monster
Monsters and horror go hand in hand; explore horrific creatures, beasts and hairy scaries like Freddy Krueger, Frankenstein and far beyond.
The Last Elevator Ride: The Unsettling Mystery of Elisa Lam
The strange thing about some mysteries is that they don’t start with a scream or a crime scene. They begin quietly, almost too quietly, and then grow into something no one can forget. The case of Elisa Lam is one of those stories—simple at the start, almost routine, and then suddenly so disturbing that Americans still revisit it years later, as if hoping this time the ending will change.
By The Insight Ledger about a month ago in Horror
Whispers on Summerisle
I. The Island That Swallowed People Summerisle looked peaceful from the ferry—a quiet crescent of land surrounded by mist and gentle waters. Tourists called it charming. Locals called it home. But to Mara Willen, it was the last place her brother Jonah had ever been seen. He vanished on Summerisle six months ago. The police claimed he probably drowned during a night swim, but Jonah wasn’t the type to just disappear. He always called Mara, always told her where he was going. He was the protective one—her lighthouse during every storm. Now she was here to find out what happened. As she stepped onto the creaking wooden dock, the first thing she noticed was the silence. Not peaceful silence—forced silence. No laughter. No gulls. No wind. Just… stillness. It felt like the entire island was holding its breath.
By Sahir E Shafqatabout a month ago in Horror
The Forgotten Monitor
The Beginning of the End Elliot Adams had always been the type of person to enjoy his privacy. He preferred the hum of his computer to the chatter of the outside world, the glow of his monitors to the faces of people. His apartment was small, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, with nothing more than the faint thrum of passing cars to break the stillness. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and his desk, where he spent most of his days, was cluttered with papers and empty coffee cups. His two monitors sat at the center of it all, glowing with the dull intensity of endless lines of code. He was a freelance software developer—a job that allowed him to work from the comfort of his own space, a luxury he didn’t take for granted. Most days, his work was simple: update websites, debug programs, and write scripts. But lately, there had been something strange about the project he had been assigned. It started innocuously enough. A simple contract with an unnamed company—just another piece of work he could quickly finish and move on from. The task seemed straightforward: improve the security system for a monitoring software that tracked office usage. Nothing too fancy, no heavy lifting. But as he started digging into the code, something felt… off. For one, the system wasn’t just tracking office activity—it was tracking people. More than that, it was tracking thoughts. Their patterns. Their moods. The software was accessing data that shouldn’t have been available to anyone, not even the creators.
By Sahir E Shafqatabout a month ago in Horror
Her Name Was Rowan
The Missing Girl The island of Summerisle was a quiet, remote place—a patch of green surrounded by endless ocean, where the sounds of the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the breeze and the waves. It was the perfect setting for a peaceful life. At least, that’s what Sergeant Edward Howie had thought when he was assigned to investigate the mysterious disappearance of a little girl named Rowan Morrison. Rowan was just a child, no more than seven or eight, and she had vanished without a trace. The islanders, an insular and strange community, had little to say about it, and the authorities were of no help. So, Sergeant Howie—headstrong, methodical, and determined—was sent to find out what happened. He arrived on Summerisle with little more than a suitcase and a sense of duty, unaware that his quest would lead him into a nightmare far deeper than any crime he had encountered in his career.
By Sahir E Shafqatabout a month ago in Horror
The Last Watchman
The Arrival The island of Dryvale had always been a place of whispers and half-forgotten legends, tucked away on the outskirts of the world, beyond the reach of most modern maps. The residents of nearby towns spoke of it only in hushed tones, often with an air of unease. But for Marcus Flynn, the quiet, solitary man who had recently retired from city life, Dryvale represented his last chance at peace. Marcus had been a watchman—one of the quiet, watchful figures who kept an eye on everything but was never seen. But after decades of trudging through cold, fog-covered nights in a world full of noise, he longed for silence. The offer to take over the watchman’s post on Dryvale had come unexpectedly, but he took it without hesitation. He arrived at dusk, greeted only by the steady rhythm of the ocean crashing against the rocks below. The lighthouse stood tall, a silhouette against the dying light, its beam dormant for now. The island’s single road wound up to the old stone structure, flanked by scrubby trees and unkempt gardens. There were no other buildings—only the lighthouse and the few, scattered homes of the dwindling islanders. "Don’t stay out too long," an old fisherman had warned him as he boarded the boat. "The night brings strange things here." Marcus had smiled politely, assuming it was just another superstition, but deep down, a flicker of unease had settled in his stomach. The journey had been long and tiring, and the promise of solitude seemed to call to him, overshadowing the oddities of the place. The Watchman's Routine The first few days were uneventful, as Marcus settled into his new life. The island’s inhabitants were reclusive but not unfriendly, often