monster
Monsters and horror go hand in hand; explore horrific creatures, beasts and hairy scaries like Freddy Krueger, Frankenstein and far beyond.
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
Slenderman - short story
Slenderman has always been a point of interest for me and my friends, a creepypasta we found entertaining starting all the way back in 2018. Inspired by the very real experiences I had where I'm from at dusk in the months preceding Christmas, when the sun dips low and the trees become brilliant shows of warm hues, this Slenderman story was my first creative writing piece I wrote as a freshman in high school. Enjoy :) Written in Fall 2025 as a freshman in high school.
By Chad McBroski2 months ago in Horror
The Shadow That Never Lets Go
The dark of night has always been a mixture of fear, silence, and loneliness for humans. Some nights feel heavier than others, as if the air itself is pressing against your chest. There is an invisible weight that makes every shadow seem alive, every sound amplified, every movement a threat. These are the nights when a person is not truly alone. Ali, a young man who thought he was ordinary, experienced one such night that would change him forever.
By darus sahil2 months ago in Horror
Abigail & A Thing Called It. Content Warning.
Abigail’s parents were at their whits ends. She was 7 years old now, a year ago, she had no problem going to sleep on her own. But since her birthday a few weeks ago, she has put up a fight every night at bedtime. Abigail told her parents a tale of a slithery shadow. “It’s been watching me sleep.” She tells mom and dad.
By Theresa M Hochstine2 months ago in Horror
