monster
Monsters and horror go hand in hand; explore horrific creatures, beasts and hairy scaries like Freddy Krueger, Frankenstein and far beyond.
The Hollow Guest
The rain lashed against the windows of the old puritanical house, a grim shower that echoed through its empty halls. Clara had inherited the place from her great-aunt, a woman she slightly knew, who’d lived alone and failed alone in this worsening relic on the edge of city. The house was a maze of creaking floorboards and shadowed corners, its wallpaper shelling like dead skin. Clara, a realistic woman in her thirties, didn't believe in ghosts. She’d come to sort through the clutter, vend what she could, and put the place on the request. But as the storm raged outdoors, the house felt alive, its palpitation wheezing in the walls. She started in the garret, where dust motes danced in the weak light of a single bulb. Trunks overflowed with moth-eat clothes and yellowed letters. One point stood out: a small, tarnished glass with an ornate frame, its glass clouded and depraved. Clara’s reflection looked malformed, her eyes too large, her mouth a thin rent. She set it away, unsettled, and moved on to a mound of journals. Her great-aunt’s handwriting was spidery, compulsive, filled with references to" the guest. ” It watches from the corners. It wears my face. Clara fiddled, dismissing it as the ramblings of a lonely mind. Downward, the house moaned under the storm’s assault. Clara lit a fire in the salon, the dears casting fluttering murk on the walls. She tried to concentrate on listing cabinetwork, but the glass from the garret kept drawing her eye. She’d brought it down without thinking, propping it on the mantel. Now, it sounded to gawk back, its face splashing noiselessly, though she told herself it was just the firelight. By night, the storm had worsened, and the power flitted out. Clara cursed, fumbling for her phone’s flashlight. The ray cut through the darkness, revealing the salon’s faded majesty — and commodity differently. A shadow moved in the corner, too altitudinous, too thin, its edges blurring into the dusk. She swung the light toward it, heart pounding, but there was nothing. Just the glass reflecting her pale face and the empty room. She laughed nervously, reprimanding herself. “ Get a grip, Clara. ” But as she turned down, a soft creak came from the staircase. Not the house settling — deliberate, like steps. She set, hardening. Another creak, near. Her phone’s light quivered in her hand as she crept toward the hall. The air felt heavy, thick with the scent of damp wood and sharper, like burnt hair. “ Hello" Her voice was a tale, swallowed by the house. No answer, but the creaking stopped. She reached the staircase and shone her light overhead. The darkness sounded to palpitate, as if the house itself was breathing. Also, from the wharf over, a faint giggle — grandly, childlike, and hugely wrong. Clara’s blood ran cold. She was alone. She was supposed to be alone. She backed down, retreating to the salon, where the fire had downscale to embers. The glass caught her eye again, and this time, her reflection wasn't hers. The face was hers same brown eyes, same sharp cheekbones, but it smiled when she didn't, its lips entwining too wide, showing too numerous teeth. She stumbled back, knocking over a president. The glass fell, shattering on the domicile. Shards scattered, each one reflecting that same grotesque smile. The giggle came again, from far and wide and nowhere. Clara seized her phone and ran for the frontal door, but it wouldn't budge. The cinch was jammed, the handle cold wave as ice. She pounded on the wood, screaming for help, but the storm drowned her out. Commodity brushed her neck, light as a breath, and she spun around. Nothing. Just the dark, and the sense of being watched. She fled to the kitchen, blocking the door with a table. Her phone was at 5 battery, the flashlight dimming. She tried to call for help, but the signal was dead. The air grew colder, the murk thick. Also, from the other side of the hedge, a voice — her voice, but concave, mocking. “ Clara, let me in. ” She choked back a sob, clinging a kitchen cutter. The voice kept talking, reciting her studies, her fears, her nonage secrets. “ You left Mom alone when she was sick," it whizzed. “ You didn't indeed cry at her burial," Clara screamed, hurling the cutter at the door. It stuck, jiggling, but the voice only laughed. The house sounded to close in, walls bending inward. She ran upstairs this time, locking herself in a bedroom. The glass’s shards were there, incredibly, scattered on the bottom. In each piece, that face — her face, but not — goggled back, unblinking — the room filled with whispers, a chorus of her voice, culminating, riding. “ You can't leave. You’re part of me now. ” Clara sank to the bottom, handing over her knowledge. The storm outside faded, replaced by a silence so deep it hurt. She felt it also — the guest. It wasn't outside her, not presently. It was in her skin, her blood, her studies. Her reflection in the shards blinked, though her eyes stayed open. When morning came, the storm had passed. The house stood quietly, its door uncorked. Clara was gone, her car still in the drive. The glass was whole again, its glass clear, reflecting nothing but the empty room. And in the garret, a new journal entry appeared, in Clara’s handwriting It wears my face now. It’s home.
By Md Abul Kasem6 months ago in Horror
Send to Kill. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
The New Guys—a name whispered among the townsfolk of Akkerstad—had a darker origin. It all began in Mexico with Marco Lopez, the eldest of seven children, who grew up in a neighborhood rife with gangs. Following in his father’s footsteps, Marco joined the Cartel, leveraging the legacy of his family. His great-grandfather was a gifted businessman, a trait that seemed to run in the Lopez bloodline. Unfortunately, the family legacy took a darker turn with his grandfather, who initiated the gangster lifestyle, a tradition passed down to Marco and his father.
By Winston Benjamin6 months ago in Horror
Send to Kill. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
Preacher leaned back in his chair, a distant look in his eyes. “I had this vision last Wednesday,” he began, gathering his thoughts. “I prepared myself for what you asked me last week about helping you guys out. In the vision, I saw a woman sitting in a chair, looking down, clearly sad. She was in a garage, and nearby, hidden among some bushes, was a baby covered in blood. The baby looked… evil. I can’t explain it, but its eyes were wide and it had this unsettling smile.” He paused, the memory vivid in his mind. “Then everything just vanished, and another vision took its place. The woman was still in the garage, but now she was crying.”
By Winston Benjamin6 months ago in Horror
Send to Kill. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
The Angel of Death, a nameless specter, had carved a path of destruction across the years, his confidence growing with each kill. Killing had become a routine; now, he craved chaos. Akkerstad, a small yet bustling town, was ruled by gangsters. Three main gangs held sway: the Zulus, the Mexicans (known as “The Guys” by locals), and the Ruthless.
By Winston Benjamin6 months ago in Horror
Why Horror Feels Safe When Real Life Doesn’t
When I tell people that horror is my comfort genre, I usually get one of two reactions: a polite smile that says “I don’t understand, but okay”, or a nervous laugh as if they’ve just been handed a red flag. The idea that something full of monsters, death, and dread could be soothing seems backwards—unless you’ve lived a life where the real world is already full of those things.
By No One’s Daughter6 months ago in Horror
The Phone That Rang at 3:15 AM
It was an ordinary Thursday night. I had just finished scrolling through my social media feed and was ready to drift off to sleep. My phone lay on the table beside my bed, screen turned down, the room quiet except for the faint sound of the ceiling fan.
By Spondan Chowdhury6 months ago in Horror
