art
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.
Cutting Head
Cutting Head The town of Raven's Hollow had always harbored dark secrets, but none as sinister as the legend of the Cutting Head. It was whispered that a figure haunted the old Blackwood Forest, wielding a rusted axe and claiming the heads of those who dared wander too far into the night. Skeptics dismissed it as folklore, but every few years, a new disappearance would renew the fear.
By Himansu Kumar Routray12 months ago in Horror
The Real Story of Grandpa’s the Spirit, Parts 1 and 2
Mateja Klaric posted an invitation for participants in a writers’ group on LinkedIn to share anecdotes about the oddest things that have occurred to them. Well, I’ve seen a great deal of unusual things, but this has to be the only one that delves into the area of the paranormal. At the time it occurred, I accepted what I saw as a ghost; today, as a somewhat more skeptical adult, I maintain that I have no explanation for what I witnessed. In any case, it remains a really unique memory. Here’s the story:
By QuirkTalesabout a year ago in Horror
Shadows of the Family: A Secret That Will Never Die
My parents, as you might imagine, were not mere ordinary figures in this world. They were among those who walked in the shadows, wielding power and wealth with an unrelenting grip. Their canopies stretched like colossal trees, roots digging deep into the earth, branches blotting out the sun. And in their world, marriage was not a union of hearts but an alliance of interests, a transaction calculated with precision. This, my friend, would later prove to be of great significance.
By Pedro Wilsonabout a year ago in Horror
Beyond the Trees: The Unforgettable Whispers of the Forest
Do not venture into those woods after dark. It was one of those admonitions you grew up hearing, whispered by everyone in this town, as though it were a sacred truth passed down through generations. A warning etched into the very fabric of our childhoods, like the old tales of monsters under the bed or the dangers of swimming too soon after eating. Stories you eventually outgrew, realizing they were little more than tools to keep you safe, to keep you in line when you were too young to understand the world’s true dangers.
By Pedro Wilsonabout a year ago in Horror
The Nightly Reaping: When Shadows Come for Our Souls
I was but fifteen years old when my father and I sought refuge in that ancient trailer nestled deep within the valley. It was a wretched place, barely functional, where the bathroom doubled as the kitchen, and there was no shower to speak of. In the winter, the pipes would freeze, and the tiny room we shared was scarcely warmed by a feeble space heater.
By Pedro Wilsonabout a year ago in Horror
The Shadow of Adeline: A Journey Between Love, Death, and Memories That Never Die
The girl in the graveyard is your dearest companion, and thus, you bear her homeward. The night lies between you like a bruise, a stain of crimson in the window of the passenger seat—a hue akin to fruit left to fester and decay. Her fingers, cold and lifeless, fumble with the seatbelt—one, then two.
By Pedro Wilsonabout a year ago in Horror
The Claw Machine. Top Story - January 2025.
She was passed out with a little black book beside her, when little Joseph decided to run away from home that day and go to the carnival. He tugged and tugged on mom's arms but nothing would wake her. Nothing at all. Feeling the anger in him well up he stomped and growled and said mother from a low aching voice that ached within his belly. Mother had been tired for days and she promised him they would go today because it was the last day and if they didn't go today the carnival wouldn't come back for a whole nother year!
By L.K. Rolanabout a year ago in Horror
Who Was It?
It's very late at this point. A scary quietness. Outside, the nonstop cry of cicadas repeats sadly. The climate feels weighty and severe. All of a sudden, a tempest or downpour could begin. Prior to hitting the sack, Asad has made a propensity for perusing for some time. Very much like some other day, he was perusing *Bankim's Kopal Kundola* (quite possibly of the earliest heartfelt novel in Bengali writing) when his eyes had unconsciously shut. Unexpectedly, a startling sound woke up him from his daze. His look moved to the typhoon light. The wick had become very dark, and the light was glimmering though no one can easily explain why. Outside, the breeze was yelling uproariously. Asad couldn't sort out the reason for the flashing, yet the breeze's power had definitely expanded, alongside a periodic lightning and thunder. The weather conditions felt like the beginning of the storm — warm, with the mists building, however the precipitation was light. The indications of an adjustment of the weather conditions were clear.
By S.M. Shamim Ahmedabout a year ago in Horror
