#SupernaturalHorror

[loverhorror]

[sweetladswerewolf]

Don't believe the brash blokes balking this blonde boy belongs to a brunette band of brutes. Ed's blonde, always has been. One of 7 playable characters in our upcoming playtest for Sweetlads' Werewolf - link in Bio!

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

"STRAIGHT FROM THE PAGES OF SPAWN" -- VIOLATING NEWSSTANDS & COMIC-BOOK SHOPS IN '94.

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on German & American print ads for "SPAWN: Violator Vol. 1 -- Visit from Hell" (Deutsch: "Besuch Aus see Hollë") comic-book mini-series, written by Alan Moore and illustrated by Bart Sears. Image Comics.

Excerpts from "THE INTERVIEW FROM HELL..." by Steve Darnall. Published in "Hero Illustrated" #7, January 1994.

"...Most recently, Moore accepted Todd McFarlane's offer to do more work with Image, which led not only to the writing of Spawn #8, but also his next project, a three-issue Violator series, with art by Bart Sears which will undoubtedly be one of the hottest titles in '94."

Sources: www.reddit.com/r/AlanMoore/comments/crrj1r & www.weltbild.ch/artikel/ebook/spawn-violator-besuch-aus-der-hoelle-spawn_26883988-1.

[sam-jack-loveforever]

1899 || ∆ #1899 #1899netflix #jantjefriese #baranboodar #perioddrama #sciencefiction #supernaturalhorror #mystery #epic #emilybeecham #aneurinbarnard #andreaspietschmann #miguelbernardeau #maciejmusiał #clararosager #lucaslynggaardtønnesen #antonlesser #fflynedwards https://www.instagram.com/p/ClTAmKNjT33/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[paulsemel]

The problem with ghosts is that you can't shoo them away. Not physically, anyway That is, unless you're Shay from A. Lawrence’s "Ghost Punch" novels. In this exclusive interview, Lawrence talks about the new installment this humorous cozy supernatural horror series, "Night Terrors." https://paulsemel.com/exclusive-interview-night-terrors-author-a-lawrence/ 📖👻🤛

[harmonyhealinghub]

The Library of Secrets Shaina Tranquilino October 16, 2024

The university library was always quiet—unnaturally quiet. Even during the day, with students cramming for exams, the silence hung thick in the air, like something alive. But it was after dark that the library transformed, taking on an eerie, almost sinister presence.

Hannah had heard the stories, of course. Everyone had. Whispers about strange occurrences late at night—unexplained noises, disappearing books, even rumors of students who’d gone missing. But she didn’t believe in ghost stories, and finals were looming. She needed the peace and quiet, so when she lost track of time and the clock struck midnight, she convinced herself to stay a little longer.

The library’s ancient architecture didn’t help ease her nerves. Gothic arches loomed overhead, casting jagged shadows under the dim lights. Rows of shelves seemed to stretch endlessly, the books on them older than any of the students, some even older than the university itself. Most people avoided the lower levels, but Hannah had found a nook on the second basement floor—a place no one ever ventured.

Tonight, it was deathly still.

The air felt stagnant, as if no one had breathed in this part of the library for centuries. The only sound was the soft rustle of pages as Hannah turned them, immersed in her study. But as the minutes ticked by, something began to change.

At first, it was almost imperceptible—a soft sound, like the faintest of whispers. Hannah dismissed it, chalking it up to the creaking of the old building. But then it grew louder. The sound seemed to come from the shelves themselves, as though the books were murmuring among themselves. She looked up, scanning the empty aisles, but saw no one.

Her heart quickened. The whispers continued, a low, hissing chorus that seemed to rise from the very walls around her. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable—urgent, insistent.

Hannah stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. The sound echoed through the empty library, only to be swallowed by the oppressive silence. The whispers grew louder, surrounding her from every direction. She clutched her bag and turned toward the exit, but before she could take a step, a voice—clear and distinct—rose above the rest.

"Don’t go."

She froze. The voice was right behind her.

