urban legend

Urban legends have captivated us from ancient eras to the modern day; a deep dive into scary lore and 'could be true' tales about Bigfoot, Slender Man, the Suicide Forest and beyond.

Werewolf
Eddy Bauer sat in the driver’s seat of a semi – truck. It idled noisily as the big monster semi slid into the parking lot of the Shady Pines Truck Stop. Eddy’s hair was white and thinning. He wore a camouflage hat that said Hell Yeah. He shut off the radio which had been blaring Willy Nelson’s on the road again. Eddy jumped out of the semi and he filled up with diesel gasoline. He walked inside the little, shack like gas station and he approached the cube like, checkout counter. A man with straight black hair and glasses stood behind the counter. His nametag read Hank. He wore square looking glasses and he was abnormally thin. “That’ll be 15.75.” hank said stiffly.
By DJ Robbinsabout a year ago in Horror
You Think Everyone on These Crowded Streets is Human?
Part 1: The Rules of the Road Some stories are told in the dead of night, whispered over the rumble of a diesel engine, tasting of cheap cigarettes and the vast, lonely darkness of the open road. This is one of them.
By SupernaturalEastabout a year ago in Horror
My life was cursed with four trials. The last one was at Narita Airport.
My life has been defined by a prophecy. When I was three years old and dying, my grandmother carried me to a temple on Mount Putuo, a sacred site for Guanyin, the Bodhisattva of Compassion. A wise old abbess told her that my life was not written in the stars; it was a gift, stolen from fate by Guanyin herself. But such gifts come with a price. I would face four great trials—four moments where fate would try to reclaim me. They would come at ages three, thirteen, twenty-three, and thirty-three. Each one would be harder to survive than the last.
By SupernaturalEastabout a year ago in Horror
The Curse of the Sunken God: A True Tale of Suspense from the Guizhou Karst Abyss
Part 1: The Curse of the Sunken God There are stories you hear that burrow under your skin and stay there, cold and wriggling. This is one of them. It’s not my story—not originally—but it found its way to me, and now I feel compelled to pass its chill on to you. It all started a few weeks ago, when I went to visit my old friend, Lao Hei.
By SupernaturalEastabout a year ago in Horror
The Living Dragon's Curse Secrets of Ailao Mountain
Today, I'm going to tell you a mysterious story from China's Ailao Mountains in Yunnan province. It's said that a dragon is hidden there. A living dragon!
By SupernaturalEastabout a year ago in Horror
Voicemail From the Killer
Detective Elise Monroe’s phone buzzed on the desk beside her. The precinct was quiet—too quiet for midnight—but the glow of the screen made her stomach twist.
By Shehzad Anjumabout a year ago in Horror
Rotflower. Content Warning.
Deline Lowell first saw the flower on a Tuesday morning. It jutted from a crack in the pavement outside her apartment—a black bloom, petals curled like burned velvet. She nearly stepped on it before stopping short. It hadn’t been there yesterday. She bent closer. The smell hit her first—not floral, not earthy. Rot. Sweet and sour, like fruit left to liquefy in the heat. Her stomach turned, yet her eyes stayed fixed on the thing. The bloom looked alive. Breathing. Deline forced herself upright and walked on, telling herself it was only a weed. That night, she dreamed of it spreading. --- In the dream, dozens of black blossoms cracked through the sidewalk, pushed through her walls, wound into her sheets. They thrummed with a pulse she felt in her chest, in her teeth. She woke gagging, certain she could still smell decay, the tang thick in her hair, clinging to her tongue. The next morning, the flower was taller. And now there were two. --- At the hospital, she buried herself in charts and patients, hoping busyness could drown the memory. But exhaustion couldn’t shield her. She began seeing them everywhere. A dark curl at the edge of a waiting room. A petal glinting in glass. Always gone when she blinked, but the smell lingered, sweet, sour, and accusing. By the third week, the flowers weren’t just in her dreams. She woke one night with dirt under her fingernails, her sheets streaked with damp black stains. Her neighbor complained of water damage from her ceiling. Maintenance found nothing. Deline said nothing. She stopped sleeping. --- She confided once, to Morgan, a friend from work. “There’s a flower,” she whispered in the corner of a café, rain streaking the window. “It keeps growing. I see it everywhere. It smells like death.” Morgan frowned. “What kind of flower?” “I don’t know. Black. like a rose, I think it wants something from me.” “You’re overtired,” chuckling he said gently. “Sleep deprivation—” She wanted to believe him. Until his sleeve slipped back. A smear of black soil clung to his wrist. And beneath his skin—something pulsed, like a root pushing deeper.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Horror
Natural Insticts of the Basic Houseplant
“Good morning, Frank, my buddy. I got you some fresh coffee, careful because it is hot,” the gray-haired man with sausagy fingers dangling over my cubicle wall says to me. His voice is like the velvet bench at the center of your hometown strip joint.
