urban legend
Urban legends have captivated us from ancient eras to the modern day; a deep dive into scary lore and 'could be true' tales about Bigfoot, Slender Man, the Suicide Forest and beyond.
The Mirror’s Memory
When Elise bought the mirror from the estate sale, she hadn’t expected it to feel alive. It was tall and Victorian, framed in ornate brass vines, the kind you’d imagine in a haunted castle. Dust had blanketed it like it had been asleep for decades. She only bought it because it reminded her of something—though she couldn’t say what.
By Talha Maroof7 months ago in Horror
Whispers in the Jungle. AI-Generated.
It was supposed to be the perfect getaway. Three friends, Ayaan, Bilal, and Usman, had been planning their jungle adventure for months. The idea was simple: to escape the busy city life, explore the unknown, and challenge themselves to survive in the wilderness. Ayaan had heard stories of a forgotten jungle, nestled deep in the mountains — untouched, mysterious, and waiting to be explored.
By nasir shah7 months ago in Horror
The Unbreakable Bond
Life often surprises us in the most unexpected ways. Sometimes with joy, sometimes with sorrow, but always with purpose. This is the story of Zayan, a young man whose world turned upside down, only to discover that love, once planted deep in the heart, never truly fades. Zayan had always been close to his father, Saeed. More than just a parent, Saeed was his mentor, his cricket buddy, his confidant. He taught Zayan how to tie his shoelaces, ride a bicycle, and face life with courage. His deep voice would echo through the house every morning with a cheerful “Rise and shine, champ!” And no matter how rough the day had been, it ended with a cup of chai and his father’s wisdom shared on their old rooftop under the stars. But nothing lasts forever. It was a regular Wednesday morning when Zayan received the phone call. A traffic accident. A rushed drive to the hospital. And just like that—silence. The man who had been his guiding light was gone. The days that followed were a blur. Friends came and went. Prayers were whispered. Condolences poured in. But nothing could fill the hollow ache in Zayan’s chest. His home felt different. Empty. The laughter was missing. The rooftop had turned cold. Zayan stopped going to college. He didn’t touch his cricket bat. His journal lay closed, collecting dust. Life felt meaningless without the one person who made everything make sense. One evening, weeks after the funeral, Zayan found himself in his father’s study. He sat in Saeed’s old chair, the leather still holding his scent. As he reached for a drawer, he discovered a sealed envelope addressed to him. It read: "To my champion Zayan, in case I’m no longer around..." His hands trembled as he opened it. The letter wasn’t long, but every word felt like Saeed was sitting right there. "My son, if you're reading this, then life has taken its course. I won’t ask you not to cry, because grief is love that has nowhere to go. But remember, I am always with you. In your smile. In your courage. In every act of kindness you show. Live for me, not in sorrow, but in strength. Don’t stop dreaming. Don’t stop loving. And never stop being you." Tears streamed down Zayan’s face. For the first time in weeks, he let himself cry—really cry—not from pain, but from the overwhelming reminder of the love that still surrounded him. That night, he went to the rooftop, looked at the stars, and whispered, “I’m still your champ, Abu.” From that moment, something shifted. Zayan began to rebuild. Slowly, but surely. He returned to college. He picked up his bat again. And he began writing—letters to his father, memories he cherished, and stories of hope. He turned grief into strength and pain into purpose. Months later, he launched a blog called “Echoes of Love”—a space for people grieving the loss of loved ones. It became a safe haven for thousands across the world. People from all walks of life shared stories, poems, photos, and messages. It wasn’t just a blog. It was a movement—born from loss, built on love. Every month, Zayan would host a live session, where he’d read letters written by people to those they lost. He ended each session the same way: “They may be gone from our sight, but never from our soul.” One day, a woman named Meher wrote in. She had lost her brother and had been unable to cope. Zayan responded personally. They exchanged thoughts, tears, and healing words. Over time, they became friends, supporting each other in their healing journeys. Slowly, what began in sorrow blossomed into something beautiful. Two years after Saeed’s passing, Zayan stood on that same rooftop, now holding Meher’s hand, both looking at the stars. “This place gave me pain, but it also gave me strength,” Zayan said. Meher smiled, “And it gave you a purpose.” Zayan nodded. “And maybe even a second chance at happiness.”The bond Zayan shared with his father was never truly broken. It transformed. It grew through grief, through hope, through helping others. Because love, real love, doesn’t end. It echoes. It inspires. And in Zayan’s case, it built a legacy.
By sajjadkhan7 months ago in Horror
The Bedroom Window That Was Never There
A Normal Room Lily’s bedroom was nothing special. Bed, bookshelf, lamp shaped like a cloud, blue walls, one window that faced her backyard, and a desk where she never finished her homework. She lived with her mom, who worked night shifts at the hospital, so Lily was often home alone from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m.
By Silas Blackwood7 months ago in Horror
The Mirror That Remembers
Hey, wanna hear a scary story? I’m serious, this one’s not like those cheesy ghost stories where you can guess what happens. This one? It actually happened to someone I know. Well, a friend of a friend’s cousin. But still—people talk about it like it’s real. I’ll tell it to you like a friend, the way you tell someone a secret that still gives you chills.
By Lucien Hollow 7 months ago in Horror
AM I PREETY? 😈😈
The night air in the small village of Sakamura hung heavy with fog. Crickets had long gone quiet, and even the wind seemed afraid to whisper. Beneath a pale moon, narrow streets wound between old houses like veins, pulsing with a fear no one dared to name.
By CreepVille Horror Stories7 months ago in Horror
The Woman at the Door
I was twelve when I first saw her. It was a rainy Thursday night, the kind where thunder rumbled so loud the windows shook. I had just gotten out of the shower, and the house was already too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your chest feel heavy, like the air itself is warning you to run.
By CreepVille Horror Stories7 months ago in Horror
