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.

AM I PREETY? 😈😈
The night air in the small village of Sakamura hung heavy with fog. Crickets had long gone quiet, and even the wind seemed afraid to whisper. Beneath a pale moon, narrow streets wound between old houses like veins, pulsing with a fear no one dared to name. The villagers had always whispered of something that walked after dark. Something cursed. Something that once used to be human. High above the village rooftops, a streetlight flickered like a failing heartbeat. Its dim glow spilled over a quiet sidewalk where a boy of sixteen trudged alone, his schoolbag weighing more than usual on his back. Kenji Nakamura had stayed late after cram school to prepare for his university entrance exams. He lived with his grandmother, who always warned him not to take the long road through the old district after sundown. But tonight, he was tired. The shortcut through the abandoned part of town would save him fifteen minutes. He told himself he didn't believe in ghost stories anyway. Until he saw her. At the end of the street, standing beneath the sputtering streetlamp, was a woman in a beige coat. Her long, black hair covered most of her face, and a surgical mask wrapped tightly around her mouth. She stood unnaturally still, as though the world had stopped moving just for her. Kenji froze. "Maybe she needs help," he whispered to himself, though his voice trembled. He took a step forward. The woman looked up. Her eyes locked with his. Then she spoke. "Am I pretty?" Her voice was soft, almost kind. Kenji hesitated. The story his classmates told in hushed tones came rushing back. They had laughed nervously, but now the memory brought no comfort. “Just say yes,” they had told him. “Always say yes.” Kenji managed a nod. “Y-yes. You’re pretty.” The woman tilted her head. Slowly, she reached up to her face and pulled down the mask. Kenji’s breath caught in his throat. Her mouth had been split open from ear to ear. Her lips were stretched into a grotesque, permanent smile, the flesh jagged and scarred, teeth exposed like broken glass. Blood crusted the corners of her mouth. “Am I still pretty?” she asked again, her tone darker, more deliberate. Kenji’s knees buckled. He stumbled back. “Y-yes... You’re beautiful,” he stammered. For a moment, silence. Then, she grinned wider. “Liar.” She lunged. Kenji screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the night. The streetlight above him died with a pop. The next morning, villagers gathered around a small alley just behind the old bakery. Kenji’s body was found sprawled in the dirt, eyes wide with horror, mouth slit open from ear to ear. A single line was carved into the ground beside his corpse, written in his own blood: "She is still pretty." THE END. Please drop a comment after reading and follow CreepVille
By CreepVille Horror Storiesabout a year ago in Horror
The Woman at the Door
I was twelve when I first saw her. It was a rainy Thursday night, the kind where thunder rumbled so loud the windows shook. I had just gotten out of the shower, and the house was already too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your chest feel heavy, like the air itself is warning you to run. My little brother, Eli, was already asleep. I passed his room on the way to mine and paused to pull his covers tighter over him. He looked so small, barely seven years old. He had this habit of kicking off his blanket while sleeping, and Mom always said he’d catch a cold like that. I left his door slightly open and headed to my room across the hall. The first sign that something was wrong came at 2:47 a.m. I woke suddenly, no sound, no movement, just this cold pressure sitting on my chest. Not sleep paralysis. I could move. But I didn’t want to. Because she was there. Standing at the edge of my doorway, half in shadow, half bathed in pale moonlight, was a woman. Blood-red skin. Black eyes like holes dug into her skull. And her hair—shoulder-length, jet black, and deathly still despite the breeze from my fan. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe. She only stared. And then, slowly, she raised one arm and pointed. Not at me. At Eli’s door. