supernatural
The hidden world of all things supernatural; a look inside witchcraft, spells, vexes, black magic and other spine-tingling supernatural phenomena.
They Have No Language
There was only one rule: don't open the door. That was what I was told when I first joined the project team in the high arctic. They had found a door, deep underground, at the base of an ancient city, and had excavated and explored in all directions around it, but had not yet dared open it, and by rule, none could. I asked the expedition leader about it on my second day. He went silent for a moment, bowed his head, then looked me straight in the eyes and said. "At its base our world, at least our understanding of it is restricted to what we can describe with language. The rules of grammar define what we can do with language and thus those rules define what the world is for us." He paused for a moment, and I interjected. "Okay Professor Wittgenstein, I get it. Next you are going to tell me about language games and the private language argument. What does that have to do with the door and the rule about not opening it?" He stared at me silently, no laugh nor even a smile at my remark. "The things which live behind that door have no language, they have no grammar, thus they have no world, not really, at least not a world we could understand. If they were to find their way into our world all would be lost. We inhabit a world comprised of rules, including the one about the door." I thought for a moment then asked "What about on their side? What's to stop them from opening it from their side? Do they have the same rule?" The leader's face grew even grimmer and darker as he replied "Remember what I said. They have no language. What do you think?"
By Everyday Junglist2 years ago in Horror
Face the Thing That Should Not Be
'There was only one rule: don’t open the door.' "I'm not a big fan of rules" I said in my best Schwarzenegger voice, as I pulled back the slide on the GAU-21 0.50 caliber mini gun mounted to the right side of the armored battle tank in which I currently sat, dropped my ear protectors down over my ears, and pulled the trigger. The gun could deliver 1,100 rounds per minute and it's barrel spun crazily making a sound like whirling helicopter blades as it expelled white hot death into the door, reducing it to sawdust and ash in seconds. I released the trigger and the barrel slowly came to a stop as smoke rose from it, and from the spot where the decimated door once stood. As the smoke cleared I could see the darkness beyond and a pit of fear rose in my stomach. I experienced a moment of vertigo and it felt as if the heavily armed tank would be sucked into the gaping maw of blackness that had opened before us. As the vertigo subsided a low humming sound could be heard coming from the darkness. Time itself seemed to slow as that humming rose in volume and pitch becoming a screetch that was almost deafening. Luckily I still wore my ear protection as I'm not sure I could have kept my sanity if I had been exposed to the full noise of the thing. And it was a thing which raced straight towards us. A thing that should not be. I said a quick prayer, aimed the mini-gun straight into its monstrous, Chthonian face, pulled back the slide once again, closed my eyes, and squeezed the trigger. The bullets exploded into the ophidian creature and it roared and then all went black.
By Everyday Junglist2 years ago in Horror
Invaded. Top Story - October 2024.
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. Now here Nicki was, trying to open said black door with a large keyhole, in sharp contrast to the rest of the white house. Harsh footsteps and loud clashes continued behind her, evidence that the robbers were still in the house.
By Rebecca Patton2 years ago in Horror
The Saint George . Top Story - October 2024.
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. The building was old and in dire need of countless repairs, but the rent was cheap and I desperately needed to find a new place to live. The priest who recommended moving promised me that the paranormal activity would end. It didn’t. It made it worse.
By Kale Sinclair2 years ago in Horror
The Whispers of Blackwood Manor
The Whispers of Blackwood Manor In a forgotten corner of the English countryside, where the fog lay thick over the ground and the gnarled trees twisted like skeletal fingers, stood Blackwood Manor. It was a grand estate, once a beacon of elegance, but now its grandeur had faded into shadow. The locals spoke in hushed tones about the manor, warning each other to steer clear after dark, for the spirit of Lady Eleanor Blackwood still roamed its halls, mourning the life she lost. Lady Eleanor was said to be the very essence of beauty and grace. She had a smile that could light up the darkest of rooms, but her heart belonged to a humble painter named Thomas. Their love was pure, transcending the societal boundaries that kept them apart. However, tragedy struck one stormy night. As Eleanor and Thomas planned to elope, a terrible accident befell them. Thomas never arrived, and in her desperation and grief, Eleanor succumbed to madness. She wandered the halls of Blackwood Manor, calling out for her beloved, until she eventually withered away, her spirit forever bound to the place she loved. Years passed, and the manor became a crumbling relic of its former self, but the whispers of its tragic history lingered in the air like a haunting melody. In the nearby village, a young woman named Clara, fascinated by tales of the supernatural, decided to investigate Blackwood Manor. She had always been drawn to the mysteries of the past, and the story of Lady Eleanor captivated her. One evening, armed with a flashlight and a sense of determination, Clara made her way to the manor. The air grew colder as she approached, and the sky turned a bruised purple, as if mourning the lost souls of the estate. The door creaked open at her touch, and Clara stepped inside, her heart racing with a mix of fear and excitement. The interior was as beautiful as