By Amos Gladeabout a year ago in Horror
The House That Whispers
M Mehran The townspeople never went near the Holloway house after dark. Children dared each other to touch its rusted gate, teenagers whispered about the shadows in its windows, and old men swore they heard screams on moonless nights. But still, the house stood—quiet, rotting, waiting. Mara wasn’t one to believe in stories. She was a journalist, trained to seek truth behind superstition. When her editor suggested an article about “the most haunted house in town,” she rolled her eyes. But a deadline was a deadline, and so one autumn evening she walked up the broken path toward Holloway house with nothing but a flashlight, a recorder, and her notebook. The air grew colder as she approached. The trees around the house leaned inward, branches like claws. Shingles dangled from the roof, the porch sagged, and the windows looked less like glass than black, unblinking eyes. “Just a house,” Mara muttered, pushing the gate open. The screech of metal echoed far too loud. Inside, the air was stale, thick with mildew. Dust floated in her flashlight beam. The floorboards groaned under each step, as if the house were shifting in its sleep. She clicked on her recorder. “September 14th, 9:42 p.m. Entering Holloway residence. No activity so far.” Her voice sounded small in the vast silence. She moved from room to room, noting peeling wallpaper, overturned furniture, and the faint smell of smoke. Local legend said the Holloways had died in a fire a century ago—parents and two children, trapped in the attic. Some claimed the house burned without flames, that the family suffocated in smoke that never escaped the walls. Mara didn’t believe it. But when she entered the dining room, her flashlight flickered. She slapped the side of it. “Cheap batteries.” That was when she heard it—a faint sound, so soft she thought she imagined it. A whisper. She froze, holding her breath. The whisper came again, like dry leaves brushing against one another. Too faint to make out words, but undeniably human. “Hello?” she called, her voice trembling despite herself. Silence. She forced herself forward, telling her pounding heart to calm down. “Probably the wind,” she muttered into the recorder. “Old houses make noises.” But the air was perfectly still. Upstairs, the smell of smoke thickened. The hallway stretched longer than it should have, lined with doors that seemed too many for the size of the house. Mara’s skin prickled. She opened one door at random—an empty bedroom. Another—just a closet. Then she opened the third. Inside was a child’s room. A small bed stood against the wall, its sheets gray with dust. Toys lay scattered across the floor: a wooden horse, a doll with one glass eye missing, a puzzle half-completed. Her flashlight beam landed on the mirror above the dresser. For the briefest second, she thought she saw movement—not her own reflection, but someone else standing behind her. She spun around. Nothing. Her chest tightened. “I need air,” she whispered. As she turned to leave, the doll rolled across the floor on its own. Mara’s heart lurched. She backed into the hallway, her breath coming fast. “No. No, that’s not—” The whispering began again. Louder this time. Multiple voices overlapping, weaving into each other. Children’s voices. She staggered backward, her flashlight shaking. “Stop it! Who’s there?” The voices rose into a chorus, filling the hallway. The air grew heavy, choking, like smoke pressing into her lungs. She coughed, dropping to her knees. Through the haze, she saw the end of the hallway stretch farther away, doors multiplying, the walls closing in. The house was shifting, reshaping, trapping her. “No… it’s not real… it’s not real…” But her body didn’t care. Panic clawed at her ribs. She crawled toward the stairs, every breath a struggle. Behind her, footsteps pitter-pattered—light, like children running. She dared not look back. At the bottom of the stairs, the whispering stopped. The air cleared. Her lungs ached, but she could breathe again. Mara bolted for the door. Her flashlight beam shook wildly as she sprinted across the living room. She reached the front door and yanked—locked. She clawed at it, pulling, kicking. The door would not move. Then she heard it. A low, rasping voice, different from the children’s whispers. Closer. Right behind her ear. Stay with us. The flashlight flickered and died. Darkness swallowed her scream. — The next morning, joggers passing the Holloway house saw the gate swinging open. Mara’s recorder was found on the front porch, its red light still blinking. The last words it captured were her frantic breaths, a long silence, and then, faintly, the sound of children laughing. The townspeople shook their heads. Another fool who thought she could outsmart the Holloway curse. And the house remained. Quiet, rotting, waiting.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Horror
Little Siren. Top Story - September 2025. Content Warning.
So, here we are again. My travels have taken me far and wide since last we met, Friend. I've got plenty more stories of the dark and disturbing to tell, and I do so enjoy having an audience to listen to them. If you believe your constitution is strong enough, then let us begin.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Horror
The Vanishing Light: The Flannan Isles Mystery
I. The Island at the Edge of the World The Flannan Isles are a scatter of jagged rocks adrift in the cold Atlantic, some twenty miles west of Scotland’s Outer Hebrides. No trees. No towns. Just the scream of seabirds, the howl of wind, and the ceaseless crash of waves on stone. These islands, haunted by superstition and folklore for centuries, were once known to the locals as the “Seven Hunters.” Not exactly a name that screams safe weekend getaway.
By Veil of Shadowsabout a year ago in Horror
SEASON FINALE : The Black Lung Communion: How a Surgeon’s Journal Sparked a Demonic Outbreak
CHAPTER 9: THE WHITE SILENCE Consciousness returned not as a light, but as a suffocating weight. Liam’s first sensation was of pressure...a dense, pillowy mass crushing his chest, filling his mouth and nose. Panic flared, primal and blind. He thrashed, but his limbs were pinned, heavy as stone.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror