supernatural

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

the last transmission . Content Warning.
1. The Broadcast The video was uploaded at 3:17 AM. No description, no tags—just the title: "HELP." I found it scrolling through obscure forums, the kind where people trade creepy VHS tapes and police scanner recordings in a thread where users trade snuff films and morgue photos. I like surfing the dark web. The thumbnail was a freeze-frame of a man’ face half-lit by a flickering camera, his eyes wide with something between terror and disbelief. I clicked. The footage stank of digital decay—grainy, glitching, as if the camera itself was rotting. was it a radioactive area? i thought to myself. A man in his late 20s, his flannel shirt stiff with dried sweat and "something darker, filled the frame. His fingernails were torn off, exposing the flesh beneath. "If you’re seeing this… I’m already dead." His voice was raw, like he’d been screaming. Behind him, the motel wall pulsed. Not a trick of the light—the wallpaper "breathed" , bulging between the seams as something pressed against it from the other side. "I thought it was sleep paralysis. The shadow in the corner. The whispers." He wiped his mouth; his sleeve came away smeared with thick, bile-yellow spit. "But then it started following me in the daylight." The camera panned to his motel room door. Deep scratches ran down the wood. "I tried to outrun it. But every time I close my eyes… it gets closer." A thud off-camera. Daniel flinched. The shadows behind him twisted, knitting together into a spindled limb, its surface shimmering like oil on meat. 2. The Rules The man’s name was Daniel Carter. A trucker. He’d been hauling cargo through the Nevada desert when he picked up "something" at a rest stop. which he shouldn't have. Daniel’s hands shook as he lifted his shirt. His stomach was a latticework of cuts, some shallow, some deep enough to glint with peeks of rib. But the worst was his navel—a fist-size hole, the edges puckered and black, as if something had burrowed in and sewn itself shut behind it. "It doesn’t like light," he whispered. A drop of blood swelled from his nostril. "It doesn’t like noise. But most of all… it hates being seen." The camera panned to the motel door. Not just scratches—deep and jagged, flecked with shreds of fingernail and clumps of greasy black hair that wasn’t human. A thud. Daniel whimpered as the lamp flickered. In the strobing light, something unfolded in the corner—a slick, jointed thing, its spine a segmented curve, its mouth a vertical slit splitting its face from chin to forehead. "It’s learning," Daniel sobbed. "Last night, it spoke in my wife’s voice. Don’t listen. Don’t—" The lights died. For a half-second, the camera caught it lurching forward, its jaw peeling open like a gutted fish, revealing rows of needle teeth dripping with saliva the color of motor oil. Then—*static*. --- 3. The Second Tape The next video was uploaded an hour later. Daniel crouched in a bathtub, his left eye gone—just a crater of clotted blood, tendons dangling like frayed wires. His remaining pupil was blown black, the iris swallowed by the void. "I looked at it for too long, I should not have done that." he rasped. A black tear rolled down his cheek. "It’s in my head now. I can feel it… nesting." He gagged, then vomited a knot of hair and splintered bone onto the porcelain bath tub. A wet crunching echoed through the walls, like teeth grinding on concrete. The sink faucet twisted on, spewing a thick, syrupy fluid that stank of spoiled meat and copper. "They’ve been here longer than us," Daniel whispered. "They’re in the wires. The pipes. The dark between your eyes when you blink." The doorknob rattled. Then—scratches, frantic, from every direction. The ceiling, the walls, even under the tub. Daniel pressed a rusted box cutter into his palm, sawing until blood pattered onto the tiles. The droplets twitched, then skittered away like beetles. "Light hurts them. Blood confuses them." He grinned, his teeth cracked and bleeding. "But nothing stops them for—" The door opened inward, slightly ajar . The camera caught one frame: A hand, its fingers too long, knuckles swollen like tumorous growths, claws hooked and glistening with mucus. Then—the light goes out, a sudden darkness. 4. The Final Upload The last video was 12 seconds long. No sign of Daniel. Just the motel room, the walls webbed with pulsating black veins, throbbing like infected arteries. The carpet had dissolved into a festering mat of hair and decayed skin. The camera lay on the floor, tilted up at the ceiling. Something dripped—a tar-thick drop that stretched like melted rubber before snapping onto the lens. A whisper, gurgling, as if spoken through a mouthful of organs: "You’re next." Then—the shadow unspooled from the ceiling, a living oil slick, its surface rippling with half-formed faces screaming in silence. The video ended. The account vanished. watching the clips felt like a curse. 5. The Knock I didn’t sleep, I couldn't. At 3:17 AM, my bedroom door creaked open. From the hallway: a wet clicking, like a tongue probing a fresh tooth socket. Then—a whisper, in my mother’s voice: "Look at me."