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. My tongue felt like stone in my mouth. I blinked once. She vanished. I jumped up, heart slamming in my chest, and ran straight to Eli’s room. He was still in bed, sleeping soundly, as if nothing had happened. But his skin… It was pale before. That soft peachy tone of a healthy kid. But now, it had a faint red hue, almost like the beginning of a sunburn. I shook him awake. “Eli,” I whispered. “Eli, wake up.” He opened his eyes slowly, groggy, confused. “What?” he mumbled, rubbing his face. “Do you feel okay? Does your skin hurt?” He blinked at me, his lip quivering slightly. “She was here.” My blood ran cold. “Who?” “The red woman. She stood by my bed.” By morning, Eli had a fever. His skin was redder. My mom brushed it off as a viral infection. “Kids catch things,” she said, preparing a bowl of soup. “You’re just stressed, that’s all.” But I knew. Over the next three days, Eli’s condition worsened. His eyes sunk deeper, his lips cracked, and he became thinner. He barely ate. He barely spoke. Except when he slept. At night, he whispered things. Horrible things. “She’s watching me.” “She’s in the corner.” “She wants me to go with her.” I recorded him once. I wanted proof. But the audio was corrupted the next morning. A screeching static replaced his voice. I played it again and again, trying to find something useful. But then I heard it—hidden behind the noise. A woman’s laugh. Not loud. Not mocking. A slow, breathy chuckle like she was savoring something. I stopped the recording and deleted it. I couldn’t sleep. I stayed up every night, watching his room from the hallway. Praying. Pleading silently for her not to return. But on the seventh night, she did. It started with Eli screaming. I rushed into his room, Mom right behind me, and we both froze. He wasn’t on the bed. He was standing in the middle of the room, back arched, eyes rolled up into his head. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, and his hands were twisted like claws. A red glow flickered across his skin, as if his veins were glowing. Then she stepped from the corner. Not from the doorway. From the shadows themselves. Her black eyes met mine. And she smiled. “Give him to me,” she said, voice low, crackling, like dry leaves burning. “No!” I shouted. I ran to Eli and wrapped my arms around him. Mom was screaming. Crying. Praying out loud. “She’s not real!” she kept yelling. “It’s a dream! Wake up!” But it wasn’t a dream. The woman raised her hand again. And this time, she pointed at me. “I’ll come back for you,” she said. Then everything went black. Eli died that night. The doctors said it was some kind of organ failure, sudden and unexplainable. No illness. No virus. Nothing in his blood. Just death. His face was frozen in terror. Eyes wide, lips parted in a silent scream. Skin red like fresh blood. Mom never spoke of it again. She moved us to a new town. Burned his clothes. Removed every picture of him from the house. Said it was the only way she could cope. But I couldn’t forget. I saw her. I heard her. And she wasn’t done with me. Months passed. I tried to live normally. Went to school. Tried making friends. But the fear never left. Until one night, while brushing my teeth, I glanced up at the mirror. She was behind me. No reflection. No noise. Just her. Smiling. She leaned forward and whispered into my ear. “You blinked.” I screamed and dropped to the floor. When Mom rushed in, I begged her to believe me. I cried for hours. But she just held me and repeated, “It’s the trauma, baby. It’s just the trauma.” I stopped talking about it after that. But she kept showing up. In the mirror. In the windows. Reflected on my phone screen when it was off. She was always there. Watching. Waiting. The End...... What's the word count? Of the story above?
By CreepVille Horror Storiesabout a year ago in Horror
Whispers in the Walls
Hey there. You ever been to a place that just feels wrong the second you walk in? Like the air is too thick, or the silence is too loud? That’s exactly how 12-year-old Ben felt when his family moved into the old Mulberry Street house. To everyone else, it was just a fixer-upper. Old wood, creaky stairs, a weird smell. Nothing major. But Ben? He heard things. Not voices exactly… more like whispers. Soft. Sneaky. Secret. And one night, they whispered his name.
