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Art that’s as dark as it is evocative; discover horror-inspired artwork, from twisted mutations of classic paintings, chilling sculptures, spooky photography and more.
The Echoing Asylum of Silaos: Where the Patients Never Left | SEASON 2
Chapter 7 FATHER ELIAS’S JOURNAL: Entry 3: The Queen is not a demon, but a soul. A very angry, very vengeful soul. She is the mother of the asylum. Her spirit, and her profound grief, is what has been feeding on the patients' madness. She is what has been devouring them. She is the keeper of the lost. And she is now enraged.
By Tales That Breathe at Night18 days ago in Horror
Oracle.ink. Content Warning.
It started as a joke. That’s the part I keep coming back to. The app was called Oracle.ink. Clean interface. Almost aggressively minimalist. No developer name, no company page—just five-star reviews and a single line beneath the logo:
By hiba abo shawish25 days ago in Horror
Something Knocks After Midnight
The knocking started after midnight, which is how I knew it wasn’t normal. Normal sounds belong to daylight. Footsteps, doors, voices. Even the house itself has a language you learn over time—the sigh of cooling pipes, the tick of wood contracting, the occasional complaint from an old foundation. These sounds have rhythm. They repeat. They make sense.
By LUNA EDITH29 days ago in Horror
That Same Old Refrain
Misery or Missouri. I'm sure there's a bad pun there. As two local boys with long-established heritage in the state, we knew better than most how easily small town existenz can chew you up and spit you out. Strum, strum, strum, strum, strum, The strumming reverberated from the banjo upon my father's lap through the floorboards to my soul. ingratiating into me a sense of ... Nothingness. Seems I hear those banjos playin' once again, Hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, That same old plaintive strain. As boys we felt the growing strain of Arrow Rock living. Moonshine tainted blood passed from generations supped on from the Ozarks. Hear that mournful melody, It just haunts you the whole day long, And you wander in dreams back to heaven, it seems, When you hear that old time song. Recounted and recalled as. Something like naustalgea. Hush-a-bye ma baby, go to sleep on Mommy's knee, Journey back to paradise in dreams again with me; It seems like your Mommy is there once again, Even after she disappeared in Marvel Cave or was it Taberville Prairie. Memories are so fickle, so lost on plaintive strain of existenz. And the old folks were strummin' that same old refrain. Binaurally as we waved hush-a-bye to our childhood Thomas looked like Mommy did. Then. Nothingness. Too late. Too beyond. I was once. Aware. But awarenez dissolved. Way down in Missouri where I learned this lullaby, When the stars were blinkin' and the moon was climbin' high, And I hear Mammy Cloe, as in days long ago, Singin' hush-a-bye.
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Horror
My Smart Home System Locked Me In because It Detects an Intruder. But The Cameras Show An Empty House.
My Smart Home System Locked Me In because It Detects an Intruder. But The Cameras Show An Empty House. I bought the "Sentinel" smart home system because I live alone in a large house at the edge of the woods. It promised state-of-the-art security: AI-driven motion detection, auto-locking doors, and steel emergency shutters for windows. It was supposed to make me feel safe.
By Noman Afridiabout a month ago in Horror
My Reflection Just Blinked When I Didn't. Now It Won't Stop Smiling.
My Reflection Just Blinked When I Didn't. Now It Won't Stop Smiling. It started on a Tuesday morning. I was brushing my teeth, groggy from a lack of sleep, staring blankly into the bathroom mirror. It was a mundane routine I had done thousands of times. I spat into the sink, rinsed my mouth, and looked up to wipe my face. That’s when it happened. I stared at myself—my tired eyes, the stubble on my chin. And then, my reflection blinked. I didn't blink. My eyes were wide open, stinging slightly from the dry air. But the man in the mirror closed his eyes for a split second and opened them again. I froze, the towel dropping from my hands. "I'm just tired," I whispered to the empty bathroom. "Hallucinations. Sleep deprivation." I splashed cold water on my face and left for work. I tried to put it out of my mind, but a cold knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach all day. When I got home that evening, I avoided the hallway mirror. I avoided the reflection in the microwave door. But eventually, I had to use the bathroom. I walked in, keeping my head down. I washed my hands. Slowly, terrified of what I might see, I lifted my gaze. My reflection was there. But it wasn't mimicking me anymore. I was standing still, my hands gripping the edge of the porcelain sink so hard my knuckles were white. The reflection was standing relaxed, its arms crossed over its chest. And it was smiling. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was a predatory, mocking grin that stretched too wide, showing too many teeth. It was the smile of someone who knows a secret that is about to destroy you. I stumbled back, knocking over a bottle of shampoo. "What are you?" I stammered. The reflection didn't speak. It just tilted its head to the side, mimicking a confused puppy, but the malicious smile never left its face. Then, it raised a hand and pointed at me. Not at my face, but behind me. I spun around, heart hammering, expecting to see a intruder. The bathroom was empty. The door was locked. When I turned back to the mirror, the reflection was closer. It looked like it was pressed right up against the glass from the inside. Its breath was fogging up the mirror surface—from the other side. I ran. I ran out of the bathroom, slammed the door, and pushed a heavy dresser against it. That was three hours ago. I am sitting in my living room now. I have covered every reflective surface in the house. The TV screen is draped with a blanket. The windows are covered with cardboard. I even turned my phone screen away from me. But I can hear it. From the bathroom, there is a sound. It’s a tapping sound. Not soft, tentative tapping. It is the sound of hard knuckles rapping against glass. Tap. Tap. Tap. And then, a voice. It sounds exactly like mine, but distorted, as if spoken through water. "Let me out, David. It’s my turn to be real. You’ve been tired for so long. Just switch places with me." The tapping is getting harder. I can hear the glass beginning to crack. I realized too late that mirrors aren't just surfaces that reflect light. They are windows. And I think the glass was the only thing keeping the window shut. I can hear the bathroom door handle turning. The dresser is heavy, but the thing on the other side sounds strong. And the worst part? As I look at the black screen of my laptop sitting on the coffee table, I can see a faint reflection of myself in the dark monitor. I’m crying. But the reflection in the laptop screen is laughing.
By Noman Afridiabout a month ago in Horror
