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How-tos for all things horror; tips and tricks to help you write like Stephen King, tell a scary story, keep the monsters at bay and more.
The Haunted Pen Factory at Kasem Bundit University: Bangkok’s Most Terrifying Abandoned Building
The Pen Factory of Kasem Bundit University: A Haunted History Located in the Kasem Bundit University campus, along Pattanakarn Road in Bangkok, Thailand, is one of the city’s most haunted yet abandoned structures: an old pen factory covering 80 acres of land. Presently, the ruins of this industrial giant are seen standing silently, decaying under the scorching sun. However, the silence is more than just peaceful. Rumors of ghosts, mishaps, and other haunted experiences are associated with this ruined industrial giant, making it an urban legend of the city of Bangkok.
By Kyrol Mojikalabout an hour ago in Horror
Researchers believe they understand why the noses of Triceratops were so large.
Triceratops have been characterised for almost a century by its visible features, including as their enormous beak, horns, and frills. However, what we couldn't see at all might be the true surprise. According to recent CT scans, this horned dinosaur redirected its snout's primary blood arteries and nerves through its nostrils rather than its jaw.
By Francis Dami4 days ago in Horror
Why We Crave the Shadows?
Horror is often dismissed as a "cheap thrill"—a collection of jump scares and visceral shocks designed to elicit a scream. However, the most enduring horror stories are not about what hides under the bed, but what hides inside the human psyche. At its core, horror is a sophisticated psychological tool that allows us to explore our deepest anxieties within the safety of a narrative.
By Being Inquisitive5 days ago in Horror
My Reflection Blinked Before I Did
The first time it happened, I told myself I was tired. The second time, I stopped trusting my own eyes. It was late. Not the dramatic kind of late where the world feels haunted—just ordinary late. The kind where your room is quiet, your phone is charging, and your thoughts are louder than they should be. I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, brushing my teeth, half-awake and half somewhere else. I looked at myself the way I always do—quickly, carelessly. A glance, not a study. And then my reflection blinked. Before I did. It was subtle. So subtle I almost missed it. A fraction of a second. But I’m sure. I hadn’t blinked yet. My eyes were still open when the version of me in the mirror closed his. I froze. My first instinct was denial. I blinked deliberately this time, slowly. The reflection copied me perfectly. I tilted my head. It tilted too. I raised my hand. It followed. Normal. I leaned closer to the mirror. My heart was beating faster now, not from fear but from confusion. Maybe my brain had lagged. Maybe I blinked without realizing. Maybe exhaustion plays tricks. I turned off the light and went to bed. But sleep didn’t come easily. The next morning, I avoided the mirror. I washed my face without looking up. It felt ridiculous—being scared of glass. I laughed at myself in the kitchen. “You imagined it,” I whispered. “You’re just stressed.” All day, the thought followed me. Not like panic. More like a question I couldn’t answer. That night, I stood in front of the mirror again. I don’t know why. Maybe to prove something. Maybe to challenge it. The bathroom light hummed softly. My reflection stared back at me. Same messy hair. Same tired eyes. Same small scar near the eyebrow I got when I was twelve. We stood there, watching each other. I decided to blink first. Slowly. Deliberately. We blinked together. I exhaled. Then it happened again. Not a blink this time. A smile. A small one. Almost invisible. But it wasn’t mine. My face was neutral. I know it was. I felt my muscles still, relaxed. But in the mirror, the corners of my mouth twitched upward for just a second. It wasn’t a happy smile. It looked… knowing. My stomach dropped. I stepped back quickly. The reflection did too. Perfect synchronization, like nothing had happened. Like I had imagined it. “Stop,” I muttered to myself. I turned off the light and left, but something had shifted. Over the next few days, I started noticing tiny delays. Not always. Just sometimes. When I moved too quickly. When I wasn’t fully focused. It felt like my reflection was catching up instead of mirroring me instantly. Or maybe it was waiting. I stopped standing too close. I stopped staring too long. I covered the bathroom mirror with a towel one night, telling myself it was just temporary. But mirrors are everywhere. In my phone screen. In windows. In the dark surface of the TV. One evening, while my phone was black and locked, I saw my reflection staring back at me. I wasn’t looking directly at it—just holding the phone loosely. And then it blinked. I hadn’t. I dropped the phone. My breathing became shallow. My hands were shaking now. Not because I thought something supernatural was happening. But because something felt wrong inside me. It didn’t feel like a ghost. It felt like… me. Or a version of me. The more it happened, the more I started questioning something terrifying: What if it wasn’t the reflection acting first? What if I was the one lagging behind? The thought stuck with me. I began to notice how often I moved on autopilot. Smiling when I didn’t feel like it. Nodding in conversations I wasn’t fully present in. Saying “I’m fine” before checking if I actually was. What if the mirror wasn’t ahead of me? What if it was showing the truth before I allowed myself to feel it? The night everything changed, I stood in front of the mirror without fear. Just exhaustion. “Okay,” I whispered. “What do you want?” My reflection stared back. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then it blinked. Before I did. And this time, it didn’t copy my next movement. I lifted my hand slowly. The reflection didn’t. It stayed still. Watching me. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it in my ears. My reflection’s eyes looked darker somehow. More focused. More aware. It wasn’t evil. It was calm. Calmer than me. Then it did something I wasn’t prepared for. It leaned closer. I hadn’t moved. It leaned closer to the glass, studying me the way I had studied it days ago. And then it spoke. Not with sound. With expression. A tired one. A disappointed one. Like it had been waiting for me to notice. Suddenly, something inside me cracked. I realized how long I had been ignoring myself. Ignoring stress. Ignoring fear. Ignoring the parts of me that needed attention. I had been performing so well for the outside world that I stopped checking in with the inside one. The mirror version wasn’t ahead of me. It was honest before I was. It blinked first because it wasn’t pretending. It smiled first because it knew things I refused to admit. Tears welled up in my eyes. And this time, when I blinked, it blinked with me. Perfectly. In sync. The reflection softened. The tension in its face disappeared. It mirrored me completely again—no delay, no independence. Just glass. Just me. I stood there for a long time after that. Nothing supernatural has happened since. No early blinks. No independent smiles. But sometimes, when I look at myself too quickly, I remember that feeling. And I slow down. Because maybe the scariest thing isn’t that your reflection moves first. Maybe it’s realizing that part of you has been awake the whole time—waiting for you to catch up.
