#BoneChilling

[dutchs-blog]

Really Creepy

[darkshadowstales]

horror short story mirror horror story 1 minute horror mystery story scary selfie ghost story haunted mirror suspenseful horror creepy short stories paranormal shorts #mirrorSelfie #horrorShorts #ghostStory #scaryStory #hauntedMirror #1MinuteHorror #creepyVideo #shorts #darkParanormal #suspensestory animated horror stories horror stories horror stories animated animated stories disturbing horror stories scary stories terrifying horror stories true horror stories horror creepy stories horror story animated horror stories compilation horror stories to fall asleep 3 true horror stories animated true scary stories stories horror story animated horror stories in america short scary stories horror animation compilation true horror stories animated urban legends true urban legends scary urban legends urban legend urban legends that turned out to be true best urban legends real urban legends rare urban legends russia urban legends urban legends russia creepy urban legends russian urban legends obscure urban legends scariest urban legends american urban legends japanese urban legends scary true urban legends creepiest urban legends urban legends in america scary urbam legends horror stories horror stories animated animated horror stories horror story disturbing horror stories horror short horror film scary stories terrifying horror stories horror short film true horror stories short horror animated stories creepy stories stories horror animation compilation short horror movie horror story animated compilation scary stories animated horror short stories mcdonald's horror story horror movie horror animation creepy stories scary stories horror stories animated creepy animated stories stories disturbing horror stories scary stories animated terrifying horror stories true scary stories 4 creepy true horror stories 4 creepy true horro stories mr nightmare true creepy stories creepy true stories true horror stories short scary stories true horror stories animated scary stories to tell in the dark real horror stories scary stories scary story true scary stories animated horror stories animated stories scary stories animated horror stories horror stories animated scary animated story short scary stories creepy stories stories long scary stories scary stories for kids true scary story scary stories to tell in the dark disturbing horror stories scary most scary story terrifying horror stories scary camping stories horror story scary story english

[wherechaoswins]

[aliiyeeeh]

Skeleton Halloween makeup

Create a striking skeletal look by painting half or full face with black and white makeup to highlight bones, hollow eyes, and a sunken nose. Add shading for depth and a more realistic skull effect.

https://kit.co/ali_yeeh/the-halloween

[crimsonlazuli]

THIS GOT ME TO CRY IN ONE FUCKING MINUTE OH MY GOD ITS SO GOOD!!!

[harmonyhealinghub]

The Cemetery's Call Shaina Tranquilino October 9, 2024

Old Percy Smithers had spent forty years tending to the dead. He was the gravekeeper of Willowbrook Cemetery, a place as ancient as the town itself, where the tombstones leaned crooked from centuries of neglect. Though the winters had turned his hair white and arthritis gnawed at his bones, Percy knew every inch of the graveyard. He'd dug the graves, polished the stones, and swept away the creeping vines that tried to reclaim the dead. He felt at home among them, more so than with the living. The town was small, quiet, and time-worn, much like Percy. Life moved at a slow, unremarkable pace—until the night the whispers began.

It was late October, the nights growing colder, and the mist rolled in thick like smoke. Percy had locked the cemetery gates as usual and was headed back to the small shack he called home, just outside the graveyard. As he passed by the row of old graves near the oak tree, he heard it—a faint sound, like the rustling of leaves. But there was no wind. He paused, squinting in the direction of the noise.

Then he heard it again. Louder this time.

“Percy…”

The voice was soft, barely a breath, but unmistakable. It came from the graves.

Percy stopped, his heart skipping a beat. He listened, thinking maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him. But there it was again, now joined by another voice, and then another.

“Percy… come closer…”

Shivers crawled down his spine, but curiosity, or perhaps foolishness, guided his feet. He moved closer to the stones, his lantern held high, casting long shadows across the crumbling markers. His eyes darted from grave to grave, but the voices came from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“We remember…” whispered a woman's voice, cold and dripping with malice. “We remember what was done.”

Percy's throat tightened. “Who’s there?” His voice cracked, weak in the still night.

“Vengeance…” a chorus of voices hissed. “They must pay. They must all pay.”

His grip on the lantern tightened. His heart raced as the air grew colder, suffocating. The whispers grew louder, swelling around him in a dreadful symphony. Each name carved into the stones seemed to hum with hatred, vibrating with old grudges. These weren’t the gentle spirits of the dead he had grown to know; these were something darker. Something hungry.