Slowly, she turned. There was no one there, only rows of old bookshelves and the faint flicker of a dying light bulb. But the voice persisted, now coming from all around her, each shelf carrying a different whisper.

"Stay. You need to know."

Her mind raced. She was alone. Wasn’t she? Her breath quickened as she looked around, panic creeping into her thoughts. The whispers closed in, no longer just noise, but words, forming coherent sentences that chilled her to the bone.

"The library keeps its secrets."

"They never leave."

"You’ll never leave."

She backed away, her heart pounding, trying to drown out the voices. She glanced at the shelves, her eyes darting over the ancient books, and that’s when she noticed it—a book she hadn’t seen before. Its spine was cracked and faded, its pages yellowed with age. But it wasn’t its appearance that caught her attention. It was that it seemed to be…moving.

Trembling, she reached for the book, almost against her will. Her fingers brushed the cover, and as soon as she made contact, the whispers stopped. The silence that followed was suffocating.

She opened the book, her hands shaking. The pages were filled with cramped, handwritten text, the ink smeared and blotchy as though written in haste—or fear. But it wasn’t the words that terrified her. It was the names.

Dozens of names. Hundreds. Some scratched out, others fresh. And then, at the very bottom of the page, she saw it—her own name.

Hannah Thompson.

Her stomach turned, and she slammed the book shut. The whispers returned, louder now, their tone urgent and malicious.

"You’ve seen. Now you must stay."

A cold draft swept through the library, and the lights flickered. The air felt heavier, pressing in on her chest. Desperately, she ran toward the stairwell, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. She reached the door to the ground floor and shoved it open, but when she stepped through, her heart sank.

She was back in the basement.

Her breathing grew ragged as she tried again, running faster this time. She threw open the door—but once again, she stood in the same eerie nook where she had started.

The whispers were deafening now, crashing over her in waves of sound. They hissed and spat, mocking her, taunting her with half-formed truths.

"You belong to us now."

She fell to her knees, clutching her head, trying to block out the noise. It was no use. The library had her now, just like it had all the others. She thought of the missing students, the unexplained disappearances, the names in the book. The library didn’t just keep knowledge. It kept them—the students who stayed too late, the ones who uncovered too much.

With a final, desperate scream, Hannah bolted toward the shelves, searching for something—anything—that could free her. But all she found were more books, more names, more secrets that no one was ever meant to know.

The last light flickered out, plunging the library into darkness. The whispers faded, replaced by a deep, oppressive silence.

And then, as if nothing had happened, the library returned to its eerie quiet, waiting for its next victim.

[writing-from-the-closet]

Ghosts in the Algorithm

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction and is intended for entertainment purposes within the horror genre. It contains scenes that depict self-harm as part of the narrative to create fear and suspense. These elements are not intended to glorify, promote, or encourage self-harm or any harmful behavior. If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of self-harm or suicide, please seek…

[gothandghoul]

The Haunting World of Skinwalkers: Legends, Lore, and Nightmares

In the heart of Navajo folklore lies a creature so terrifying, so shrouded in mystery, that even mentioning its name is said to bring bad luck. Skinwalkers, or "yee naaldlooshii," are shape-shifting entities capable of transforming into animals and mimicking voices. These beings walk the line between reality and nightmare, instilling fear into anyone who dares to cross their path. Read on...

[elashrys-tales]

5 True Skinwalker Encounters Horror Stories

[loverhorror]

[sweetladswerewolf]

Intimidating Introductions, page 2. Panel 5&6 spit in the face of 2 characters, take 10!

[thedeadgameblog]

(via DANCE WITH ME)

Dance with me until the moon hides its face, And the sun attempts to quicken the pace. From the sunlight, the vampire turns his face, And dancers twirl to the light’s frenzied pace.

PREY FOR THE DEAD by Susanne Leist

https://amzn.to/2F1IiI2

[takeeachdayonebookatatime]

Happy release day

Blurb:

Sadie Hawkins wants nothing more than to find success as a screenplay writer. But when she discovers the love of her life hanging from their bedroom ceiling, Sadie gives up on her dreams.