By E. hasan2 years ago in Horror
The Madness
The Madness It began with a whisper. No one in the town of Eldenwood could say exactly when the madness started. At first, it was small—barely noticeable. A man forgot his own name in the middle of a conversation. A woman walked into the market barefoot, clutching a broom like a child. People chuckled, brushed it off. “It’s the heat,” they said. “Too much sun this year.” But the sun had always been bright in Eldenwood. This—this was different. It spread quietly. The schoolteacher, Miss Elara, began writing nonsense on the blackboard—strange symbols that no one could understand. When asked what they meant, she stared blankly, then smiled in a way that made your skin crawl. Soon after, she disappeared. Her house was found locked from the inside, her belongings untouched. But she was gone. Simply vanished. Then came the dreams. Almost everyone in town began reporting the same nightmare: a tall figure cloaked in shadows, standing at the edge of the forest, whispering their names. The figure never moved. It never spoke out loud. Yet the whisper—cold and hollow—lingered in the air long after they awoke. Father Brennan from the old chapel tried to hold a gathering, urging the people to pray and resist fear. The very next day, he was found in the bell tower, his eyes wide open, mouth filled with soil. Panic swept through Eldenwood like wildfire. The mayor imposed a curfew. No one was to leave their homes after sunset. People obeyed—but it didn’t help. The madness crept into their homes like smoke. Some screamed in the night, tearing at the walls. Others sat in silence, humming lullabies from their childhood, rocking back and forth until their minds were lost. At the heart of the town, seventeen-year-old Liora watched it all unfold. Her parents, once strong and warm, now stared at each other like strangers. Her younger brother talked to shadows, laughing with invisible friends. But Liora—Liora could still think clearly. She felt the madness like a fog pressing in, but it hadn’t consumed her. Not yet. She began to keep a journal, noting patterns, strange behaviors, symbols seen in dreams. It all pointed to the woods. The forest that bordered the town, ancient and silent, where the trees were older than memory itself. One night, unable to resist, Liora stepped outside. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, and the wind carried the faintest whisper. She walked toward the forest. Each step felt heavy, like the ground didn’t want her to come closer. But something pulled her—an instinct, maybe, or a voice inside her that wasn't hers. The trees stood like sentinels, unmoving and dark. As she stepped beneath the canopy, the whispering grew louder—not outside her ears, but inside her head. And there it was. The figure from the dreams. It stood still, faceless, its form shifting like smoke in the moonlight. Liora didn’t speak, but her thoughts were loud. What are you? Why are you doing this? The answer came, not in words, but in emotion. Hunger. Loneliness. A deep, ancient sorrow. This… thing, whatever it was, had been forgotten by time. Buried in stories, dismissed as myth. And now it was waking, starving for recognition—for minds to dwell in. It had no body, no voice. It existed only in thoughts, memories, dreams. It was madness itself. Liora understood, in that moment, that the only way to stop it was to become the vessel. To contain it. To hold it within her own mind. She stepped forward. A cold breath touched her soul. Darkness filled her vision. But she stood firm. She welcomed it. And then… silence. When she woke up, she was lying at the edge of the forest. Morning birds sang overhead. Eldenwood was quiet—but peaceful. The air felt lighter. The shadows no longer whispered. People returned to their senses. Memories of the madness faded like fog in sunlight. No one could explain it. No one remembered the figure or the dreams. But Liora remembered. She carried it now—the madness, the hunger, the sorrow. Locked deep within her. And sometimes, late at night, when the wind is just right, she hears the whisper again. But she doesn’t let it out. Not yet. Not ever.