By Faizan Malik15 days ago in Horror
My Phone Started Recording Me While I Slept”
I don’t remember giving my phone permission to record me. That’s the part that keeps me awake. I noticed it in the morning, half-asleep and reaching for my phone out of habit. A notification sat at the top of my screen, calm and ordinary. Sleep Session Saved — 6h 42m I don’t use sleep apps. I tapped it, expecting a glitch. Instead, a dark interface opened. A clean waveform. Timestamps. Everything looked intentional—professional, even. Recorded: 2:11 AM – 2:24 AM My stomach tightened. I pressed play. At first, it was just background noise. The refrigerator. Distant traffic. Then my breathing—slow, deep, unaware. Hearing yourself asleep feels wrong, like reading someone else’s private thoughts. I was about to close it when my breathing stopped. The silence stretched too long. Then I heard footsteps. Soft. Careful. Inside my apartment. I sat up so fast I felt dizzy. The recording continued. A faint creak near my bedroom door. Fabric brushing against something. Movement that sounded deliberate, restrained. Then a whisper, so close it distorted the audio. “He’s still asleep.” I dropped the phone. I checked every lock, every window. Nothing was disturbed. No signs of anyone being there. I tried to delete the app. It wouldn’t let me. When I held the icon down, there was no uninstall option. Just a line of text beneath it. Recording improves with familiarity. That night, I turned my phone off completely. I left it on the kitchen counter, face-down, disconnected. I still woke up at 3:00 AM to find it warm. Powered on. Another notification waiting. The next recording was worse. It started with a clicking sound—like a microphone being activated manually. Then a voice spoke. Calm. Clinical. Not mine. “Subject is restless tonight.” I heard myself shift in bed. “Increased awareness detected.” A pause. Then a soft laugh. “They always think it’s the phone.” I didn’t sleep after that. The recordings came every night. Longer. Clearer. Sometimes there were multiple voices. They talked about me like I wasn’t human—like I was data. Heart rate. Fear response. Attachment. One night, I heard myself speak. I don’t remember waking up, but there was my voice, quiet and empty. “Am I doing better?” I asked. “Yes,” one of them replied gently. “You’re learning.” That was when fear shifted into something worse. Familiarity. They started using my name. Mentioned memories I’d never shared online. Childhood moments. Private thoughts. Dreams I barely remembered myself. They knew me. On the final night, the app saved a video. I didn’t know my phone could record video with the screen off. The footage was grainy, green-tinted, like night vision. My bedroom, seen from the upper corner near the ceiling—an angle that shouldn’t exist. I watched myself sleeping. Then something stepped into frame. Tall. Indistinct. Its face never fully focused, like the camera refused to understand it. It leaned over my bed, studying me with something almost gentle. It reached out. Touched my forehead. In the video, my eyes opened. And I smiled. I woke up gasping. My phone buzzed immediately. Recording Complete — Integration Successful I don’t try to delete the app anymore. I don’t listen to the recordings. I barely sleep. But sometimes, late at night, when my phone grows warm in my hand, I feel calmer. Less alone. Like something is watching over me—learning me—handling things while I rest. And just before I drift off, I hear a whisper that doesn’t come from the phone. “Don’t worry. We’ll take over while you sleep.”
By Faizan Malik18 days ago in Horror
The Echo in the Floorboards
The house on Miller Street didn't look haunted. It didn’t have sagging shutters or a bleeding foundation. It was a crisp, mid-century modern ranch with floor-to-ceiling windows and honey-colored oak floors. Elias bought it because it felt "transparent." After a messy divorce and a cramped apartment, he wanted a life where nothing could hide.
By Asghar ali awanabout a month ago in Horror
Marine dark waves: The consequences of a dark bottom
The seafloor loses light nearly overnight, and coastal water can occasionally change from clear to hazy. Scientists can evaluate the timing, duration, and intensity of these underwater blackouts across regions thanks to a novel surveillance system. These blackouts can swiftly damage kelp and seagrass.
By Francis Damiabout a month ago in Horror