Until she receives an unexpected gift.

Sadie has become the sole owner of the cabin in the woods she always adored. A secluded place where she can resurrect her dreams and drown her sorrows.

Yet the woods are not the same. The days are still and lifeless. The shadows seem to follow Sadie. And the air holds the scent of her dead husband.

As the days go by, Sadie will either have to accept that her sanity is in jeopardy or uncover the mysteries hidden deep within the past. Mysteries more terrifying than she ever imagined.

And Then There Was Silence is a stand alone story and perfect for fans of V.E. Schwab, Holly Black, and Mexican Gothic.

https://www.amazon.com/Then-There-Was-Silence-ebook/dp/B0CF4S6VTJ/

[paulsemel]

For his new collection of scary stories, "Midnight Masquerade," author Greg Chapman paired his notable novellas with companion stories, and more. To learn what more, check out this exclusive interview. 📖🎭😱

[harmonyhealinghub]

The Playground Whisperer Shaina Tranquilino October 14, 2024

The playground on Maple Street was always buzzing with laughter, from the squeal of children on the swings to the crunch of sneakers on the sand. Parents sat on benches, talking among themselves or scrolling through their phones while their kids chased each other in circles. No one paid much attention to the old swings near the back. They were worn and rusted, their chains creaking in the breeze. The kids didn’t like them—they said they felt weird sitting on them, like someone was watching. Then one autumn afternoon, the whispers began.

It was Lucas who heard it first. He had wandered away from the group, bored with the usual games of tag, and found himself standing in front of the two swings swaying gently in the wind. No one else was around. He kicked at the dirt, thinking about nothing in particular, when he heard it—a voice, soft and raspy, like a breathy whisper.

“Come closer.”

Lucas froze. His heart skipped a beat as he scanned the playground. No one was near the swings. The parents were still chatting, their backs to him. He took a cautious step forward, his gaze locked on the empty seats.

“We need your help.”

The voice was clearer now, as if it were coming from inside his own head. Lucas glanced over his shoulder again, but nobody was paying attention. He took a few more steps, drawn by the eerie pull of the voice. It wasn’t scary—just… strange.

The swing nearest to him gave a metallic groan, its rusty chains rattling as it moved. The whisper came again, but this time it was louder.

“Push us. We can’t swing without you.”

Against his better judgment, Lucas reached out and grabbed the cold chain. His hand tingled as he gave it a gentle push, and the swing moved more smoothly than it should have, as if some unseen force guided it.

“Faster,” the voice urged. “Harder.”

He pushed harder, and the swing began to fly back and forth, the wind whistling through its chains. Lucas stared, wide-eyed, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

“Good,” the whisper cooed. “Now, let go.”

Lucas dropped the chain, stepping back, but the swing kept moving, higher and higher. He backed away, his heart thudding in his chest, but the voice followed him, growing darker.

“Now, go to the top of the jungle gym. Jump from there. Fly.”

Lucas stumbled, fear prickling at the back of his neck. He glanced at the jungle gym, a towering metal structure with a steep slide and ladders. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but something about the whisper—its insistence, its strange pull—terrified him.

Before he could move, he heard a scream. Across the playground, a girl named Abby was standing on top of the jungle gym, her arms stretched out wide like she was ready to jump. Her face was pale, her eyes vacant, as if she wasn’t really there.

The parents rushed toward her, pulling her down just in time. Abby looked dazed, confused, as if she had no idea how she’d gotten there.

Over the next few days, more kids heard the whispers. The voices came from the swings, soft at first, coaxing them to do small things—climb too high, swing too fast. But the requests grew darker, more dangerous. They began asking the children to leap from the highest bars, run into the street, or step into the deep end of the nearby pond.

The kids couldn’t explain why they listened. They just did.

No one believed them, of course. Parents chalked it up to imagination or a sudden burst of rebellious behaviour. But the whispers persisted, spreading like a virus through the playground.