The ground beneath him trembled slightly, and Percy staggered back, his lantern flickering. The mist thickened, swirling around his legs like ghostly fingers. The whispering voices became a cacophony, pressing in on him from all sides.

“They took our lives. They took everything.” The voices were filled with fury now, like a storm ready to break. “Avenge us!”

Percy backed away, stumbling over a gravestone. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the whispers for a moment. He turned to run, but the earth shifted beneath his feet, soft as mud. He fell, his hands sinking into the cold soil. When he looked up, the tombstones loomed over him like jagged teeth, their inscriptions glowing faintly in the mist.

“You cannot escape us, Percy…” the voices hissed, closer now, almost inside his head. “You’ve tended our graves for years, but now you must tend to our rage.”

He scrambled to his feet, panic clawing at his chest. The whispers twisted into shrieks, accusing, demanding. Percy ran, the cemetery gate seeming miles away. The ground quivered as if something underneath was waking, something ancient and full of wrath. He reached the gate and slammed it shut behind him, the metal rattling like bones.

For a brief moment, there was silence.

Percy leaned against the gate, his chest heaving, trying to convince himself that it was over. Just the wind, the cold, his tired old mind playing tricks.

Then, from behind the iron bars, the voices returned.

“They will come for you, Percy…” one voice whispered, distinct from the rest. It was a child’s voice, soft and bitter. “You’re one of them. You carry their blood.”

Percy froze. The words dug into him like knives. “One of them?” he whispered, his breath a plume of mist.

The child’s voice spoke again, filled with venom. “Your family. The ones who built this town on our bones. You can’t run from it, Percy. You owe a debt to the dead.”

He staggered back, horrified. His family had been among the founding members of the town, the ones who had laid the first stones of Willowbrook. But those were just stories, old histories. Or so he’d thought.

“You’ll hear us again, Percy,” the voices promised, fading into the night. “Soon.”

Terrified, Percy fled back to his shack, locking the door behind him, but sleep never came. Outside, the cemetery was silent, but the whispers lingered in his mind.

The next night, the voices returned, stronger, clearer. They called out to him from beneath the ground, demanding justice. Each name, each voice from the stones, told him the same story—how they had been wronged, forgotten, buried in unmarked graves by the people of Willowbrook. His family, the town's founders, had stolen their land, their lives, and their peace.

By the third night, Percy could no longer ignore the voices. They consumed him, gnawing at his sanity. The dead wanted vengeance, and they wanted him to carry it out.

As the whispers grew louder, more insistent, Percy knew he could not escape their demand. With trembling hands, he gathered his shovel and lantern, stepping once more into the mist-shrouded graveyard. The tombstones seemed to shift and sway in the fog, guiding him toward the oldest graves—the graves of the founders, his ancestors.

The whispers quieted as Percy approached the graves. He raised the shovel, his hands shaking, and began to dig.

For the first time in forty years, the dead would have their revenge. And Percy, the gravekeeper, would be the first to fall under the cemetery’s call.

Percy dug deeper, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the cold night air clung to his skin. Each plunge of the shovel into the earth was echoed by the murmurs from the graves, a chorus of the long-dead urging him on. The mist coiled around him like a serpent, tightening with each layer of soil he removed, and the ground seemed to tremble beneath his feet as if eager to reveal the darkness buried beneath.

At last, his shovel struck something solid. Percy froze, heart pounding, his pulse loud in his ears. He knelt, wiping the dirt away with trembling hands. Beneath the shallow layer of earth, a rotted wooden coffin came into view. The grave was marked with the Smithers family crest, worn and faded but unmistakable.

The whispers quieted, and a terrible stillness filled the air.

Percy's breath hitched. He knew what they wanted him to do, what they had been pushing him toward. He stared down at the coffin, his ancestors’ final resting place, the founders of Willowbrook, the ones who had stolen land and life from the restless dead.

A sickening dread churned in his gut. What had they done? He had heard rumours of how Willowbrook had been built—tales of stolen land, hidden graves, and erased lives. But they were just stories. Weren’t they?

He reached for the coffin lid, his fingers shaking. With a grunt, he pried it open, the wood splintering beneath his grip. The stench of death, long buried, rose into the air, thick and nauseating. Inside lay the bones of his great-great-grandfather, crumbling and fragile, clothed in the remnants of what had once been fine attire.