By Lucien Hollow about a year ago in Horror
The Last Locker
Hey friend, okay, so you remember that one weird hallway in school? You know, the one that always feels a little colder? The one where the lights flicker even though no one else seems to care? Yeah. That hallway? That’s where this story takes place. It’s about a girl named Callie Winters, and how one very bad week led her to open the one locker in school that no one ever touches. They say what she found inside changed everything—and not in a good way. The Wrong Kind of Attention Callie Winters wasn’t popular. She wasn’t the class clown. She wasn’t a genius. She was just… Callie. Kind of quiet. Liked to doodle. Always sat in the middle of the class, never the front or the back. But after what happened, everyone knew her name. Not because she wanted it. Because they had to remember. It all started on a rainy Tuesday—the day someone shoved her into the lockers. Her books spilled everywhere, her notebook ripped, and everyone laughed. Everyone except the new janitor. He just watched. He didn’t blink. He didn’t help. He just stared… at Locker 17. The Locker Nobody Claimed Locker 17 was different. It sat at the far end of the East Wing hallway—where no teachers walked, and the lights always flickered like broken candles. No one knew who it belonged to. The school said it was “out of use.” But students whispered other stories: That it used to belong to a girl named Jessa Greer who disappeared after setting the science lab on fire. That you could hear someone whispering your name when you walked past. That someone once opened it—and never came back to class. Callie always thought it was just made-up junk. Until she heard it whisper her name. Whisper, Whisper The day after the locker incident, Callie walked past Locker 17 again. It was raining, just like the day before. Her books were soggy. Her hair stuck to her face. And her heart? Heavy. Because the girls who laughed yesterday? They laughed again today. So when she passed Locker 17… she stopped. And she heard it. “Calllllieeeee…” Her eyes widened. “Who’s there?!” Nothing. She leaned in. Held her breath. “They’ll pay if you let me out.” She jumped back. Looked around. The hallway was empty. Except for the janitor—still watching from the end. And still not blinking. What Was Inside The next morning, her locker was vandalized. Ripped open. Her favorite sketchbook ruined. She ran to the principal’s office. No one helped. Not even her teacher, who said, “Kids will be kids.” So Callie went back. To Locker 17. This time, the lock was… gone. The door hung slightly open. She hesitated. Then reached for it. And inside? Nothing. Just a mirror. A dirty, cracked mirror that hadn’t been there before. She leaned in—and her reflection smiled before she did. Then it whispered: “Do you want them to be afraid, too?” And for just a moment… Callie whispered back: “Yes.” The Change That’s when things started to get weird. The next day, the girls who bullied her? One slipped and fell face-first into her lunch. Another lost her voice during a class presentation. By Thursday, the worst one—Mara—ran out of the bathroom screaming, saying the mirror whispered her name. Callie didn’t smile. But something inside her did. That night, she had a dream. She was in a dark hallway, facing Locker 17. The door creaked open. Inside was herself. Except her eyes were pitch black. And she said: “Let me stay.” The Warning Ellis, the janitor, finally spoke to her. “You opened it, didn’t you?” Callie looked up. “Opened what?” “The mirror. The mouth.” He knelt beside her. “That locker is a door, not a box. It doesn’t hold things—it lets them out.” Callie’s hands trembled. “What did I let out?” He didn’t answer. Just handed her a note. It read: “You have seven days. After that, it won’t need your permission anymore.” The Countdown Every night, she had the dream again. The hallway. The locker. The mirror. Each time, her dark reflection looked more real. More alive. And at school? People were terrified of her. Doors creaked when she passed. Lights flickered more. Even the principal stared at her with wide, tired eyes. Locker 17 whispered louder now. “Only one more day…” The Choice On the seventh day, Callie stood in front of Locker 17. The school was silent. Empty. The janitor was gone. Just her. And the locker. The mirror inside glowed faintly. She could leave it. Walk away. Try to forget. But the voice inside whispered: “They’ll never stop unless I stay.” Callie closed her eyes. And stepped inside. Gone The next day, her classmates noticed something odd. Locker 17 was gone. Not locked. Not boarded. Gone. Like it had never been there. So was Callie. But in the back hallway… there was now a mirror. Cracked. And sometimes… if you walked past it alone… You could hear a girl giggling softly. Or crying. Or whispering… “Do you want them to be afraid, too?” The New Girl A month later, a new girl transferred to the school. Shy. Kept her head down. But the first time she walked down the East Wing hallway, she stopped. Looked into the mirror. And smiled… before her reflection did. So yeah. If your school has a hallway that feels off? If there’s a locker no one talks about? Or a mirror that seems to watch you… Walk faster. Don’t look back. And whatever you do… Don’t open it. Because it might not be you who comes out again.
