celebrities
From Hitchcock to Stephen King, a roundup of the who's who in horror; all about celebrities flaunting their loudest screams and most nightmarish scenes.
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
The Voice Note I Received From My Sister, Two Days After Her Funeral.
The Voice Note I Received From My Sister, Two Days After Her Funeral. Grief makes you hear things. That’s what the therapist told me. She said it’s common for the bereaved to hear the voice of their loved ones in the wind, or imagine their footsteps in the hallway. It’s the brain’s way of coping with the sudden vacuum left by a person’s existence.
By Noman Afridiabout a month ago in Horror
Where Did Angela Go? The Strange, Happy Haunt of Felissa Rose of 'Sleepaway Camp' (1983)
If you’re from the generation that remembers calling someone a “total Angela” and meaning it as the creepiest insult possible, thank Felissa Rose. When Robert Hiltzik’s low-budget summer-camp shocker Sleepaway Camp debuted in 1983, it didn’t just deliver a twist ending — it gave the movies one of their most disquieting young performers. Rose was a child actor, spoken about in interviews as being just twelve or thirteen at the time of shooting, and that adolescent stillness in the role — equal parts fragile and uncanny — is the movie’s long, cold aftertaste.
By Movies of the 80sabout a month ago in Horror
SEASON 6 - Whispers from the Lantern: The Keeper's Lament
Chapter 11 The Keeper's voice was a profound, soul-deep sorrow. It was the sound of a man who had lost everything, who had been betrayed by the very thing he had sworn to protect. It was a voice filled with a profound, mournful lament.
By Tales That Breathe at Night2 months ago in Horror
10 Horror movies that shaped me
Horror has always been one of those genres that sticks with you—whether you want it to or not. I didn’t grow up watching every scary movie, but the ones I did see left their fingerprints on me in one way or another. Some terrified me, some fascinated me, some made me laugh when I probably shouldn’t have been laughing, and some just showed me how creative and bold horror can be when it wants to.
By Travis Johnson2 months ago in Horror