And then, beneath the bones, something caught his eye—something darker, it was a book. It bore no title, only a symbol he recognized from the town’s archives, a symbol of power, of forbidden rituals.

Percy's fingers brushed the cover, and the moment they did, the whispers surged back, louder than before.

“The book. The book holds the truth. The power. It’s how they cursed us. How they damned us to rot in silence.”

The book was heavy in his hands, and as he opened it, his eyes fell on words written in a language he could barely comprehend. Diagrams of rituals, sigils of dark power, spells to bind and suppress the dead.

His ancestors had not only stolen the land—they had used this book to silence the spirits, to trap them in their graves, buried beneath the weight of unholy magic. And now, the dead wanted revenge, not just against Percy's bloodline, but against all the living who still thrived on land soaked with the suffering of the forgotten.

“You must break the curse, Percy…” the voices urged. “Free us, or we will rise ourselves.”

Percy hesitated. He could feel the weight of the book’s power, dark and consuming, thrumming beneath his fingertips. If he undid the spell, what would be unleashed? Would the dead have their vengeance only on the guilty, or would they turn their wrath on all who lived in Willowbrook?

He looked back at the graves, at the names etched in stone, each one vibrating with ancient rage. They had suffered for centuries. Maybe they deserved their justice.

But would they stop at justice?

The air grew heavier, pressing down on him as the mist thickened. The ground trembled more violently now, as if the earth itself was waking, and Percy knew he was running out of time. The dead would not wait much longer.

With a deep breath, he made his choice. He closed the book, clutching it to his chest, and spoke aloud for the first time to the voices in the night.

“I’ll break the curse,” he whispered, his voice shaking, “but you have to promise me you won’t hurt the innocent.”

For a moment, there was only silence, the air hanging thick with anticipation. Then, the child’s voice returned, soft and cold.

“We will take only those who owe a debt. The rest… we will leave.”

Percy didn’t trust them, not fully. But he had no other option. The dead would rise one way or another—either with his help or through their own violent means.

With trembling hands, he opened the book again, flipping through the pages until he found the counterspell. The symbols seemed to swim on the page, but he muttered the words aloud, each syllable tasting like dust on his tongue. The wind picked up, swirling around him, carrying with it the mournful cries of the spirits. The ground rumbled beneath his feet, and the air grew colder still.

As he finished the incantation, a sudden, deafening silence fell over the cemetery.

For a heartbeat, everything was still.

Then, one by one, the graves began to shift. The soil moved, and from the earth rose faint, ethereal figures—translucent and pale, their eyes hollow with years of longing. They stood in silence, watching him, their faces twisted with sorrow and anger.

The whispers had stopped, but their gaze spoke louder than any voice.

The dead were free.

Percy's heart hammered in his chest as the spirits turned away from him, drifting silently toward the town, their forms dissolving into the mist. His breath caught in his throat as the last of them disappeared, leaving him alone among the open graves.

He collapsed to his knees, exhausted, the book slipping from his hands.

It was done.

But even as he knelt there in the cold, empty graveyard, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. The silence was too complete, the air too still.

And then he heard it—just a single whisper, lingering in the night, one voice among the many.

“We lied.”

Percy's blood ran cold as the wind howled through the trees, and far in the distance, the first scream rang out from the town.

The dead had come for their revenge. And nothing would stop them now.

[gatorsportsfan]

Bone-Chilling South Dakota Wind Forces Players to Escape Into Heated Trailers

Although the winter solstice is still almost two weeks away, football players from Villanova and South Dakota State battled frigid conditions in Brookings, S.D., on Saturday with hopes of keeping their FCS championship aspirations intact. Game-time temperatures for the quarterfinal contest were in the upper 20s, but stiff winds led to a wind chill factor of approximately 10 degrees. With 7:54 to…

[mcdonaldsnumberone]

CHERISH (MY LOVE)!

❤︎ you have no clue just how much your fate is intertwined with that of adisorn's. ❤︎ adisorn moore x gn reader ❤︎ wc: 1k ❤︎ content warning(s): yandere, stalking/adisorn is your stalker, written before full game release/based on adisorn as portrayed in the free demo, demo spoilers ❤︎ adisorn moore is from the game online obsession being developed by sourmiiiilk

Adisorn Moore gets such a rush when you indirectly think of him as your guardian angel. 

