supernatural

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

Echoes. Content Warning.
**The Hospital of Lingering Shadows** The hospital stood silent, forgotten by time. Its windows, now shattered, gazed out like dead eyes into the surrounding mist, where the trees bent unnaturally, as if bowing to some unseen terror. Rumors had spread for decades about the place—a facility once used for medical experiments long buried by history. No one entered the building willingly. Not anymore. Sarah, however, was drawn to it. A fascination, perhaps an obsession, with the stories of strange happenings within its rotting walls had brought her to the front door. She hesitated only a moment before stepping inside. The air was thick with an unnatural chill, and as soon as the door creaked shut behind her, she felt the weight of the place settle over her. It was as though the very walls were watching her every move. The stale scent of antiseptic hung in the air, mixed with something else—something rancid, that turned her stomach with every breath. Her flashlight flickered to life, casting long, erratic shadows across the peeling walls. Every inch of the building seemed to hum with tension, like a predator waiting for its prey to step closer. She had only gone a few feet inside when she heard it—a soft, barely perceptible *click*—like the sound of a door unlocking. Sarah paused, listening intently. She swept her flashlight across the hall, but nothing moved. The silence that followed was deafening, the kind of silence that pressed against her ears, making her feel as though something was breathing just behind her. She turned sharply, heart racing, but found nothing. Just the empty hall stretching endlessly in both directions. Yet, something wasn’t right. The air itself seemed to shift, growing denser, more oppressive. And then came the sound—soft footsteps, echoing faintly in the distance. There was no one else here. She swallowed hard, her breath quickening. The footsteps grew louder, but they didn’t follow any natural pattern—some were slow, deliberate, while others were fast, frantic, as if something was running. She couldn't tell from where they were coming. They seemed to circle her, closing in from all directions, but the hall remained empty. The doors lining the hallway began to creak open—one by one—each revealing nothing but dark, hollow rooms. But Sarah knew better. She could feel it. **Something was in those rooms, watching her.** Her flashlight flickered again, the beam growing dimmer. The temperature plummeted, and she could see her breath fogging the air in front of her. Just as she turned to leave, the doors slammed shut with a violent bang, all at once, sending a shudder through the entire building. Sarah’s heart pounded in her chest as she stumbled backward, her hand brushing the icy-cold wall. A loud *crack* echoed through the corridor as a lightbulb burst above her, raining down shards of glass. Panic welled in her throat, but before she could move, the hallway lights began to flicker erratically. In the brief flashes of light, she caught glimpses of figures—blurred, indistinct—at the edge of her vision. They were there, and then gone. The sound of metal scraping against the floor reverberated down the hall. Slowly, inexorably, the sound grew louder, drawing closer with each second. Sarah’s breath hitched as her flashlight blinked out, plunging her into complete darkness. She could hear it now—right behind her—the soft scraping of something sharp dragging across the floor. She froze, too terrified to turn around, but the sound grew louder, now accompanied by shallow, labored breathing. Cold sweat dripped down her back as she felt the pressure of something—or someone—hovering just inches behind her. Her skin prickled with the sensation of being watched, of unseen eyes tracing every movement, every breath. Summoning every ounce of courage, she spun around. Her heart dropped. **Nothing**. But the air was colder, heavier. The sense of presence was undeniable. Suddenly, the floor beneath her began to vibrate softly, like a pulse, as if the building itself were alive. The walls creaked and groaned as the hallway seemed to stretch, elongating into an impossible distance. The far end of the corridor flickered in and out of sight, warped by an unseen force. The silence was broken by a woman’s voice—a soft, broken whisper, calling her name from the darkness. "Sarah…" The voice echoed, disembodied, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Her legs threatened to give out as the sound grew louder, more insistent, until it was all she could hear, the walls themselves chanting her name in a haunting chorus. The temperature dropped again, and icy fingers seemed to brush against her arm. She gasped, recoiling, but saw only empty air. Then, without warning, the hallway doors burst open again, but this time they revealed more than darkness. Inside the rooms, the furniture had moved—beds were overturned, chairs placed in odd angles as if they had been violently tossed about. And in each room, the faint outline of something flickered—shapes barely visible, like imprints of terrible things that had happened long ago. The whispers grew frantic now, unintelligible, overlapping, filling her head until she could hardly think. She stumbled backward, desperate to escape, her footsteps heavy on the cold tile floor. But as she neared the exit, the building seemed to shift, blocking her path. **She wasn’t getting out.** The last thing Sarah saw before the lights went out for good was her reflection in the glass door. But something was wrong. **It wasn’t her face staring back.** The hospital had claimed her, as it had claimed so many before. And from the outside, it stood silent once more, waiting for the next to wander in.