By Lucien Hollow about a year ago in Horror
The Cave in Younger's Holler. Top Story - July 2025.
I told them we shouldn’t have come, that it’d be a mistake, but they never listen to me. I’m the friend in the group often overlooked, always interrupted as if I weren’t there. Normally, I wouldn’t mind sitting quietly, soaking in the camaraderie of my group. Tonight, it was different. I wish they had listened to me.
By Mother Combsabout a year ago in Horror
The Girl in the Wallpaper
Okay, so imagine this: you're spending the weekend at your cousin’s old house, the kind with squeaky stairs, dusty windows, and those weird old wallpapers that look like someone painted them a hundred years ago. That’s where it all started for Liam. He thought it would just be another boring visit. But instead, he met the girl in the wallpaper. This story? It’s creepy. It’s real weird. And it’ll definitely make you think twice before sleeping in a room with old wallpaper. Chapter 1: A Weekend at Aunt May’s Liam was 11, and he hated going to Aunt May’s. Not because she was mean—she was actually super nice. But her house? Total creep zone. It was built in the 1800s, had a cellar that groaned, and the halls always smelled like dusty books and cinnamon. His cousin Ellie lived there too, and she loved it. She said things like, “This house has character,” and, “The walls tell stories if you listen.” Liam thought she was being dramatic. But she wasn’t wrong. Not even a little. Chapter 2: The Room With the Red Wallpaper When Liam got there that Friday, Aunt May said, “You’ll sleep in the Red Room.” That sounded kind of cool… until he saw it. The wallpaper was deep red, almost like dried ketchup (or, as he later thought… blood). It was full of swirling vines and little flowers, but if you looked really close, the pattern also showed tiny faces. Not smiley emoji faces. Weird, stretched-out ones. Some looked surprised. Others scared. “I hate this,” Liam whispered as he dropped his backpack. But that night, the room had other plans. Chapter 3: She Was Already Watching At first, Liam thought it was just his imagination. The wallpaper looked… different in the dark. Like the vines were moving. Like one of the tiny faces was closer than before. Then, around midnight, he heard a soft sound. Like scratching. He sat up, heart racing. “Ellie?” he whispered. No answer. Just scratching. Soft, but steady. Coming from inside the wall. He tiptoed to the spot behind the bed where the scratching was loudest. He touched the wall. It was cold. And then… A pair of eyes opened. Not like a hole. Not like a drawing. Real eyes. In the wall. Liam gasped and fell backward. And the face in the wall smiled. Chapter 4: The Girl with the Black Eyes The next morning, Liam ran to Ellie and told her everything. She didn’t laugh. Instead, she looked worried. “You saw her?” she whispered. “The girl?” “What girl?” “She’s been in this house since before I was born. I think she used to be real. But something happened. She… melted into the wall.” “That’s not possible,” Liam said, even though his stomach felt heavy. “I call her Vera,” Ellie said. “I think she’s lonely. But sometimes… she gets mad.” Liam didn’t want to hear more. But of course, he did. Chapter 5: Don’t Make Her Angry Ellie took him to the attic. Dusty boxes. Spiderwebs. Old trunks. She opened a small wooden chest with her initials carved into the side. Inside were drawings. Dozens of them. They were all pictures of Vera. Black eyes. Tangled hair. Stitched mouth. And vines—twisting around her body like they were growing out of her. “I see her in my dreams sometimes,” Ellie said. “She whispers secrets. She knows things no one should.” “Like what?” “She told me Grandma didn’t die from falling down the stairs. She says Grandma tried to leave the house. Vera didn’t like that.” Liam’s skin turned cold. “This house needs people,” Ellie added quietly. “So it keeps them.” Chapter 6: The Hidden Room That night, Liam couldn’t sleep. He tried not to look at the wall. Tried not to hear the whispers. But the girl… she kept calling his name. “Liiiaaam…” He sat up. “What do you want?!” “Find me,” she whispered. “Where?” The vines on the wallpaper shifted. One moved toward the corner of the room… and stopped. Liam grabbed a flashlight, tiptoed over, and knocked on the wall. Thud. Thud. Hollow. He pressed both hands on it—and part of the wallpaper crumbled like ash. Behind it? A tiny wooden door. No knob. Just a small latch. Chapter 