“I got another one of those weird letters,” your text to him reads so casually. “Something about my mayo expiring. And they were right.”

He still remembers the day he sent you the first letter. Words couldn’t properly articulate the complex emotions writhing and coursing through his veins, consuming his waking senses and taking root somewhere in between his trembling heart and racing mind. You were so sweet, so witty, and yet so unsuspecting. 

“Again? That’s so creepy…,” Adisorn’s quick to write back to you. Eight months wasn’t a long time, but he was thorough. He needed to win your trust, to convince you that he was just as ordinary as you were. You never suspected a thing, and he wanted to keep it that way. What you had with him was pure, and he considers it his duty to preserve that purity for as long as he could.

He hopes you can forgive him. You will. He knows you will. 

Your reply is instantaneous. “Yeah, it’s weird, but… There’s really not much I can do at this point. I don’t like the thought of being watched in any capacity, but what can I do? The letters are helpful, and the police won’t do anything about it.”

Helpful. He likes that. The words are nothing more than an afterthought to you probably, but it’s the world to Adison. You take his little tips seriously. You don’t consider him a threat. You think they’re worth listening to. You heed his letters. You touched the same paper that he did, your gentle eyes going over the words that he typed up and picked just for you. 

If he was a better man, he would suggest that you visit the police again. But it’s a good litmus test for him—the local authorities are useless. It gives him more wiggle room, and it leaves you vulnerable. Sure, there’s the matter of figuring out just how vigilant your friends and distant family would be, but the first line of defense around you has crumbled a long time ago. 

A ping from you breaks his rambling thoughts. “Maybe it’s a bad prank? A new Tik Tok trend? People will do anything on that damn app for attention, and I’ve already seen some kids on campus trying to do street interviews in hopes of making their big break.”

There’s a moment of silence before he sees your typing bubble floating at the bottom of his phone screen.

“Maybe whoever’s sending these letters genuinely just wants to help. I don’t think any of my neighbors are that kind of people, but who knows? Can’t judge ‘em based on what little I know,” you confess wholeheartedly to him. “Or it could be my landlord. I mean, I get it. I’m not the most organized person, so it doesn’t hurt to have a guardian angel of sorts watching over me.”

There’s a warmth spreading from his fingertips, up his arms, and gripping like the rush of first love at his heart. A guardian angel. It’s stupid, and it’s so childish, but it makes Adison so happy to think that you find his little advances as something special. Only you could turn someone like him, someone so rotten, into someone worth salvaging and someone worth loving. 

“If you insist,” he types back to you. He swallows thickly at the thought of you actually appreciating the letters. Should he write to you more frequently? Observing your life was such a treat to him. He wants to know more about you, every little bit that you’ve been keeping from him. Once he got a taste, he couldn’t turn back. “You should still be careful though. Wouldn’t want some bad guy snatching someone as cute as you up. That’s my job, you know!”

“Oh, quit it, Adi,” you’re too used to taking his flirting and countering it in your own way. “No one’s snatching me up. I’m too busy keeping you company and covering your ass during Star Blitz. Nimo’s already cracking jokes about how they can’t wait to babysit our future kids, so you can only imagine how much worse it’ll get if I spend any more time with you.”

The corners of his scarred lips twitch as Adisorn bites back a small laugh. He doesn’t dislike the thought of both spending more time with you and a future together. Wouldn’t that be so much fun? Then he wouldn’t always have to creep around the edges of your life, like a shadow gobbling up the rays of light cast its way. He could be by your side as he always wanted. 

Sure, he’d have to make some changes to your pace of life, but knowing you, you would learn to love it. You would learn to love him. Truly for who he was, rather than the small bits and pieces he’s built up for himself. Eight painstaking months was nothing in exchange for the prize of a lifetime with you. His entire life up until this point, as miserable and cruel and dark as it was, was nothing but a small price to pay at the thought of having you all to himself. There would be no more hurt, no more pesky interferences, no more space between your radiance and him once he could put everything into motion.

His aim has always been simple.

Your love is the reason he’s living again. You’re the breath on his scarred mouth, the blood in his tangled veins, the thump-thump in his calloused heart, the warmth coming from the body of a whole person. He’s undeserving, and yet he craves for it, the addictive sensation of your honeyed affection rousing up his cold heart and spreading warmth throughout his decaying body. 

