supernatural
The hidden world of all things supernatural; a look inside witchcraft, spells, vexes, black magic and other spine-tingling supernatural phenomena.
Who's the Father?
As I take a nap in the attic in my mother's teak rocking chair, I'm filled with terror at the solipsistic theory that the world and galaxy exist firmly within my own mind and nowhere else, frail like the complex web of a spider, the black widow which is rapidly poisoning and constructing -- at the same rate as human beings -- rivers, dams, subways, canals, pipelines.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR5 months ago in Horror
The Hexham Heads: England's Most Disturbing Haunted Artifacts?
In February 1971, two young boys were digging in their family's garden in the quiet market town of Hexham, Northumberland. At first, their discovery seemed unremarkable; children find strange things in gardens all the time: old bottles, rusty tools, forgotten toys. But what the boys uncovered was something far stranger. Buried beneath the soil were two small stone heads, each only a few inches tall and crudely carved. Their faces were unusual, wide-eyed, expressionless, and unsettling in a way that was difficult to explain. They looked ancient, perhaps even primitive.
By Veil of Shadows5 months ago in Horror
Demon of my Slumber
Yet another fearful night the same as this whole past week, waking again to the comfort of chirping birds and morning traffic. Surviving the night, the time I so dread, as aggression upon me seems only to escalate. Scanning my room for anything amiss, a person or evidence of someone that watches me in my slumber, though I find nothing disturbed. Jumping out of bed to search every nook and cranky of my house for the invader of the night. Opening doors, looking under my bed, anywhere to confirm a frogger visits me after I fall asleep. Too real to completely dismiss, however again I find no one.
By Kami R. Taylons5 months ago in Horror
The Letters That Come From the Future. AI-Generated.
The fluorescent light of the archives flickered overhead, casting long, distorted shadows across the ancient mahogany desk. Arthur Pendelton rubbed his bloodshot eyes, staring intently at the ancient manuscripts spread before him. As a researcher of historical anomalies, he was entirely used to dealing with the secrets of the forgotten past. He was absolutely not prepared, however, for the terrifying intrusion of the unexplained future. It began at precisely 3:33 AM. His smartphone, sitting quietly on a stack of dusty parchments, vibrated aggressively against the wood. Arthur frowned and picked it up. The lock screen displayed a newly arrived text message. The sender’s identity made his breath hitch in his throat—it was his own mobile number. He unlocked the device, his thumb trembling slightly, and read the short, chilling message: “Do not look at the grandfather clock in the hallway at 3:45 AM. Turn around and run.” Arthur laughed nervously, his voice sounding hollow in the empty, silent building. He assumed it was a sophisticated prank, perhaps a malicious spoofing software utilized by one of his tech-savvy university colleagues. He checked the timestamp of the message. His phone registered that the text had been sent from his own number, but the date attached to the metadata was shockingly marked as tomorrow night. He dismissed it, shaking his head, and returned to his reading. But the eerie silence of the archives suddenly felt incredibly heavy. Minutes crawled by like agonizing hours. Out of pure instinct, Arthur glanced down at his wristwatch. The glowing hands pointed to 3:44 AM. A sudden, unnatural chill swept through the room, causing the hairs on his arms to stand on end. Against his better judgment, Arthur stood up and walked slowly toward the heavy oak door. He peeked into the dimly lit hallway. At the far end stood the old, antique grandfather clock. As the minute hand clicked to 3:45 AM, the wooden doors of the clock slowly creaked open on their own. Instead of the brass pendulum, a pair of elongated, pale, skeletal hands reached out from the dark interior, gripping the edges of the wood. Arthur’s heart violently seized. He didn't look further. He slammed the door shut, bolted it, and backed away, gasping for precious oxygen. The text message had been right. Before he could process the sheer terror, his phone vibrated again in his palm. Another text from himself, timestamped forty minutes into the future: “The windows are locked, but it does not care about glass. It is already inside the building’s ventilation system. I can hear it scraping above me.” Arthur looked up at the ceiling vent. A loud, metallic scratching sound echoed from within the dark shafts. Scratch. Drag. Scratch. Something massive and horribly distorted was crawling through the narrow metal pipes, moving directly toward his room. Panic, cold and absolute, took hold of him. He realized with absolute certainty that these messages were a terrifying timeline of his own demise, sent by a future version of himself desperately trying to alter the fatal outcome. He rushed to the main exit, but the heavy electronic doors were completely dead, locked tight by an unexplained power failure. His phone buzzed again, a frantic sequence of three messages arriving simultaneously, their timestamps advancing rapidly into the night: “4:10 AM: It is descending from the ceiling. Do not use your flashlight. It reacts to light.” “4:15 AM: It took my left leg. The pain is unendurable. It smells like wet copper and rotting wood.” “4:20 AM: I am hiding under the main desk. I have one minute left. I am sending these messages now.” Arthur’s phone screen flickered violently, the battery draining from eighty percent to one percent in a matter of seconds. The scratching sound directly above him stopped. The metal grate of the ceiling vent slowly detached, falling to the floor with a deafening clang. From the dark opening, a creature descended. It was a shifting mass of shadow and impossibly long, wet limbs, with a face that constantly dissolved and reshaped itself. Arthur dropped to his knees and scrambled under the heavy mahogany desk, pressing his back against the wall, weeping silently in the dark. The room grew freezing cold. He could hear the heavy, wet footsteps of the entity moving across the floor. It was searching. His phone screen gave one final, dying pulse of light. A last message appeared on the screen, timestamped 4:21 AM: “It is looking under the desk now. Goodbye.” Arthur looked up. Two empty, burning sockets of darkness were staring directly at him from beneath the desk. The future had finally caught up.