By Asif Khan2 years ago in Horror
Where the Forest Whispers: The Cursed History and Haunted Legends of Freetown State Forest
The Ghostly Phenomena and Haunted History of Freetown State Forest Based in Massachusetts' infamous Bridgewater Triangle—200 square miles of paranormal ferment—Freetown State Forest has become famous as one of America's hottest haunts. Its 5,441 acres of dense forests, rocky ledges, and bog are infested with centuries of tragedy, crime, and ghostly history, interwoven into an unspeakably grim tapestry of darkness still causing researchers and visitors to pause in fear to this day.
By Kyrol Mojikal2 years ago in Horror
Pathogen, Ch. 10. Content Warning.
A set of knuckles rapping sharply on her window jolted Marnie from a deep, dreamless sleep. For a second, she forgot where she was, until she saw Julian snoozing in the passenger seat beside her. The moment she laid eyes on him, everything that had happened the night before came rushing to the front of her mind like a flash-flood. Apparently he was a pretty heavy sleeper, as he hadn't been awakened by the knocking like her.
By Natalie Gray2 years ago in Horror
The Devil’s Ledger: Blood Ink and Broken Oaths
No one remembered when the book first appeared in the church’s library. Bound in cracked, black leather and sealed with a tarnished silver clasp, it didn’t belong in St. Bartholomew’s. The old cathedral in the center of town was more accustomed to dusty hymnals and yellowed scripture—not ominous tomes that seemed to breathe when touched, or shift ever so slightly when left alone. Father Merrin found it wedged between the Psalms and the Book of Lamentations—a cruel irony, he’d later think. At first glance, it looked like a forgotten relic. No title. No author. Just a spine with faded crimson stitching and an unsettling weight, as if it bore not pages, but burdens. When he opened it, the air changed—grew colder. Heavy. There were names written on every page in a script that bled like wet ink, though no pen had touched the parchment. Some names were ancient, written in forgotten tongues. Others were disturbingly familiar—names of townsfolk. Names of people who had vanished without a trace. Then came the last page. Blank, save for a single etched line: “One promise. One price. One place in the ledger.” --- Julian Voss noticed the change long before he ever saw the book. He had been living above the church since the fire. His bookstore, reduced to ash in a blaze the fire marshal called "unnatural"—a word they later scrubbed from the report. All that survived the flames was a scorched brass key shaped like a devil’s head. A key Julian didn’t remember owning… but kept anyway. After the fire, the dreams began. A figure made of smoke and shadow, flickering like a dying candle. Always asking the same question in a voice like rusted chains: “What did you promise, Julian?” He didn’t remember making any promises. But deep down, some part of him—the part he refused to listen to—believed otherwise. The dreams led him to the sanctuary one storm-wracked night. Thunder cracked. The candles had long since blown out. Yet the altar glowed. And the book was open. --- Julian approached slowly, heartbeat echoing in the silence. As he neared, he saw it—his name, freshly scrawled in thick red ink that hadn’t dried. Julian Voss. His throat went dry. He reached to tear the page, but the book pulsed beneath his fingers—warm and alive, like flesh. It wouldn’t let him. Then it whispered. Not in words, but through sensation—memories he didn’t remember. Screaming in the smoke. The smell of burning paper. Pleading with someone in the dark, “I’ll do anything... just take it back.” And someone had. “One promise. One price. One place in the ledger.” Julian staggered back, the book’s glow crawling up his arms like vines. He fell to his knees, and that’s when he noticed the margins—faint scratches barely visible under the blood-red script. Confessions. Scrawled in desperation. Ragged, frantic. Some in Latin. Some in symbols. Some barely legible. But one stood out, etched deeper than the rest: “The only way out is to take a name out... or add another.” --- The next morning, the book was gone. Father Merrin never saw Julian again. But the front door was left ajar, rain pooling on the floor. Footprints—bare, muddied—led out into the woods behind the chapel... and stopped. As if the walker had vanished mid-step. The townspeople whispered. About a shadow in the bell tower. A figure glimpsed in the mirror when no one else was there. The name Julian Voss, scratched into the underside of pews, appearing on windows in condensation. --- Years later, the book reappeared. Not in the church—but buried beneath the rubble of a courthouse fire three states away. Unburnt. Unmarked. Humming softly when touched. A new name had been added in blood. And just beneath it, a single word written in that same haunting, half-faded hand: “Forgive me.” --- They say every soul has a price. The question is: when the Devil sends the bill… whose name will you write to save your own?
