supernatural
The hidden world of all things supernatural; a look inside witchcraft, spells, vexes, black magic and other spine-tingling supernatural phenomena.
The Chamber of Dark Magic
Chamber of Dark Magic : Episode One: The Lost Bell... Nisorgopur was a little village along the river, nestled in a deep forest. The locals were straightforward, sincere, and passionately religious. However, the community had a horrific past, focused on a bell that had hung in an old temple a century ago. When it rang, odd things happened.
By Sazid Rahman 2 years ago in Horror
The Villisca Axe Murders: America’s Most Chilling Unsolved Crime
Introduction Inside Villisca, Iowa's tiny town, an open 1912 massacre has plagued ghost hunters and true crime enthusiasts for all eternity. The infamous Villisca Axe Murders, which ranks among the country's most heinous crimes, claimed eight victims, their killer never caught. Today, the location of this massacre still stands, earning its gruesome title: The Axe Murder House.
By Tahsin Kabir2 years ago in Horror
"The Smiling Man in the Mirror"
The Smiling Man in the Mirror Not Every Reflection Is Yours It started with a smile. Jessica had just moved into her new apartment—a quiet, dusty unit in a weathered building on the outskirts of town. It was cheap, almost suspiciously so, but she was desperate. A recent breakup and a job layoff left her with little choice. The landlord was odd and muttered something about the unit having “character,” but Jessica barely listened. All she needed was a fresh start. The place was old. Creaking floorboards, flickering lights, and walls that felt like they exhaled when no one was looking. The only piece of furniture left behind by the last tenant was an antique mirror, mounted on the bedroom wall. Its frame was ornate, carved with strange curling patterns that reminded Jessica of vines—or veins. She considered taking it down, but when she tried, it didn’t budge. Not even a wiggle. So she left it. The first night was uneventful, save for the strange noises—a tapping from inside the walls, maybe a rat, maybe the pipes. Jessica curled under her blanket and forced herself to sleep. The second night, she noticed something in the mirror. She was brushing her teeth, staring absentmindedly into the glass. For a split second, her reflection didn’t move in sync. Just a flicker—a blink delayed by a fraction of a second. She chalked it up to exhaustion. Maybe the lighting. Maybe nerves. She laughed it off, but a tight chill crawled down her spine. By the third night, the reflection smiled. Jessica hadn’t. It wasn’t a wide grin, not yet. Just a slight curl at the edges of her lips—in the mirror only. She stared, paralyzed, toothbrush still in her mouth. Then she turned her head. So did the reflection, but there was something... off. The eyes. They lingered just a moment too long before following. She left the bathroom light on that night. Over the next few days, it grew bolder. Her reflection smiled more often, even when she didn’t. Sometimes it didn’t blink at all. Other times, it blinked twice when she blinked once. She started avoiding the mirror, throwing a sheet over it. But it never stayed. Every time she returned home, the sheet was on the floor. The mirror always uncovered, always waiting. Jessica called the landlord. “That mirror’s been there a long time,” he said slowly. “Belonged to the original owner. No one’s been able to remove it. Might be best if you don’t mess with it too much.” “Has anyone else reported… strange things?” He went quiet for too long. “The previous tenant… she broke all the mirrors in the unit. Then disappeared.” Jessica hung up. That night, the smiling man stepped out. She had just returned from the grocery store. As she passed the bedroom, something in the mirror caught her eye—a shape, hunched and still. She froze. The room behind her was empty, but in the mirror, someone stood in the corner. A man. Tall, gaunt, his mouth stretched wide into an impossibly toothy grin. He didn't move, but his eyes locked on hers. Jessica spun around. Nothing. When she looked back, the mirror was empty. Her own reflection returned—but now her own smile mirrored his. Wide. Wrong. She barely slept. Dreams came—if they were dreams at all. Shadows pulling her toward the mirror. A voice whispering in a language she didn’t know. Cold hands reaching through the glass. She woke up with a scream caught in her throat and claw marks on her arms. The final night came quickly. Jessica decided she had to destroy the mirror. She grabbed a hammer and swung it with every ounce of strength she had. The blow echoed through the apartment like a church bell—but the mirror didn’t crack. Instead, the reflection laughed. The mirror laughed. Her own face contorted into a mockery of a grin, eyes bulging with glee. The man stood behind her now—closer, clearer. His skin was pale and stretched, his features twisted and sunken like a wax figure left in the sun. And he was smiling, always smiling. Suddenly, her reflection reached out. From the other side, it pressed its hand against the glass—and Jessica felt fingers curl around her wrist. Cold. Strong. She screamed and pulled back, falling hard onto the floor. When she looked up, her reflection remained—still smiling, but now alone. Except… something was wrong. The room looked off. The curtains were on the wrong side. The picture frames were reversed. She stood slowly and realized she wasn’t looking into the mirror anymore. She was inside it. Trapped. On the other side, in her bedroom, she saw herself—or the thing that had taken her place. It turned toward the door, picked up her keys, and walked away, still smiling. She slammed her fists against the glass. Screamed. But no sound passed through. The mirror shimmered, silent and unmoving. She remains there still, staring out from the wrong side of the glass. Watching. Waiting. And sometimes—if you look too long into your mirror—you might see her. And if you do… whatever you do, don’t smile back.
By Top stories 2 years ago in Horror
Whisper in Hollow Pine
After the fire took her husband, Clara Dawson needed more than a change—she needed escape. With her two children, 11-year-old Lily and 7-year-old Ben, she fled the chaos of the city to Hollow Pine, a sleepy Appalachian town wrapped in mist and memory. Their new home was a towering Victorian at the edge of town, overgrown with ivy and draped in shadows. Locals said it had been empty for decades. Some muttered darker things: curses, shadows, hauntings.
By HABIBULLAH KHAN2 years ago in Horror
The Hollow Rider
I. Whispers in the Pines I. Whispers in the Pines The village of Black Hollow sat in the cradle of a dying forest. The trees stood crooked like bent old men, their branches clutching at the fog that never seemed to lift. Only one road led in or out, a narrow dirt path called Gallows Way. The name was no accident
By Tushar Bhattacharya2 years ago in Horror
Pathogen: Ch. 13
This was dumb. Probably the dumbest, stupidest, most idiotic thing Marnie had ever done in all her sixteen years. The minute Bianca suggested it, she should've said, "no thank you," and left while the getting was good. Instead, here she was: sneaking back into her own house in broad daylight to raid her mom's closet.
By Natalie Gray2 years ago in Horror
Bhog
Atin lived alone in a quiet corner of Kolkata. A man in his thirties, with no wife or family, his life followed a monotonous pattern: work, tea, a bit of reading, and sleep. His only companion was Pushpa di, a middle-aged housekeeper who had served his family since childhood. After Atin’s mother passed away, Pushpa di took a silent oath to care for him. She cooked, cleaned, and watched over him like a guardian.
By Tushar Bhattacharya2 years ago in Horror
Whispers in the Pines. AI-Generated.
1. The Road to Nowhere State Route 173 didn’t just wind through the San Bernardino Mountains—it suffocated them. The asphalt coiled like a black serpent around cliffs that dropped into nothing, guardrails bent and skeletal from years of catching drunk drivers and runaway trucks. Locals called it "The Throat"—a road that swallowed the reckless whole.
By taihan ibn altaf2 years ago in Horror
Devils' hour
It rattled me awake — the loud ding-dong of the archaic grandma clock in the parlour. It was here: the Devil’s Hour. That period when the veil between the living and the other world thins. Now marked the most sinister hour of night. All night stalkers came into consciousness at this time — myself included. You see, all nocturnals — from occultists to birds of prey, and don’t forget the spooky beings — all come out at this hour to play. They all have one thing in common: their love for the dark. Me? I'm an anomaly. Why? Because I’m noctiphobic. I loathe everything affiliated with the night — gloomy areas, dimly lit spaces, murky spots, and everything in between. You might ask, then why aren’t you drowning in sleep? I don’t have an answer. For as long as I can remember, this has been my life. Long before I could reach a door handle or eat by myself, I’ve woken up at 3:00 AM sharp, carefully scrutinizing my surroundings, ensuring everywhere is well-lit and secure. Then, almost immediately, I would crash into unconsciousness — not from sleepiness, but from exhaustion... exhaustion born of fear. As the webs of sleep untangled from my mind, my surroundings slowly zoomed into focus. Everywhere was dark. The neighborhood was as silent as the color black. I gazed on as amorphous shadows danced on the walls, each one a potential threat. The nightlight flickered, making the shadows twist into eerie forms. Uncontrollable shivers swept through me. The door was ajar. It gave me a decisive view of the outside — log-like, drenched... Wait — that door is open?! It was rarely ever opened — the ominous, dust-covered storage room I abhorred. Its very existence fed my fears, even more so because it stood directly adjacent to mine. Most nights, I would hear the chirping and buzzing of bugs thriving inside. Other nights, it was silent — so silent that it felt like Abyss itself had made it its lair. Still, the door was never open. My parents made sure of that to abate my irrational fears. Yet, tonight — of all nights — it was open. I squinted to see into the room. My gaze landed briefly on a shadow near the window — a shapeless figure, illuminated only by the faint glow of the moon. The entire room looked like a yawning black void, swallowing the weak moonbeam. The figure moved. I froze. My surroundings seemed to hold their breath too, waiting. It moved again — and a choking whimper escaped me. It felt as though its blackness was trying to suck out my very soul. A cold night wind blew, raising the translucent curtains like flags caught in a storm. A chilling, groaning sound followed. I shut my eyes and gripped the duvet in a nail-splintering clutch. The continuous creaks of the floorboards didn't help — every creak made my heart somersault. Fear seeped deeper into my bones. It was a dread so deep, I wished I could dissolve into the mattress. As the final chimes of the clock faded, the entire house suddenly became radiant with light. Finally — LIGHT, CALM, LIFE! I screamed silently. Slowly, miniature ebbs of courage seeped into my soul. With a newfound bravery, I dared to glance once again at the menacing room. And there it was — reality, coming in buckets of ice-cold calm: The cause of my breakdown... was a pair of trousers. A pair of trousers hanging off the window frame. And there — sprawled on the floor — was my brother Jerome, the likely source of the beastly groan that had almost given me a heart attack. I had completely forgotten that he had opened the storage room earlier that evening in search of an old green flower vase for his class project. Everything seemed settled now. I stared in awe at the warm golden glow of the electric bulb overhead. I had once heard that the electric bulb was a form of hypnosis, lulling even babies to sleep. As I stared into it, I felt its soothing light gently salve me back into the realms of sleep.
By Okezika Igweani 2 years ago in Horror
