dream. She grabbed her flashlight and tiptoed down to the living room. The floorboards were warm, unnaturally so. Her fingers trembled as she ran them along the edge of the nearest plank. It was loose. Just slightly. Something told her not to pull it up. But curiosity is a stronger force than fear. She pried up one board, then another, until a dark cavity yawned open beneath her. The old basement—smaller than she expected, almost like a crawl space—was barely three feet deep. She shone her flashlight into the darkness. There, nestled in the dirt and shadows, were toys. Old wooden dolls. A broken tricycle. A child's shoe. And then, a pair of eyes stared back at her. Clara screamed and tumbled backward, the flashlight clattering across the floor. By the time she scrambled to her feet and peered back into the hole, the eyes were gone. The next morning, she went into town and found an old man sitting at the café, sipping coffee slowly. His name was Harold, and he’d lived in the neighborhood all his life. “Your grandmother,” he said, “was a good woman. But strange.” “How so?” “She took in children, back in the 1950s. Orphans. Said she couldn’t bear to see them sent off to homes. But one day… they just stopped coming. And she stopped speaking of them. We assumed they’d grown up or left.” Clara’s skin prickled. “There was a boy,” Harold continued, “James. Red hair. Sweet kid. Disappeared one winter. The police asked questions. Your grandmother said he ran away. But she looked… haunted after that. Like she was hiding something she couldn’t stand to say out loud.” Clara returned to the house that night, mind heavy. The whispers were louder now—no longer begging, but crying. Wailing. Children’s voices, calling names. Pleading for someone to listen. She couldn’t bear it anymore. The next day, she called a local contractor and had the floorboards removed completely. Beneath them, the earth was disturbed, loose in places. And buried beneath, just a few feet deep, were bones. Small bones. The coroner’s report confirmed it—at least three children, their remains decades old. The police reopened the case, and newspapers had a field day. “Murder House on Windmere Lane!” the headlines screamed. Clara watched her family’s name spiral into infamy, her heart sinking under the weight of ancestral guilt. She left the house, moved back into the city. Tried to forget. But the whispers followed. They came not from beneath the floorboards anymore—but from her dreams. From the rustle of paper. From the silence between breaths. “Thank you,” they said sometimes. “She couldn't hear us. But you did.” And sometimes, “Don’t let her hurt us again.” Clara doesn’t sleep much these days. She writes, mostly. Stories about haunted houses, broken families, and secrets buried in silence. And sometimes—on the edge of sleep—she still hears the whispers.
By IRSHAD MUHAMMADabout a year ago in Horror
The Unforgettable 9 years old Night
It was a typical day as usual, I came from the school had my launch and went out to play with my cousins. Soon the sun began to set and me and my cousin went to home. Since my parents usually prepare foods we didn't need to do any work at that time. After I had my dinner me and my cousins went to sleep since we were kid we were bound to sleep early. later everyone in the house began to sleep as usual. Suddenly at 12:00 clock my mother had a nightmare where some black figure was heading towards our home and try to harm us. After the nightmare everybody everybody in my family woke up. Elder members were discussing among themselves suddenly at the backdoor of our house a entity(girl) starts crying and weeping her tears. Me and my cousins were so scared we nearly peed our pants. My grandmother suddenly shouts at that entity with rough and harsh words. My grandmother told me we should never show ourselves pathetic and we should be brave in other to scare such entity. She used to deal with these things in village but for us it was a complete new thing. After a short time she grab knife and start shouting, still that entity was crying. Believe it or not after some magical spells was drawn to some holy seeds and sparkle in that area she start to cry even loudly. After the sparkle of seed continuously she slow down crying. Every elder shout to that entity whatever you are. where you come from you should leave fast or else we gonna throw the seeds and holy water. Soon the cry stop and that entity went. After a few days we learn that a week ago a dead bride body was carried by some people in that road backside which led to that haunting. From that day I learned to be strong mentally and focus on god and positive aspects in my life.
By Aayush Gurungabout a year ago in Horror
Have you ever tried calling your own phone number with your own phone?