7: Inside the Walls Liam waited until everyone was asleep. Then, flashlight in hand, he opened the door. Behind it was a crawlspace. Barely big enough for a kid. He climbed inside. The walls were lined with old paper dolls. Hundreds of them, pinned up like trophies. Some had names written under them: Molly, George, Rachel, Danny… At the end of the crawlspace was a mirror. Cracked. Covered in dust. He wiped it clean. And in the reflection… he saw her. Not behind him. Not beside him. Inside the mirror. “Help me,” she whispered. “Pull me out.” He almost did. But then—he saw something move behind her. A shadow with too many arms. And suddenly her voice changed. From “help me” to “STAY WITH ME.” Chapter 8: The Final Escape Liam crawled backward, heart racing, flashlight shaking. The crawlspace started closing. The wallpaper vines crept in behind him like fingers. “Liam!” It was Ellie. She had followed him. She reached in, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him out just before the door slammed shut on its own. The wall sealed up again. Like it had never opened. They didn’t sleep that night. Chapter 9: The Truth Comes Out The next morning, they told Aunt May everything. She listened quietly. Then she said, “That girl was real. Vera was my sister.” Liam and Ellie stared. “She disappeared when I was your age. No one believed me when I said she got trapped in the walls. But I saw it happen.” “Why didn’t you leave?” Ellie asked. Aunt May smiled sadly. “Because if I did… she’d come with me.” They moved out a week later. The Red Room was sealed shut. And the house was sold to a new family. Chapter 10: She’s Still Watching Liam never saw Vera again. But sometimes, when he closes his eyes at night, he sees wallpaper. Red. Twisting vines. Tiny faces. And in the center… A pair of black eyes. Still watching. Still waiting.
By Silas Blackwoodabout a year ago in Horror
The Mirror Room
You know how when you first enter a place, it just doesn't feel right? Not because something’s obviously scary. No blood, no ghosts. Just that quiet feeling in your chest like something is watching you—even though no one is there? Yeah. That’s what this story is about. A room full of mirrors. Seven of them. And one rule: Never look into the seventh mirror.
By Lucien Hollow about a year ago in Horror
When a Human Becomes a Jinn
"When a Human Becomes a Jinn" In the forgotten sands of Qasra al-Tahir, the old ones whispered of a time when humans and jinn walked side by side — not in peace, but in fragile silence. They spoke of a curse, older than language, that could turn a man not just into a monster — but into something eternal, exiled, and untouchable. Zayd never believed in fairy tales. He was a scholar of the physical, not the mystical — a young archaeologist driven by reason, not ritual. When he first arrived at the ruins of Qasra al-Tahir with his mentor’s expedition, he was chasing forgotten alphabets, not ancient spirits. But the desert, like time, does not forget its debts. --- The Discovery Beneath the rubble of a broken minaret, Zayd found it: a black stone sarcophagus carved with runes no book had ever recorded. Its surface was unnaturally cold, even under the punishing desert sun. As he traced one of the glyphs with a trembling finger, the world around him blurred. Whispers filled the wind. > “Why do you touch what was sealed in fire?” He stumbled back. No one else heard them. The other team members dismissed it as dehydration. But that night, Zayd dreamed of burning skies and creatures with no eyes — only fire. --- The Change Over the following days, things began to shift. Zayd stopped sleeping. His skin no longer burned in the sun. His eyes began reflecting light strangely — a dull, copper gleam, like embers under ash. Animals avoided him. Birds wouldn’t fly over his tent. Mirrors stopped showing him properly. He thought it was madness. Until he started understanding the ancient runes — effortlessly. Fluently. Without learning. --- The Reveal One night, unable to fight the pull, Zayd returned alone to the sarcophagus. This time, the lid was open. Inside was not a body — but ashes. Floating. Glowing. They whispered again: > “You broke the seal. You wear the flame. You are the last gate.” Suddenly, the ashes surged upward and entered his body through his mouth, his eyes, his pores. He screamed as pain tore through every bone and vein. But it wasn't pain. Not entirely. It was remembrance. Zayd collapsed, unconscious.