By Gift Abotsi 2 years ago in Horror
The coffee shop that brewed nightmares . AI-Generated.
Every morning at 7:03 AM, the barista at *Hollow Grounds* hands me my usual—a black eye (two shots of espresso in drip coffee)—before I even speak.
By Zeeshan Nasir 2 years ago in Horror
Whispers of Ash and Flame
The night was unnaturally still. Not a whisper of wind, not a rustle of leaf. The air had weight, like a storm held in a breath, waiting to be exhaled.
By Abdul Salam2 years ago in Horror
The Cold Dead
In the winter of 1944, Siberia was a frozen hell, a place where the wind carried the kind of cold that could kill a man faster than a bullet. The war had stretched its claws into every corner of the globe, but nobody expected it to reach this far north, this far into the wasteland. The American 32nd Infantry Division, a battle-hardened outfit fresh from the Pacific, had been air-dropped into the taiga on a mission so classified even their CO, Colonel Amos Reed, didn’t know the full scope. All they knew was the order: secure a remote Soviet research outpost codenamed "Voron’s Nest" and destroy whatever they found.
By TheNaeth2 years ago in Horror
Dream Trapped. Content Warning.
~Introduction~ Raika Caddel, a young, quiet, and seemingly ordinary twenty year old girl. To the outside world, she is simple, such introverted soul, just another face in the blur of everyday life. But beneath that normal carefree life she loves to put, lies an restless spirit. A mind haunted by her dreams she cannot understand neither can explain to anyone.
By Zade2 years ago in Horror
The Science of Fear: Why Do We Love Horror Stories?
The Science of Fear: Why Do We Love Horror Stories? From the eerie whispers of ancient campfire stories to the spine-tingling plots of today’s Netflix horror series, there's something about fear that captivates us. But what is it that pulls us in? What draws us to the realm of ghosts, monsters, and psychological thrillers time and again? Research reveals that our attraction to horror runs deep—tapping into our psychology, neurology, and even evolutionary instincts.
By Ayon2 years ago in Horror
Belief in The International Space Station
There is no noise in space. No shouts, no footsteps, no echoes of explosions—just silence that penetrates the soul of a person. The International Space Station (ISS) was silent even on the day when everything was breaking down beneath the Earth.
By The Content Crafter2 years ago in Horror
The Cursed Boal Fish: A Haunting Folktale from Ancient Wari Bateshwar
This incident was sent to us by Shahidul Islam, whose home is in the village of Sujatapur near the historic archaeological site of Wari Bateshwar in Narsingdi district, where settlements existed two and a half thousand years ago, and where countless events have occurred. This is quite natural. At that time, many Hindu residents lived in their village, with established settlements. Even now, several families still reside there, whose ancestors had moved to India at different times, selling their land before departing. Many of them left, but large gardens still remain in their name - such as Tarini's garden, Chandal's garden, Henapuri's garden, Krishna's garden. There are many stories about these places.
By Lily2 years ago in Horror