By Yasmine Yessou5 months ago in Horror
The Corpse That Never Cools Despite the Passing of Days. AI-Generated.
The autumn wind howled fiercely through the cracked, frosted windows of the Blackwood county morgue, but inside the basement laboratory, Dr. Ethan Vance was sweating profusely. It wasn’t because of the heating system, which had been broken for months, leaving the subterranean room at a bitter, shivering temperature. It was because of the dead man lying on the cold steel examination table directly in front of him. His name was Julian Cross. He had been found dead four days ago in the dense, whispering woods at the very edge of the isolated town. There were absolutely no signs of struggle, no physical wounds, and no trace of poison in his system. By all medical logic and the laws of science, Julian should have been stiff, pale, and freezing to the touch. Instead, he looked as if he were merely taking a deep, peaceful nap. But the most terrifying part was his internal temperature. Ethan picked up the digital medical thermometer, his hands trembling slightly, and pressed it against Julian’s pale neck. The machine beeped sharply. 37.5°C (99.5°F). "This is impossible," Ethan whispered to the empty, echoing room, his voice swallowed by the shadows. On the first day, Ethan assumed it was a rare, temporary post-mortem metabolic phenomenon. On the second day, when the body registered a perfectly normal living temperature, he convinced himself his equipment was malfunctioning. But today was the fourth day. Not only had the body completely resisted rigor mortis, remaining entirely flexible, but it was actually getting warmer. Yesterday it was 37°C. Today, it was steadily rising. Ethan reached out and placed his bare palm against the corpse’s chest. A wave of deep, radiating heat rushed into his hand. It felt exactly like touching a person who had just run a grueling marathon. It was a vital, pulsing warmth that defied the very definition of death. Yet, there was no heartbeat. No breath fogged the glass Ethan held over Julian's mouth. The man was dead, but his flesh was stubbornly, horrifyingly alive. Determined to find answers before madness took over, Ethan decided to perform an unscheduled autopsy late into the dreary night. The rest of the hospital staff had already gone home, leaving him alone with the unnerving heat of the dead man. He picked up his silver scalpel, the sharp blade gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. As he brought the blade down to make the standard Y-incision, the cold metal touched the skin, and a loud, aggressive hiss echoed through the room. A tiny puff of white steam rose from the contact point. The skin was so incredibly hot it was cooking the very moisture in the air. Ethan gasped in shock, dropping the scalpel. It clattered loudly against the concrete floor. Suddenly, the lights flickered violently and died, plunging the morgue into total, suffocating darkness. Ethan froze. The only sound was the heavy, erratic thumping of his own heart. Then, a low, rhythmic sound began to vibrate through the concrete walls. It sounded like a heavy, industrial furnace warming up. Hummmmm. Hummmmm. Ethan fumbled blindly in his pocket and turned on his phone’s flashlight. He shined the narrow beam onto the examination table. What he saw made his blood run cold. The corpse of Julian Cross was glowing. Beneath the pale, translucent skin, veins were pulsing with a bright, fiery orange light, as if liquid magma had replaced his blood. The heat radiating from the table was now oppressive, causing the plastic body bags on nearby counters to melt and warp into grotesque shapes. The air became thick, sulfurous, and hard to breathe. Ethan stumbled backward, hitting a heavy metal cabinet. "What are you?" he choked out, terror gripping his throat. The glowing veins began to concentrate around Julian’s chest, burning brighter until the light became blinding. And then, the dead eyes snapped open. They weren't white; they were two pits of solid, burning coal. The corpse didn't sit up. It didn't scream. It simply spoke, its voice sounding like two grinding tectonic plates deep beneath the earth. "The ancient seal is broken, doctor. The earth cannot hold the fire anymore." The heat in the room spiked instantly. Ethan felt his own clothes begin to singe. The digital thermometer on the counter exploded in a shower of plastic and glass. He realized then that Julian wasn’t a man who had died; he was a human vessel, a furnace built to contain something terrible that slept beneath the town. And now, the furnace was overflowing. Panic taking over, Ethan scrambled for the exit door. He grabbed the metal handle, but screamed in agony as it blistered his palm—the entire room was rapidly turning into an oven. Tears of pain and terror streaming down his face, he used his heavy lab coat to wrap around the handle and threw his weight against the door. It burst open, and Ethan collapsed into the cool, dark hallway. As he looked back through the window of the door, he saw the final, terrifying transformation. The corpse of Julian Cross was no longer on the table. It stood erect, a silhouette of pure, blinding heat and fire, melting the very steel beneath it. The days of waiting were over. The body had finally reached its boiling point.
By Yasmine Yessou5 months ago in Horror
The Stairway Down. Content Warning.
It was a familiar, unfamiliar place. It was a hazy twilight; a realm of transcendence he felt he had been to, perhaps once in a dream or before he had been born. Yet, he was a total stranger here. There wasn’t much memory left of anything… not where he came from, or where he was going. He didn’t know where his body ended and where his external world began, or if they had all melted into one. He couldn’t tell what was sound or light, or feel the temperature of his skin. He didn’t even remember his name.
By Mama Magdalene5 months ago in Horror