By TrueVocalabout a year ago in Horror
Charon's Well. Top Story - July 2025.
My black hoodie swallows me whole, just the way I like it at night. No one needs to see my eyes right now, not with my mascara running.
By Cypher Robinsonabout a year ago in Horror
Season 2 - The Bone-Light: How an Orphaned Village Became a Mouth for Something Older
CHAPTER 5: The Girl Who Drew Exit Wounds: How the Orphanage Bleeds Memory Date: March 20, 1980 - Location: Borsk, Abandoned Girls’ Dormitory
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a year ago in Horror
The Voice at the Door
The rain was a steady, mournful rhythm against the windows, a soundtrack to the oppressive silence inside our small cottage. Three days. It had been three days since we’d buried my mother, Clara. Three days since her vibrant laughter, her comforting presence, had been reduced to a cold, sterile memory. The grief was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, making every breath an effort. My wife, Sarah, sat across from me, her face pale and drawn. She hadn't cried much, not openly, but I could see the sorrow etched in the lines around her eyes, the way she clutched the steaming mug of tea, as if seeking warmth against an internal chill. She had loved my mother, truly loved her, and her quiet suffering was almost harder to bear than my own. A sudden, sharp rap echoed through the house, cutting through the rain and our unspoken grief. We both stiffened, our eyes meeting across the dimly lit room. It was late, past midnight. Who could it be? Another rap, louder this time, more insistent. I pushed myself up from the armchair. “I’ll get it,” I murmured, my voice raspy. “No!” Sarah’s voice was sharp, a sudden tremor in her tone. She stood up, her eyes wide, almost pleading. “Don’t, Daniel. Don’t open it.” I paused, surprised by her vehemence. “Sarah, it’s probably just a neighbor, or someone lost. It’s pouring outside.” “No,” she repeated, stepping towards me, her hand reaching out to grasp my arm. Her fingers were cold. “Please, just… don’t.” Before I could question her, a sound, faint but unmistakable, drifted from the front door. A voice. A voice that sent a jolt of ice through my veins, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. “Daniel? Are you there, my son? It’s your mother. Let me in, it’s so cold out here.” My blood ran cold. It was Mother’s voice. Her gentle, slightly reedy tone, the familiar way she elongated the ‘so’ in ‘so cold.’ Impossible. My mind screamed in protest. This had to be a cruel, sadistic prank. But who would do such a thing? I turned to Sarah, my face a mask of disbelief and dawning horror. “Sarah… did you hear that? It’s Mother! But… how?” Sarah’s grip on my arm tightened, her nails digging into my skin. Her eyes, usually so warm, were filled with a profound, terrifying dread. “Don’t open the door, Daniel!” she hissed, her voice barely a whisper, yet filled with an urgency that terrified me. “Please, for God’s sake, don’t!” Another series of knocks, more frantic now, accompanied by that voice, pleading, cajoling. “Daniel, darling, please. My old bones are freezing. Just a moment, let me come in. I need my son.” My heart was a war drum in my chest. Every fiber of my being yearned to rush to the door, to throw it open, to embrace the mother I had just buried. My grief-stricken mind wrestled with the horrifying reality. She was dead. We had stood by her grave just three days ago, watched the coffin lowered into the earth. “It’s not her, Daniel,” Sarah choked out, tears finally streaming down her face. “It can’t be. It’s… it’s something else. Something trying to get in.” Her words made a chilling kind of sense, even as my emotions fought against them. The raw, desperate need in that voice, the way it played on my deepest sorrow, felt predatory. But the resemblance was uncanny. Every inflection, every nuance, was exactly like Mother. The knocking escalated into a frantic pounding, rattling the doorframe. And the voice changed, subtly. The soft pleading took on a sharper edge, a hint of impatience, even anger. “Daniel! Are you going to leave your mother out in the storm? After all I’ve done for you? After all these years?” A shiver of genuine fear ran down my spine. Mother, for all her love, had never resorted to emotional manipulation, not like this. This was a twisted mimicry, a violation of her memory. “Who are you?” I yelled back, my voice trembling, cracking. “Leave us alone!” A silence fell, thick and