it was eerie. Dust danced in the beams of her flashlight, illuminating the remnants of opulence: ornate chandeliers, faded portraits, and silk drapes that hung like ghosts themselves. Clara wandered through the grand halls, feeling an inexplicable connection to the place and its tragic history. As she explored, she began to hear whispers—soft, melodic, and filled with longing. At first, she thought it was her imagination, but the voices grew clearer, weaving through the air like a haunting lullaby. “Thomas… my love…” they sang, echoing off the walls, tugging at Clara’s heart. Drawn to the sound, Clara followed the whispers to a grand staircase that spiraled upwards, leading to a dimly lit corridor. Each step felt like a journey deeper into the past, and as she reached the top, the whispers intensified, filling her ears with a cacophony of sorrow. At the end of the corridor stood a door, slightly ajar. Clara hesitated, feeling an inexplicable pull toward it. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open. Inside was a lavishly decorated bedroom, untouched by time. The moonlight streamed through the windows, casting a silver glow on the four-poster bed draped in tattered lace. Clara stepped inside, her breath hitching as she felt a chill wrap around her. And there, at the foot of the bed, stood a figure—a woman in a flowing white gown, her long hair cascading like a waterfall. It was Lady Eleanor, her face pale but beautiful, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Help me…” Eleanor whispered, her voice echoing through the stillness. “I cannot find him.” Clara’s heart raced, a mix of fear and empathy coursing through her veins. “What happened to Thomas?” she asked, her voice trembling. “I waited for him, but he never came. I lost him to the storm. I’ve been trapped here, in this realm of sorrow, ever since.” Eleanor’s gaze held Clara captive, her grief palpable. “Please, help me find him.” In that moment, Clara understood that Lady Eleanor was not just a ghost; she was a soul caught in the web of her own sorrow, yearning for the love she lost. Clara felt a surge of compassion and determination. “I will help you,” she promised. Guided by Eleanor’s spirit, Clara delved into the history of Blackwood Manor and the tragedy that had unfolded there. She discovered that Thomas had indeed been delayed by the storm but had been killed in a tragic accident just outside the manor. Armed with this knowledge, Clara returned to the manor the following night, feeling the weight of Eleanor’s sorrow on her heart. As she entered the room, the air crackled with anticipation. “I found him,” Clara declared, her voice steady. “He loved you deeply, Eleanor. He wanted to be with you, but fate was cruel. You must let him go, my lady. You must find peace.” Eleanor’s form shimmered, the sadness in her eyes deepening. “But I cannot bear to lose him again,” she cried, her voice trembling like a leaf in the wind. “You don’t have to forget him,” Clara reassured her. “He will always be a part of you. But you must let go of the pain. You deserve to be free.” As Clara spoke, a warm light enveloped the room, and Eleanor’s spirit began to glow, illuminating the shadows around her. With every word, the sorrow that had bound her to the manor started to fade. Clara could see Thomas’s face, a reflection of love and hope, emerging in the light. “Thank you…” Eleanor whispered, her voice softening like a gentle breeze. “Thank you for setting me free.” With a final, heart-wrenching smile, Eleanor dissolved into a flurry of shimmering dust, merging with the moonlight that filled the room. Clara felt a wave of warmth wash over her, as if the manor itself sighed in relief. The next morning, the townsfolk noticed a change in Blackwood Manor. The oppressive aura that had long surrounded it lifted, revealing a place filled with light and tranquility. Clara emerged from the manor, her heart lighter, knowing she had freed a lost soul and helped her find peace. Years later, the legend of Lady Eleanor Blackwood transformed. No longer was she the sorrowful spirit haunting the halls of Blackwood Manor; she became a symbol of love that transcended time. Visitors came from far and wide to explore the now vibrant estate, and Clara often returned to relive that magical night, feeling the warmth of Eleanor’s spirit in the air. And though the whispers of the past had quieted, they had transformed into a gentle reminder that love, once shared, never truly fades away—it lingers in the hearts of those who believe.
By Dipak Pawar2 years ago in Horror
The House with No Exit. AI-Generated.
Emily Carter had been a real estate agent for nearly ten years, and nothing surprised her anymore. She had sold all kinds of houses, from cozy cottages to grand mansions. But when her boss called her about an old, abandoned mansion on the edge of town, she felt a twinge of unease.
By MD TOUHID HASAN AKASH2 years ago in Horror
The Witch’s Curse. AI-Generated.
Long ago, in a small village surrounded by dark forests and rolling hills, there lived a woman named Eliza. She was kind, wise, and known for her knowledge of herbs and potions. People came to her for remedies when they were sick, and she never asked for anything in return. But not everyone trusted Eliza. Some villagers whispered that she was a witch, practicing dark magic.
By MD TOUHID HASAN AKASH2 years ago in Horror
Two Bit Scratch
There was only one rule: Don’t Open the Door. Ken repeated it to himself as he took the rickety wooden steps leading into the bare bone basement. Scrawled across the back of the wall in black marker repeated: Don’t Open the Door. Underneath that was a simple door scratched white in the mildewed gray brick.
By Amos Glade2 years ago in Horror
Dying Trap
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. With eyes as bright as the moon, lips as pure as the day she lost her virginity, she wish she could see him again tonight in her dreams, she had questions. Tonight at her mothers grave she spoke to the stars.
By Caitlin Charlton2 years ago in Horror