You awaken something deep inside of him.

He has to cling to that light, the saving grace in the darkness that he’s wallowed in forever.

Adison knows what he has to do. 

To breach that final distance separating you from him.

To keep the promise of his love.

To cherish you tenderly. 

x

[rukafais]

Fun with stylistic development:

It's Bonechill! Loved this guy as a teenager. Drew fanart of him humanized because Of Course I Did.

So here is a comparison between how I humanized him in 2008, and how I humanized him literally five minutes ago here in 2025.

17 years has done a lot for my tastes.

[atticwifesam]

some interesting writing choices were made.

[darkshadowstales]

"She Woke Up at 3AM… But She Wasn’t Alone 😨 | True Horror Short"

A spine-chilling short horror story that’ll haunt your mind — what would you do if your phone showed a photo of you sleeping... taken just seconds ago? Watch till the end… if you dare! 👻

#HorrorStory #CreepyShorts #TrueScaryStory #3AMHorror #ParanormalActivity #ScaryReel #Haunted #ShortHorror #GhostStory #Unsolved #MidnightTerror #DarkMystery #FearFiles #SomethingInTheDark

[darkparanormalactivities]

Do Not Enter: The Forest That Doesn't Let You Leave

Hollow Creek was infamous for its legends of the restless dead, but to Clara, it was just a shortcut home—until the night it changed everything.

One chilly October evening, Clara's bike chain snapped, leaving her stranded at the creek's edge. The air turned unnaturally still. The usual sounds of the forest—rustling leaves and distant crickets—were swallowed by an oppressive silence. A cold shiver ran down her spine as she stepped onto the forest path, the dim moonlight her only guide.

Halfway through, she heard it: a faint whisper.

"Clara..."

Her name, soft and stretched like the hiss of wind through hollow wood. She froze, her breath caught in her chest. "Who's there?" she called out, her voice trembling.

No answer.

The whisper grew louder, surrounding her like an invisible chorus, each voice more sinister than the last. Shadows on the trees began to twist and writhe, forming grotesque shapes. Panic surged in Clara as she broke into a run, her boots slamming against the dirt path.

Then, she saw it.

A lantern, floating eerily in the distance. It flickered like a heartbeat, casting distorted shadows across the trail. But as Clara approached, she realized it wasn’t a lantern—it was a skull engulfed in flames.

Behind it stood a figure cloaked in black, its face hidden beneath a hood. The whispers stopped. The figure raised a bony finger and pointed at Clara.

"You should not have come here," it rasped in a guttural, bone-chilling voice.

Terrified, Clara turned to flee, but the path had vanished. The trees seemed to close in, their branches clawing at her like skeletal hands. Desperation clawed at her throat as she screamed, her voice swallowed by the darkness.

Suddenly, Clara woke up on the edge of the creek, gasping for air. Morning sunlight streamed through the trees. Her bike stood upright, its chain perfectly intact.

But on her wrist was a burned, skeletal handprint—a haunting reminder that some paths are best left unexplored.

[peachi-blossom]

Non-Hazbin Hotel characters that are better than Lucifer Morningstar

I hate Lucifer Morningstar. Why do fans find him attractive? He looks like a skinny twig like every male character Vivienne Medrano draws. Except for Adam! I think.

I added Wreck-Gar, Cheese Sandwich, Banana Man, Probabilitor the Annoying, and Blumfump because they're voiced by Weird Al.

Speaking of Weird Al, Vivienne Medrano wanted him to voice Lucifer since she's a big fan of him, but he didn't because he's a Christian (which I didn't know that until this July).

EDIT: 7/9/24

I should've put Mortimer in the better than Alastor post because he uses Voodoo for evil purposes, but I forgot. Oh well.

I replaced Mortimer Handee with Bonechill from Super Paper Mario because he is inspired by Lucifer.

[sleepyghostiii]

Nea you deserve the world and then some

[radylis]

CHAPTER 7 (PART 2) - THE OVERTHERE

🤍 ⟪"Tippi... Takest good care of the real me. And...savest the world, yea? Such is my final wish, so if thou dost not do it, thou art most unkind! (...) Father... Mother... Fare thee well… (...) I am sorry... for lying earlier. Because in truth... I... I love thee... both......."⟫ 🤍

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