unnerving, broken only by the relentless rain. My heart pounded so loudly I thought Sarah must hear it. Then, a low, guttural chuckle emanated from the other side of the door. It wasn't Mother’s laughter. It was something else. Something ancient and malevolent, devoid of humor, filled with contempt. And then the voice returned, but this time, it was a chilling, distorted parody of my mother’s voice, stretched and deepened, laced with a faint, gurgling sound, like water bubbling through mud. “You buried me, Daniel. You put me in the cold, dark ground. But I’m still here. And I need to come home.” The pounding on the door intensified, becoming violent, as if something heavy was slamming against it. The entire frame shuddered. Sarah let out a strangled cry, burying her face in my shoulder. I could feel her shaking uncontrollably. “It knows,” I whispered, my eyes fixed on the trembling wood of the door. “It knows we buried her.” “It’s not her, Daniel,” Sarah sobbed into my shirt. “It's using her… to get to us.” Suddenly, the pounding stopped. Another silence, even more terrifying than the last. Then, a scratching sound began, slow and deliberate, like long, sharp nails dragging across the wood, moving from the doorknob, upwards. And then, I heard it. A faint, wet sniffing sound from directly outside the keyhole, followed by a soft, almost inaudible sigh. Then, the voice again, a whisper now, right at the keyhole, raw and intimate, filled with a horrific intimacy that turned my stomach. “I can smell your fear, Daniel. And I can smell your grief. Such a heavy grief. It’s almost as heavy as the earth on my coffin.” I stumbled back, pulling Sarah with me, away from the door. My mind reeled. This wasn't some trick of sound or light. This was real. Something was out there. Something that had taken on my mother’s voice, her memories, to gain entry. Something that was preying on my sorrow. The scratching continued, now higher up the door, then lower, as if whatever was outside was circling, testing, searching for a weakness. A faint, earthy scent, like damp grave soil, began to seep through the cracks around the doorframe, mixing with the clean smell of rain. Sarah clung to me, her face buried against my chest. “What does it want?” she whimpered. The voice answered, a low, satisfied murmur from the other side of the door. “I want to be warm again, my son. And you are so warm. You held my hand when I was cold. Now, let me hold yours. Forever.” A chilling sound, like a wet, sucking noise, came from the keyhole, followed by a faint, clicking sound, as if something was attempting to turn the lock from the outside. Panic surged through me, cold and absolute. It wasn't just a voice. It was trying to get in. It was trying to claim me, just as it had claimed Mother’s voice. I dragged Sarah back, away from the door, towards the deepest part of the house, the small, enclosed pantry where we kept emergency supplies. We huddled there, in the oppressive darkness, listening to the rain, and to the faint, persistent scratching that continued at the front door. It went on and on, punctuated by the chilling whispers of a voice that was both familiar and utterly alien. I knew then, with a sickening certainty, that the grave had not held her. And now, the thing that had followed her back was patiently waiting, clawing at the door, to finally claim what it believed was its due. My mother's voice, transformed into a siren's call from the abyss. And the night was long. So very long.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Basket and Belial
To read my review of Basket Case from several years ago, click below. Basket Case I’ve written of this film before, and since childhood, its gritty, ugly, and shocking sleaze has been with me. I first chanced to see it on cable television in the same year it was released (or shortly thereafter). It undoubtedly imprinted troubling psychological traumas in my developing brain, and though I saw only a few minutes of it, I well remember—mostly—the bloody Dr. Kutter (Diana Browne) with surgical scalpels sticking out of her face. That’s an image that’s stayed with me all my life, and, much as the opening few minutes of Time After Time (1979) went a long way toward framing my life later—or informing my conscious self of the individual I was—so too did the mutant of the movie: the small, greenish, pudgy lump of flesh known as “Belial,” whom I’ve mutated into over the decades.
By Tom Bakerabout a year ago in Horror