psychological
Mind games taken way too far; explore the disturbing genre of psychological thrillers that make us question our perception of sanity and reality.
THE HUNGER OF SAINT MARGUERITE'S HOSPICE
Season 1 PROLOGUE: THE FIRST INCISION Sister Evangeline's Private Journals - Locked Ward, 1893 The hospice's east wing had been silent for seventeen years when the screaming began again. Not the usual cries of the dying - this was the wet sound of meat being parted from bone with deliberate precision.
By Tales That Breathe at Night9 months ago in Horror
The Chamber of Dark Magic
Chamber of Dark Magic : Episode One: The Lost Bell... Nisorgopur was a little village along the river, nestled in a deep forest. The locals were straightforward, sincere, and passionately religious. However, the community had a horrific past, focused on a bell that had hung in an old temple a century ago. When it rang, odd things happened.
By Sazid Rahman 9 months ago in Horror
The Villisca Axe Murders: America’s Most Chilling Unsolved Crime
Introduction Inside Villisca, Iowa's tiny town, an open 1912 massacre has plagued ghost hunters and true crime enthusiasts for all eternity. The infamous Villisca Axe Murders, which ranks among the country's most heinous crimes, claimed eight victims, their killer never caught. Today, the location of this massacre still stands, earning its gruesome title: The Axe Murder House.
By Tahsin Kabir9 months ago in Horror
The Midnight Hour of Terror”
The village was named Bospur. A tiny place, surrounded by paddy fields and bamboo groves. At its heart stood an old, decaying mansion—*Bos Bari*. Once a grand estate belonging to Zamindar Raghunath Bose, now it was a crumbling monument to fear and forgotten history.
By Fahad Khan9 months ago in Horror
"The Clockmaker’s House"
An old house with shattered stained-glass windows and a crooked chimney stood in the forgotten Dalemar village, hidden by thick fog and mossy trees. It had once belonged to the renowned clockmaker Elias Grinwell, whose creations were said to be as precise as the heartbeat of time itself. The house was left to rot after Elias's mysterious disappearance fifty years ago. At midnight, whispers of ticking sounds emanated from its crumbling walls. No one dared go near — not because of the sounds, but because time behaved strangely around it.
By Dr Sazidul 9 months ago in Horror
The Mirror That Watched Me Sleep
The Mirror That Watched Me Sleep I saw me while I was sleeping. I found a mirror in an antique business hidden between a rated bakery and a pawn shop. His frame was complicated - pale wood with carved curls and branches, which looked like symbols. The owner said it was from the early 20th century and offered it for half the award without much demand. I should have asked why.
By Md Asraf Hosain9 months ago in Horror
The Reflection within the Window. AI-Generated.
It was a stormy evening when Nora arrived at the little, disconnected cabin. The kind of cabin that continuously appeared more like an antique from a forgotten time, tucked absent within the woods, remote from civilization. She had leased it out for the end of the week in an endeavor to induce absent from the push of her work within the city. The steady commotion, the due dates, the perpetual gatherings. The guarantee of peace and calm had been as enticing to pass up. The cabin was ancient, with creaky wooden floors and dividers lined with tidy. However, there was a certain charm to it—the rural magnificence of the place was verifiable. It had everything Nora required: a chimney, a cozy easy chair, and a little kitchen where she seemed to make her favorite dinners. She unloaded her packs, unloading her books, her camera, and a bottle of wine. She aims to unwind and possibly get a little work done. As night fell, the storm exterior sawthed harder, with flashes of lightning lighting up the sky. The wind cried through the trees, and the rain battered against the windows. Nora lit the fireplace and settled into the easy chair with a glass of wine, opening a book, attempting to lose herself in its pages.
By Latest Update 9 months ago in Horror
Devils' hour
It rattled me awake — the loud ding-dong of the archaic grandma clock in the parlour. It was here: the Devil’s Hour. That period when the veil between the living and the other world thins. Now marked the most sinister hour of night. All night stalkers came into consciousness at this time — myself included. You see, all nocturnals — from occultists to birds of prey, and don’t forget the spooky beings — all come out at this hour to play. They all have one thing in common: their love for the dark. Me? I'm an anomaly. Why? Because I’m noctiphobic. I loathe everything affiliated with the night — gloomy areas, dimly lit spaces, murky spots, and everything in between. You might ask, then why aren’t you drowning in sleep? I don’t have an answer. For as long as I can remember, this has been my life. Long before I could reach a door handle or eat by myself, I’ve woken up at 3:00 AM sharp, carefully scrutinizing my surroundings, ensuring everywhere is well-lit and secure. Then, almost immediately, I would crash into unconsciousness — not from sleepiness, but from exhaustion... exhaustion born of fear. As the webs of sleep untangled from my mind, my surroundings slowly zoomed into focus. Everywhere was dark. The neighborhood was as silent as the color black. I gazed on as amorphous shadows danced on the walls, each one a potential threat. The nightlight flickered, making the shadows twist into eerie forms. Uncontrollable shivers swept through me. The door was ajar. It gave me a decisive view of the outside — log-like, drenched... Wait — that door is open?! It was rarely ever opened — the ominous, dust-covered storage room I abhorred. Its very existence fed my fears, even more so because it stood directly adjacent to mine. Most nights, I would hear the chirping and buzzing of bugs thriving inside. Other nights, it was silent — so silent that it felt like Abyss itself had made it its lair. Still, the door was never open. My parents made sure of that to abate my irrational fears. Yet, tonight — of all nights — it was open. I squinted to see into the room. My gaze landed briefly on a shadow near the window — a shapeless figure, illuminated only by the faint glow of the moon. The entire room looked like a yawning black void, swallowing the weak moonbeam. The figure moved. I froze. My surroundings seemed to hold their breath too, waiting. It moved again — and a choking whimper escaped me. It felt as though its blackness was trying to suck out my very soul. A cold night wind blew, raising the translucent curtains like flags caught in a storm. A chilling, groaning sound followed. I shut my eyes and gripped the duvet in a nail-splintering clutch. The continuous creaks of the floorboards didn't help — every creak made my heart somersault. Fear seeped deeper into my bones. It was a dread so deep, I wished I could dissolve into the mattress. As the final chimes of the clock faded, the entire house suddenly became radiant with light. Finally — LIGHT, CALM, LIFE! I screamed silently. Slowly, miniature ebbs of courage seeped into my soul. With a newfound bravery, I dared to glance once again at the menacing room. And there it was — reality, coming in buckets of ice-cold calm: The cause of my breakdown... was a pair of trousers. A pair of trousers hanging off the window frame. And there — sprawled on the floor — was my brother Jerome, the likely source of the beastly groan that had almost given me a heart attack. I had completely forgotten that he had opened the storage room earlier that evening in search of an old green flower vase for his class project. Everything seemed settled now. I stared in awe at the warm golden glow of the electric bulb overhead. I had once heard that the electric bulb was a form of hypnosis, lulling even babies to sleep. As I stared into it, I felt its soothing light gently salve me back into the realms of sleep.
By Okezika Igweani 9 months ago in Horror