leaving him to his own devices. There was an elderly woman, Ms. Bray, who lived just a few hundred yards from the lighthouse, and she brought him fresh food and supplies every few days. She spoke little but seemed to know more about the island than anyone else. “Don’t go out at night, Marcus,” she would always say before leaving. “The sea changes then. It’s not the same world.” But Marcus dismissed her warnings. After all, he had seen his share of eerie places, and he wasn’t easily scared. His job was simple: keep the light on, watch the waves, and wait for the storm that would inevitably come. It was a quiet, predictable life, and that’s what he had come here for. However, on the seventh night, things took an unexpected turn. The Sound It began with the wind. At first, it was just a whisper, the kind of noise that comes when the world shifts ever so slightly. Then the whispers turned into voices—a low murmur that seemed to come from the farthest reaches of the island. The sound was distant, and Marcus tried to ignore it, attributing it to his tired mind playing tricks on him. But as the wind howled through the cracks in the lighthouse, the voices grew louder. They were no longer whispers but distinct words, like someone standing just behind him, murmuring his name. “Marcus… Marcus…” His heart pounded in his chest. He turned swiftly, but the room was empty, as it had been since he arrived. The beam of the lighthouse cut through the darkness, and the vast expanse of ocean shimmered in its glow. The voices stopped, but only for a moment. Then, as if from nowhere, they began again—closer this time, more insistent. The wind howled louder, and the sea seemed to churn beneath the lighthouse, as if alive with some dark force. Marcus stood at the window, staring out into the blackness, where the ocean met the sky in a terrifying union of emptiness. “Who’s there?” he called into the dark. But the voices were not of the living. They were ancient and hollow, like the souls of the lost. Marcus felt the weight of their presence pressing against him, almost as if they were clawing at the edges of his mind. The Lighthouse’s Secret Unable to bear it any longer, Marcus decided to confront the source of the noise. He grabbed his coat, stepped outside, and made his way down the rocky path that led to the shore. The island was unnervingly still. The only sound was the rhythmic crash of the waves, which seemed louder now, more ominous. As he walked, Marcus could feel the cold bite of the wind cutting through his jacket, but his mind was focused entirely on the voices that had drawn him out. The beach was dark, the moonlight barely enough to reveal the jagged rocks that jutted from the water like dark sentinels. And then, at the far end of the shore, he saw something—a figure standing motionless, staring out at the sea. It was a woman, her back to him, wearing a tattered white dress that fluttered in the wind. Her hair was long, tangled, and black as night. “Who are you?” Marcus called out, his voice shaking in the air. The woman didn’t respond. She simply turned her head slowly to the side, her eyes glowing with an unnatural light. And then, to his horror, she spoke, her voice not of the living, but of something ancient and lost. “You’re the last, Marcus,” she said, her voice like a breath from a forgotten world. “The last watchman.” The ground beneath Marcus’s feet seemed to tremble. He felt a sharp, sinking sensation in his chest, as if the island itself was alive, and it had recognized him for what he was: a man who had come to watch but not to stay. The woman’s form began to dissolve into the mist, her face becoming more distorted with each passing moment. Her laughter echoed over the waves, chilling Marcus to his core. He turned and ran, stumbling back to the lighthouse, the voices following him, calling his name as if they were the ocean itself, pulling him under. The Truth Behind the Watchman The next morning, the island was silent once more. Marcus, exhausted and shaken, tried to make sense of what had happened. He had seen things, things that couldn’t be explained. The voices, the woman—he had to know the truth. It was Ms. Bray who finally spoke the words he had feared to hear. “Dryvale’s watchman has always been alone,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “No one stays for long. You’re the last, Marcus, and soon, you’ll be part of it. The island claims those who try to leave. It’s in the blood of those who live here.” Marcus’s heart sank. He had thought the job would offer him peace, but now, he realized, there was no escape from Dryvale. The island had a will of its own, and it was watching him—always watching. Moral of the Story The tale of Marcus Flynn teaches us that solitude is not always the peaceful refuge we expect it to be. Sometimes, places that seem quiet and inviting hide secrets darker than we can imagine. The choices we make in search of peace or escape may bring us closer to our own undoing, reminding us that some places are best left undisturbed, and some truths are better left uncovered.
By Sahir E Shafqatabout a month ago in Horror
It Cries. Content Warning.
He wakes up hunched and foetal. Everything smells wrong, too plastic, too new. Someone’s crying behind him. Damp submerged sobs. Female, he thinks. Behind that there’s nothing but acres of silence. A woman peers down at him, encased in a photo. She shines with youth, her smile lights up the frame, giving him the barest niggle of recognition. He tries to sit up but pain flares with each movement. His back feels stretched like there isn’t enough skin. He edges into a seated position, legs flopping over the side, paler than the white duvet. He’s shocked by his nudity. A sinewy body, dotted with wiry black hair, a splash of yellow bruises up one thigh.