By Sudarsan2 years ago in Horror
Music. Content Warning.
Ellis sat down at his piano and gently pressed a key. The thing was still in tune, thank the Forgotten Gods. Behind him, the locked closet door rattled gently, almost like it was being called by the one, continuous note. Ellis looked back, a weary smile on his lips, right on time.
By Alexander McEvoy2 years ago in Horror
The Wendigo. Content Warning.
The sun was starting to set. Normally, as it fell beyond the mountain-lined horizon, the flaming star painted the sky a kaleidoscope of reds, oranges, pinks, and occasionally blues. But today... it was grey. A solemn, cool grey. The bleak color dyed the meadow, the long grass, and the emaciated trees nearby into something edging on the brink of ominous. What little wind there was made the grey grass whisper and the skeletal trees rattle. I could hear no birds, no crickets, no frogs, or the squeaks of bats. Not even an owl. If I concentrate, I don’t think I could have heard my own heart.
By Jennisea Standing Rock2 years ago in Horror
The Witch of Keres Street
I’m not actually a witch, you know. That doesn’t stop me from having a little fun. I’m an elderly reclusive widow whose house is a gray Victorian with beautiful purple turrets that stands on a little hill. On stormy nights it would stick out in the skyline starkly contrasted by the bright waves of lightning.
By Amos Glade2 years ago in Horror
COLLEGE. Content Warning.
COLLEGE “Bossier Parish Community College...I don’t even know anything about this damn college” Trudy quipped to Stephanie. “I have never even been to the city like this. I like my little quiet life here”. Trudy lived in a rural area right outside of Shreveport, Louisiana her whole entire life and was a little anxious about living in the city.
By Awfully Twisted2 years ago in Horror
House of whispers
It’s been six months since we moved into the old house on Maplewood Street. Mom said it was a “fresh start” for us, a way to move on from everything that happened with Dad. I didn’t really mind. The house was huge, much bigger than our cramped apartment back in the city, and it had a big backyard with lots of trees. But from the moment we stepped inside, I felt like something was… off. I had no way of knowing what. Just yet.
By davide avenia2 years ago in Horror
THE CURSE OF THE CHETTIAR MANSION. AI-Generated.
Nithya felt a chill run down her spine as she approached the Chettiar Mansion. The old building had been abandoned for years, and she had heard rumors of strange happenings within its walls. But she had a job to do, and she couldn't let superstition get in the way.
