psychological
Mind games taken way too far; explore the disturbing genre of psychological thrillers that make us question our perception of sanity and reality.
LILAC
The only other time I can remember my family camping with a group was when we went with our neighbors long ago, when my brother and I were children. We camped in a meadow surrounded by dense forest. The meadow had a noticeable slope and I remember feeling like we were going to fall off the edge of something. Of course everything remained firmly on the ground. The only other memory I have of this trip is the butterflies. The adults were relaxing, my brother and I were amusing ourselves collecting strange pebbles and leaves, when a cloud of butterflies blew in on a breeze. They were small and of the most delicate shade of lilac, so that if you saw them against the sky they would almost disappear. But the butterfly cloud hovered right above the ground, shivering in the first foot of air, and it stood out in stark contrast against the dirt and grass. It was a beautiful sight, but my brother and I walked right into the cloud and began to stomp, jumping into the air, using our arms to add strength to the jump, smashing the butterflies with all the strength our child bodies could summon. We laughed with glee! In less than five seconds the meadow floor was littered with tiny lilac corpses, as if small pieces of the sky had been shaken loose from our violent stomping. “Stop!” Cried the neighbor. Her cry shook the demon loose and my brother and I came to our senses. We stood still, transfixed by the pretty graveyard at our feet, while the remains of the butterfly cloud quivered around us, and then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, it left. “You should be nice to the butterflies,” she said, and suddenly I felt sad, ashamed. My brother and I exchanged looks that told of mutual confusion at what had come over us. One of us shouted “sorry butterflies!” at the ground, and then we both scurried off in pursuit of more strange pebbles.
By Kenosha Drucker4 years ago in Horror
River Reflections
Everything is so tiring, Heather thought to herself, shuffling up the stairs with a bag of groceries in hand. Somewhere upstairs, the thudding of footsteps echoed back and forth. Probably those brattish children from next door, Heather thought. The thumping pounded like a hammer slamming nails into her head with each footstep. Tap tap tap. By now she had come to terms with her bitter cynicism, so she didn’t hold back the sharp, biting thoughts that seethed in her head.
By Georgia Nelson4 years ago in Horror
My Liege
I used to find the sound of the lake in the night to be calming, lovely even. My daughter and I would go down on chilly autumn mornings and I would read her some of her favorite stories, spending hours curled up together on the rickety bench that was only comfortable because we were together. Before I knew it, we would just be sitting together, her reading on her own, quietly snorting to herself as I just sit and listen. To the lake. To her.
By Vinny Meehan4 years ago in Horror
Fehelølmot
Because of gradual disinterest and the oral stories dying down, the tale of Fehelølmot is nothing more than a memory of the past, a prime example of the profound disconnection between the truth and a silly hoax. Some say its a genuine lack of concern for such a moot manner in a time where civilization is on the brink of collapse, while others say they'd rather try and forget the creature for its actions and vile crimes against humanity at a futile attempt to ward Fehelølmot off from existence; but what nobody knows is: just how real he truly is.
By Onaga Lombardi 4 years ago in Horror
Reborn
The bushels of apples on the front steps meant fall was here; Mrs. Padley was adamant on having them on the steps the moment she saw her leaves begin to wither. When the apples themselves began to rot, she would have me replace them with fresh new ones, a waste I had to bear with for months. The children that lived on our street took them once and even managed to throw a few at her window. Needless to say, at the ripe age of 37, Mrs. Padley almost landed in a hospital bed from the blood-curdling anger. Her mood was unlike something you've ever imagined; she had a nasty attitude, one only her husband, Mr. Padley, could understand. The man stood taller than the front door frame, however tall that may be. He was a docile man and spent half his lifetime in the basement working on something we were never allowed to see. He loved his wife- but would only show it once every blue moon, and although he loved her, I cannot imagine it was easy for him to like her. Her unbearable demeanor made it difficult, and as a result, I would often catch home staring at her in awe and confusion by the kind of woman he married. They both lived in their own world, one where their designer clothes and monthly botox injections hide their seemingly dull lives. Their children, who are supposed to be their pride and joy, were only extra accessories to their lives. Judy and baby Matthew exist in another world, quiet with every fantasy a child could imagine. They were both delicate things; Judy was beautiful and looked exactly like her mother before the Botox and botched surgeries. Baby Mathew was far too young for me to notice any resemblance to his parents. When I came into their home, I felt like I was already a part of the family. I was given a room just below theirs and the jurisdiction of the children; they were to be kept amused, fed, and raised with proper manners. At that moment, I fell in love with the Padley family, and from then on, I worked hard to keep my place in our home. This particular day was a Monday, my most favorite day of the week. My first task is to wake the children and get them ready for school, but before them, I make myself presentable with clean shoes, a clean uniform, and a clean face. Judy is easier to wake up; she skitters around the hall for half a moment and then runs to the bathroom to wash her tiny teeth. As I walk to wake baby Mathew, I hear that dreadful noise again, a hissing noise that seems to come from the walls. I've tried to tell Mr. Padley, but to no avail; instead, he grunts and walks down to his basement. After breakfast, the noise disappears, and living in this house becomes more manageable again. Everything would have kept going like it has for the past five years, but Mr. Padley's obvious affair and the children's distress have gotten the best of me, and today I will make everything well again. Peace will be restored. After Judy is dropped off at school and Mrs. Padely has gone to work, I am left alone with Mr. Padley and baby Mathew. I chop my veggies and prepare to boil some water for tonight's surprise dinner. When that was done, I walked to the shed in the backyard and grabbed an ax; I admired the tool, thinking what a fantastic job I did sharpening it last week. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of the basement door; I reached to turn the doorknob, but a rush of dizziness rushed to my head, and I almost fell backward, but I caught myself on the countertop before I hit the floor. Suddenly I felt giddy, and I laughed to myself, what a mess I am making of this situation, "if it's to be done, it is to be done right," I say out loud. I open the door and step in; there he is, what a ridiculous man. I made no attempt to hide my tool when I saw his face; I knew I was making the right decision, but for whatever reason, I began to cry, I cry, and I cry, and It made me full of consuming anger that makes the tips of my toes twitch. I launch towards him, and he screams; I stop. "Now, now, Mr. Padely, please do not be difficult. I see what you do when you are alone, unlike your wife, see everything you do, but please don't be scared; there is nothing to be worried about anymore. I will make sure you cause this family no more harm." I launch at him again, and this time it feels easier; this is the right thing to do. ———
By Cynthia Melchor4 years ago in Horror
Black Puddle
Her screams of excitement make my ears ring. She found some water in a puddle behind some random house. She drags me by my wrist while looking back at my eyes. Those damn green eyes; they get me every time. I follow closely behind her because, to be fair, she is an idiot. She sort of just runs towards whatever interests her without thinking about who, or what, could kill her. It was annoying, for sure, but she was hot so I dealt with it.
By Ayla Ahmed4 years ago in Horror