One afternoon, after hearing about the incidents, a local teen named Isaac decided to investigate. He didn’t believe in ghost stories, but the talk about the playground had intrigued him. Isaac had always been the skeptical type, brushing off anything supernatural as nonsense. Yet, something about the way the younger kids spoke about the whispers unsettled him. The fear in their eyes felt too real.

On a cloudy Saturday, he made his way to Maple Street, phone in hand, ready to debunk the whole thing. The playground was mostly empty, save for a couple of toddlers and their moms. The old swings, though, sat eerily still in the windless air.

Isaac approached the swings cautiously, feeling a strange chill settle over him despite the warm afternoon. He reached out and touched one of the rusty chains, his fingers grazing the cold metal. He half expected something dramatic to happen—a voice, a sudden gust of wind—but there was nothing.

"Yeah, figured," Isaac muttered, rolling his eyes.

But as he turned to leave, a whisper crawled up the back of his neck, chilling his spine.

“Come back…”

He froze, his heart hammering. It was low, almost like a hiss, but clear enough to send a jolt of unease through him. Slowly, he turned back to the swings.

“We need you.”

His breath caught. It wasn’t just one voice—it was many, layered over each other, like a chorus of hushed voices speaking at once. His fingers trembled as he grabbed his phone, flicking on the camera to record. He panned across the swings, but the chains remained still, nothing out of the ordinary.

"Who's there?" he called, trying to keep his voice steady. His heart pounded louder in his ears.

Silence.

But as he took a step closer, the whispers returned, stronger this time.

“Closer… Isaac.”

The sound of his own name made his stomach lurch. How did they know? He hadn’t told anyone he was coming here.

The swings began to sway, just a slight motion, but there was no wind. The rusty chains creaked louder, almost rhythmically, like a taunt. The whispers grew more frantic.

“Help us. Set us free.”

Isaac's pulse quickened. He felt a pull, like invisible hands guiding him forward. He fought the urge to listen, to obey, but the compulsion was overwhelming. His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him toward the swing that was now swaying more vigorously.

“Just push. One little push.”

Isaac's hand reached out despite his growing fear. He gave the swing a tentative shove, and it moved higher, the chains rattling. The air around him seemed to grow thicker, colder. The whispers turned into harsh breaths, overlapping in a way that made his skin crawl.

Suddenly, he heard something behind him—a soft thud, like footsteps on the sand. He spun around, but there was no one there. His eyes darted across the playground. The moms and toddlers had left. He was completely alone.

That’s when he saw it—faint, but unmistakable. A figure, just a shadow really, standing near the jungle gym. It was tall and thin, with elongated limbs, its form blurry as if it was made of smoke. Its head tilted toward him, as if watching.

Isaac's breath hitched. He stumbled backward, dropping his phone. The shadow figure didn’t move, but its presence bore down on him, oppressive and wrong, like it didn’t belong in this world.

The whispers escalated into a frenzy, their words slurring together into a cacophony of demands.

"Set us free! Set us free!"

Isaac scrambled to his feet, grabbing his phone, and ran. He didn’t stop until he was halfway down the street, panting, his heart racing like he’d just escaped something far worse than he could comprehend. When he finally glanced back, the playground looked just as it always had—quiet, innocent, ordinary.

But Isaac knew better. There was something there, something old and angry, using the playground as its hunting ground. He couldn’t shake the image of the shadowy figure, nor the sound of the whispers that seemed to cling to his thoughts.

That night, as Isaac lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, he swore he could still hear them.

"We need you, Isaac…"

He didn’t sleep at all.

The next morning, his phone buzzed with a notification—a video message. Confused, he opened it. It was the footage he had recorded at the playground, but something was wrong. The video showed the swings moving on their own, violently, without him touching them. And in the background, behind the jungle gym, the shadow figure stood—closer now.

Its eyes, or where its eyes should’ve been, were fixed on the camera.

The message attached to the video read:

"You can’t run forever."