Don't dismiss this as a silly question. I'm asking if you've ever called your own number with your own phone. Logically, it shouldn't go through, right? But what if it did? Well, then you might want to be careful, because it could mean that you don't have much time left!
By Aiden Wangabout a year ago in Horror
Lab Z-13
Title: Lab Z-13: No Cure, No Mercy It started with a whisper in the dark. Not the sound of a voice, but the low hum of machines restarting after years of silence. Deep beneath the Siberian permafrost, buried in isolation, Lab Z-13 came back to life. Dr. Elina Mirov didn’t believe in ghosts. She believed in data, in controlled environments and clean procedures. But when the Russian government covertly hired her to investigate a “communication blackout” at an old military bio-research facility, she sensed more than a simple technical failure. Something was wrong the moment her boots hit the cracked concrete floor of the subterranean lab. The complex was cold. Not the kind of cold that came from lack of power—it had electricity. It was the kind of cold that lived in places where no living thing had walked for a long, long time. Her team of five, all elite scientists and engineers, descended into the facility with heavy gear, hazmat suits, and weapons. No one asked why biologists were issued firearms. The airlock sealed behind them with a mechanical hiss. The heavy steel door groaned shut, trapping them in the past. “Ventilation's working,” said Karim, their systems engineer. He tapped his tablet. “But atmospheric composition is...off.” “How off?” Elina asked. “Like someone exhaled something... not human.” They pressed deeper. The lights flickered to life as motion sensors, somehow still functional, followed their path. On the walls were remnants of Soviet insignia, crossed out with black paint. Below them, scrawled in Cyrillic, were three chilling words: "No Cure. No Mercy." They found the first body in Lab C. A scientist, mummified in his suit, face frozen in a scream. His arm was reaching toward a red button labeled Purge. “It’s like he was trying to stop something from escaping,” muttered Anya, the team’s microbiologist. The data logs were fragmented. From what they could piece together, Lab Z-13 had been developing a viral agent—Project Thanatos. A bioweapon meant to render enemies incapacitated in minutes. It was designed to mutate. To adapt. "They used human test subjects," Elina whispered, reading through an entry. "Prisoners. Political dissidents." Then they found the holding cells. Scratched into the walls were hundreds of tally marks. The steel bars were twisted, as if something inside had gained the strength of a god. Blood painted the walls in arcane shapes, long dried but still pungent. That night, the screaming started. It wasn’t coming from any of the team. It came from the walls. From the ventilation shafts. A howling mix of pain and rage, echoing down the dark corridors. “Motion detected in Sector D,” Karim announced, his voice shaking. “That’s impossible. We’re the only ones here,” Elina said, but she was already gripping her pistol. They followed the signal, tracking it through the narrow maintenance tunnels. What they found in Sector D was not human. At first glance, it looked like a man. But its skin shimmered with a translucent, veiny membrane. Its eyes were gone, replaced by sockets that pulsed with red light. And its mouth... it stretched too far. It didn’t speak. It screamed. Bullets slowed it down but didn’t stop it. Only fire, from a makeshift flamethrower, drove it back. “What the hell is that?” Anya cried, as the creature retreated into the dark, flesh bubbling. "A host," Elina said. "The virus... it didn’t just mutate. It evolved." They tried to leave. The airlock wouldn’t open. System override failed. Communications were jammed. One by one, the team was picked off—Karim vanished near the generators, his radio left behind in a pool of blood. Anya tried to find an escape route through the old freight elevator and was torn in half by something too fast to see. Only Elina remained. She sealed herself in the central control room. Her breathing was shallow. The emergency power wouldn’t last much longer. She stared at the final report on the mainframe: PROJECT THANATOS: TERMINATED STATUS: BREACH CONTAINMENT DIRECTIVE: NO CURE. NO MERCY. Elina realized the truth. There never was a plan to recover the lab. She and her team were the final test. A data point. A sacrifice. Outside the reinforced window, shadows moved. Something waited. She picked up the last syringe on the table—a viral suppressant prototype. It wouldn’t cure her. But it might let her stay herself... for a little longer. She pressed record on the facility's black box. “This is Dr. Elina Mirov, Lab Z-13. Do not send anyone else. This place cannot be cleansed. It cannot be understood. It must be buried. Burned. Forgotten.” The lights went out. And something began to knock on the door. END