By Parasuraman K2 years ago in Horror
Mnemonic
The first thing I noticed was the coldness. I was lying on the floor, and the chill from the concrete seeped through my clothes, sending shivers up my spine. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog in my head. The room around me was dimly lit, casting long, eerie shadows on the walls. Panic surged through me as I realized I had no idea where I was—or worse, who I was. I forced myself to sit up, taking in the sparse surroundings. A single lightbulb swung gently from the ceiling, casting a weak glow over the space. There was a heavy door on one side of the room, but it was locked, the large steel frame giving no hint of escape. A small desk sat against the opposite wall, cluttered with papers, but my attention was drawn to the constant ticking sound that filled the room. I stood up slowly, my legs wobbly beneath me. Reaching into my pocket for any clue, my fingers grazed a crumpled piece of paper. Pulling it out, I unfolded the note and read the words carefully: *"Find the key before the clock strikes twelve, or everything will be lost."* I read it again, confusion settling in. What key? What clock? I scanned the room for answers but found none. The ticking grew louder as I focused on the sound. My eyes landed on a large grandfather clock in the far corner, its hands slowly edging toward the twelve. A sudden wave of fear washed over me. I had no idea what would happen when the clock struck, but the urgency in the note was clear—I had to find the key. I moved quickly to the desk, rummaging through the papers. Most of them were old, brittle, covered in writing that made no sense to me. Names, dates, diagrams—none of it rang any bells. My mind raced, desperate for a clue. As I sifted through the mess, flashes of memories began to surface, hazy and indistinct. A woman’s face, smiling warmly at me. A large, old house—was it this one? And then, a sensation of falling. I shook my head, trying to clear the fog. There was no time to linger on fleeting memories. I had to stay focused. My fingers brushed against something solid beneath the papers. I pulled it out—an old, rusty key. My heart leaped, but it was too early to celebrate. The note hadn’t told me what the key opened, and time was running out. The clock’s ticking seemed louder now, each second feeling like a countdown to something ominous. I searched the room for anything the key might fit, running my hands along the walls, checking the drawers of the desk, but nothing seemed to match. Frustration gnawed at me. Where was the lock? What was I missing? Another memory hit me, clearer this time. I was standing in a room much like this one, arguing with someone. I couldn’t make out their face, but I could feel the tension between us. There was something important I needed to do, but they were stopping me. Then, a sharp pain—was it from a fall? No, it was something else…something darker. I gasped as a sharp knock echoed through the room. I hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a small door hidden in the shadows near the clock. I rushed over and knelt before it, inspecting the lock. It was old and intricate, the kind that seemed to belong in a different century. Without hesitation, I inserted the key and twisted. The lock clicked open just as the clock began to chime. I yanked the door open, my pulse racing. Behind the door was a small compartment, and inside was an envelope. I grabbed it, ripping it open as the clock continued to chime in the background. Inside was a single photograph. It was of me—standing with the same woman from my fragmented memory. She was smiling, her arm around my shoulders, but something about the image felt wrong. Her eyes seemed too dark, too cold. My heart pounded in my chest as the final memory came rushing back. She had tricked me. The woman in the photograph wasn’t my friend, wasn’t someone I cared about. She was the one who had locked me in this room. She had taken my memories, left me disoriented and lost. I didn’t know why, but I knew I had to stop her. I stared at the photograph, realizing that finding the key had been just the beginning. The real challenge was yet to come. The final chime of the clock echoed through the room, and the light flickered ominously. Whatever time I had left was slipping away. But now, I had a target. I knew who I was hunting, and I wouldn’t rest until I found her. The game had just begun. Thank you so much for reading **"Mnemonic"**! 🗝️ I hope you enjoyed the twists and turns of the mystery and the journey of unlocking hidden memories. Your time and support mean the world to me! 😊 Stay tuned for more stories and adventures ahead! 📖✨
By Sudarsan2 years ago in Horror
Beneath the Surface
The night was thick with mist, cloaking the coastal town of Ravenmoor in a quiet, oppressive stillness. The moon hung low in the sky, its pale light barely penetrating the veil of clouds. From the craggy cliffs overlooking the sea, the waves could be heard crashing relentlessly against the rocks, their deep, rhythmic thrum like the heartbeat of some ancient, slumbering giant.