By Alexander Thomasabout a month ago in Horror
THE WHISPERS IN THE WALLS OF THE BOY SCOUT CAMP
There are hauntings you can escape. Doors you can shut. Lights you can turn on. But what do you do when the thing watching you has no face? No form? No eyes? What do you do when the darkness itself decides to stand up?
By Veil of Shadowsabout a month ago in Horror
You don't see his face… but he sees everything inside.. AI-Generated.
When my family traveled that winter, I wasn't overly concerned. They left me alone for just a few days, and the roads were safe despite the snow that had started piling up that morning. I thought the solitude would be simple, routine, nothing more than extra free time. I didn't expect that the tranquility would later transform into something else—not a loud terror, but a constant feeling like a cold hand touching my shoulder without me seeing it.
By Activité18about a month ago in Horror
We Don't Talk to Edith Thompson. Content Warning.
September 2nd, 2025-8:35 AM "W-what do you mean, 'we don't talk to Edith Thompson'?" I ask, mind still spinning from the confusing revelation. It just doesn't make any sense! Why would an entire community, unanimously, decide to publicly shun a weird teen girl? Like, what did she do? What does she know? Rubbing both my temples, I continue, "Is that girl Edith Thompson? Why doesn't anyone talk to or acknowledge her? What happens if you do talk to her?"
By Rain Dayze2 months ago in Horror
🕊️ The Returned Angel
The village of Rahimabad lay tucked between silent hills, far away from cities, noise, and anything that looked like hope. Years ago it had been a lively place—children running along dusty lanes, women laughing as they drew water from the well, and men returning home at sunset with tired smiles. But time had not been kind. One by one, the people changed. Joy faded. Crops withered. Illness spread quietly. And the night, once peaceful, now felt heavy enough to swallow even the bravest heart. No one remembered exactly when the darkness began. They only knew that the world had become a colder, harder place. Some said it was fate. Others blamed themselves. But deep down, the people shared a quiet belief: they were forgotten. And then, everything changed on a night when the moon hid behind thick clouds. It started with a glow—weak at first, like a candle fighting against the wind. A shepherd boy returning home was the first to see it. He stopped, rubbed his eyes, and stared at the sky. The light grew brighter, warmer, almost like the sunrise happening at the wrong time. Soon, the villagers noticed it too, stepping outside their homes in confusion. The glow descended slowly, taking shape—first a shimmer, then a figure, then unmistakably something not human. An angel landed at the edge of Rahimabad. He stood tall, wrapped in a soft radiance that moved like living flame. His wings, long and silver, glimmered as though dusted with stars. His face held a calmness that made even the oldest villagers feel like children again. The people stared in stunned silence. Some cried. Others trembled. A few whispered prayers they had forgotten long ago. The angel didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence alone felt like a warm hand placed gently on an aching heart. Without a word, he began to walk. Where he stepped, the ground healed. Dry grass turned green. Wilted crops straightened and lifted toward the sky as if remembering what sunlight felt like. The old well, long cracked and unusable, sealed itself with a soft rumble. Clear water rose, sparkling. A barren tree near the schoolyard blossomed with white flowers. The villagers followed him like a river follows its path. Mothers held their children close, amazed as the little ones—sick for months—suddenly smiled with color returning to their cheeks. The old imam, who hadn’t walked without his cane in years, found his legs steady again. Even the animals sensed the change; dogs wagged their tails, cows lifted their heads, and birds returned to rooftops where they hadn’t perched in seasons. Everywhere the angel went, something broken became whole. Yet he spoke nothing. Not even a whisper. Some wondered why he had returned. Stories of a guardian angel of Rahimabad existed long ago, but most believed they were tales for children. Now, seeing him in the flesh, they realized something far greater: they had never been abandoned. They had only stopped believing in their own strength. By midnight, the angel reached the village center. People stood around him in a circle, waiting, hoping he would say something—anything. But he simply looked at them with eyes filled with quiet compassion. Then he lifted his hand. A feather drifted from his wing—long, silver, glowing softly. It floated in the air like a falling star and landed at the feet of Gulzar, the youngest orphan in the village. The boy picked it up carefully, holding it against his chest as if it were made of glass. The angel smiled—not with his lips, but with the warmth that filled the space around him. And just like that, he began to fade. His light softened, dimmed, and then dissolved into the night sky until nothing remained except a gentle breeze. The villagers stood there long after he vanished. When dawn arrived, Rahimabad looked different—not because the angel had healed everything, but because the people themselves had changed. They repaired their homes with new energy, replanted fields, and helped one another without hesitation. Laughter returned to the wells. Songs returned to the rooftops. And every night, before sleeping, villagers glanced at the sky—not searching for the angel to return, but remembering that he had come when they needed him most. Because sometimes, an angel doesn’t stay forever. He appears just long enough to remind you that hope is not something that visits you… it is something you carry inside.
By john dawar2 months ago in Horror