By Top stories about a year ago in Horror
Don't Turn Around
Don't Turn Around: The Last Thing You'll See It started with a dare. The kind of stupid, late-night challenge teenagers whisper about in hushed tones when the world is quiet and curiosity outweighs fear. "Stand at the edge of Bellman’s Forest, just before midnight. Don’t turn around. No matter what you hear. No matter what you feel. Just don’t." They said it was a ghost. A woman who once lived deep in the woods with her children. She vanished one winter, and when they finally found the cabin months later, the children were gone. No bodies. No signs of struggle. Just claw marks. Long ones. On the inside of the walls. Now, if you go there and stand still at the tree line, she finds you. But only if you turn around. Jenna didn’t believe in any of it. She was the kind of girl who wore sarcasm like armor. But even she couldn't resist a dare from her brother Kyle, especially with his smug little smirk and the camera already rolling. "It's just five minutes," Kyle said. "Stand there, back to the trees. Don’t turn. Easy likes for the video. We’ll even call it 'Urban Legend Debunked.'" The wind was sharp that night. It sliced through her hoodie like tiny knives. The trees creaked as if they whispered to one another, warning her. The moon hung low, smothered by clouds. She stood at the edge of the forest. The others waited by the car, their flashlights dimmed. Kyle held the camera like it was a weapon against the dark. Jenna checked her phone. 11:58 p.m. She faced the gravel road. Behind her, just a foot away, the tree line loomed like a wall of bones. Then it began. It started as a whisper. Not a voice. A breath. Slow. Close. She clenched her fists. Probably Kyle playing a recording. Idiot. Another minute passed. A twig snapped. Then another. She turned her head slightly—not enough to break the rules—just enough to scan the corner of her vision. Nothing. Just blackness. But something shifted in the air. The pressure changed, like the world had sucked in a breath and held it. Then the whisper came again. Right by her ear. "You see me..." Her chest tightened. The voice was low, raw, like gravel soaked in blood. She bit her lip. “Not funny, Kyle,” she muttered. Something touched her shoulder. Not a tap. A grip. She froze. Her instincts screamed to run, but the dare echoed louder in her head: Don’t turn around. The hand remained. Cold. Fingers too long. Pressing down like roots burrowing into skin. She squeezed her eyes shut. "It's not real. It’s not real." Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Midnight. The five minutes were over. She breathed out in relief. Then she heard a second buzz—coming from the forest behind her. That wasn’t her phone. That was Kyle’s. She turned. Just her head. Only a little. And saw nothing but blackness. Then, a pair of eyes opened in the dark. Wide. Milky white. Too far apart. Then another set below them. And another. She opened her mouth to scream, but it was already too late. Something pulled her backward. Fast. Violent. The last thing she saw was the road. The trees swallowed her. --- Kyle called out. "Jenna?" The camera feed was still on. The timestamp said 12:03 a.m. They walked up to where she had been standing. The ground was disturbed—boot prints, then a long drag mark going straight into the woods. He hesitated. “Jenna?” No answer. Then something buzzed near his feet. He picked it up. Her phone. The screen was cracked. A single message was open. From Jenna’s number. "Don’t turn around." He looked up. The others were already backing away. “Let’s go, man,” one of them said, voice trembling. “We’ll call someone. The cops.” Kyle turned to face the forest again. That’s when he felt it. The breath. Right behind him. Warm. Damp. Like rot and ruin. He didn’t move. His hands trembled, the phone slipping slightly in his grip. He whispered, “Jenna?” The breath came again, followed by a voice. "Now you see." He spun around— --- The police never found Jenna. Or Kyle. Or the three friends who waited at the car. What they did find were five cellphones, scattered like breadcrumbs along the road leading away from Bellman’s Forest. Each phone had the same final message on the lock screen: "Don’t turn around. It’s the last thing you’ll see."
By Top stories about a year ago in Horror