By Oluseyi Sogaolu2 years ago in Horror
Gorefest
In a town where shadows crawl and creep, Beneath the stars that seldom sleep, Lies a tale of hunger, deep and dark, A story sparked by a curious lark. The clock struck twelve, the witching hour, The moon, a pale and watchful tower, Illuminated a house of old, Where secrets whispered, and stories told. In that house, so worn and gray, Lived a chef with a twisted way. Gordon Gristle, with eyes of coal, Had a love for cooking—body and soul. His kitchen, filled with pots and pans, And jars of spices, old as man, But hidden deep, where light was thin, Were the tools of his culinary sin. A meat grinder, rusted red, Where rumors claimed the living bled, And knives so sharp, they sang a tune, Of flesh and bone, under the moon. One night, a group of friends did dare, To enter the house with the utmost care. They'd heard the stories, the dreadful lore, But sought a thrill, and nothing more. Tim, the leader, brave and bold, Whispered of treasures, silver and gold. "Let's steal from Gristle," he quietly said, "Before he finds us and we're dead!" The others, though wary, did agree, To rob the chef of his devilish fee. They tiptoed through halls, dark and still, Unaware of the looming thrill. The kitchen door creaked open wide, And there they found the chef inside. He stirred a pot, with a grin so wide, A shiver ran down every spine. "Welcome, my guests," Gristle did say, "To my midnight feast—won't you stay?" The friends exchanged a nervous glance, But Tim, undeterred, took a chance. "We're here for gold, not for food," he said, "Hand it over, or you'll be dead." Gristle chuckled, a deep, low sound, As the room began to spin around. The walls grew tight, the air so thin, As the chef's grin turned to a fiendish grin. "Gold, you seek, but a meal you’ll get, For in my kitchen, there's no regret." He clapped his hands, the lights grew dim, As pots and pans began to swim, In the air they danced, with a clatter and clang, While the friends’ hearts with terror rang. From the shadows, a meat cleaver flew, Tim ducked and dodged as it split in two, The table behind, where it landed fast, The echo of laughter, a haunting blast. "Run!" cried Sarah, as she grabbed the door, But the handle turned to a fleshy gore, It pulsed and writhed under her hand, As the kitchen became a twisted land. The walls now breathed, the floor did sway, As Gristle cackled, blocking their way. "You can't leave now, the feast's begun, And I’m the host—let’s have some fun!" With a flick of his wrist, the stove ignited, Flames leaped high, as if delighted. The friends, now trapped, in a chef's cruel game, Began to see the horror of their aim. But here’s where the tale takes a turn, For horror and humor can equally burn. As the pots flew by, with a zoom and a zing, Tim slipped on a banana peel—of all things! He landed hard, with a smack and a thud, As the room erupted in gory mud. But the mud, it seemed, was made of fudge, And the smell of chocolate gave a nudge. "Wait," said Jake, with a puzzled look, "Is this a kitchen or a comic book?" The walls of flesh began to melt, As the chef’s laughter turned to a yelp. For Gristle, though cruel, had a flaw, His magic undone by a chocolate law. The kitchen, once filled with fear and dread, Now bubbled over with sweets instead. "What's happening?" Sarah did cry, As pies and cakes began to fly. The stove, once roaring with fire and heat, Now baked cupcakes, soft and sweet. Gristle, now flustered, tried to regain, His fearsome power, but all in vain. For every spell he tried to cast, Turned to sugar, and sweetness vast. The friends, now laughing, in shock and surprise, Watched as the kitchen turned into a prize. They gathered the sweets, the gold they sought, In chocolate coins, with caramel caught. And as they fled, into the night, Gristle’s screams faded from sight. For in that house, the curse now broke, And the chef was left in a sugary yoke. But beware, dear reader, of the feast at night, For not all curses end in delight. Some chefs still hunger, with a taste so dire, For flesh and fear, in a midnight pyre. So if you dare, to seek out gold, Remember the tale, and be not bold. For in the dark, where shadows feast, You might just find yourself the beast. But should you slip on a peel or two, And laugh at fear as it laughs at you, The horrors may turn to something sweet, A midnight feast you just might beat.
By Sudarsan2 years ago in Horror
The Shadows of Marrow House
the old Marrow House stood brooding on the outskirts of Pine Hollow, its crumbling stone facade twisting into the sky like the gnarled hands of a beggar reaching out for salvation. No one had lived there for decades—until that summer, when seven children, all just on the edge of adolescence, dared to trespass into its dark embrace. Unbeknownst to them, they had unwittingly become the new occupants of a horrific legacy.
By Testimony 2 years ago in Horror
Impact Winter: Series Two — Audible Review
The hit Audible Original series from executive producers of The Walking Dead and the writer of Pacific Rim returns for its highly anticipated second season.
By Ted Ryan2 years ago in Horror