#Horrorstorie

[bl00dfroma-fairy]

[margueritesauvage]

Hello, here's my cover for the newest folk horror series from @ray_fawkes, BLUE PALO VERDE published by Mad Cave Studios! A: @rimanti_n C: @rifandraw L: @gofrankgo

[biohazqrdd]

kimber - borrasca V

first post kinda nervous ….. kimber borrasca V fanart bc i recently listened to the creepcast ep n wow that was wild idk how to feel about it but kimber is cool so that’s what matters !!!

haven’t done fanart in a long time so this is my first in a while so hope it gets better from here . made on procreate !

[coraleeeee]

ANATÔMICO

O ateliê estava em silêncio. A luz era baixa, amarelada, vinda do abajur perto da janela. O cheiro do incenso se espalhava devagar, misturado ao som abafado da rua e ao rangido preguiçoso do ventilador antigo, girando lentamente.

Estava sozinha. Sentada diante da mesa de desenho, tentando, à força, me concentrar.

O som do carvão no papel era quase uma trilha de angústia. Risquei, rasurei, parei. Suspirei pesado. Rasguei a folha, amassei e joguei no chão.

O chão já estava cheio. Montanhas de papeis amassados. Meus dedos manchados de preto. Meus olhos fixos nas linhas, tentando controlar a ansiedade que fervia. Desenhos e mais desenhos. Todos dele. O mesmo rosto, repetido dezenas de vezes. Às vezes perfeito. Às vezes distorcido, às vezes monstruoso, como se minha mão traísse.

Respirei fundo. Quase consegui fingir que era só mais uma noite qualquer. Mas o professor Miguel viria. Ansiava pelos seus olhos verdes, queria vê-los além da sala de aula, nem acreditava que minha armadilha tinha dado certo. Chamá-lo para me dar aulas de anatomía humana particular, em plena noite de sexta, tinha sido uma das minhas melhores ideias. O plano era tê-lo para mim, só para mim, e essa noite conseguiria.

E então... a campainha.

Meu corpo inteiro se sobressaltou. Fiquei parada alguns segundos, sentindo o coração martelar no peito. Depois me levantei. Caminhei até a porta, respirei fundo e abri.

Ele estava lá. Professor Miguel. Alto. Elegante. Um casaco longo e escuro, um olhar leve demais, cortês até, como se cada gesto dele fosse ensaiado.

— Boa noite — ele disse, com aquela voz calma, arrastada.

— Oi... Boa noite. Entra, por favor — respondi, tentando parecer natural.

Ele entrou devagar, os olhos passeando pelas paredes, pelos quadros, pelos pedaços da minha obsessão, por ele. Não comentou nada. Apenas observava. Fechei a porta atrás dele.

— Quer água? Chá? — perguntei, segurando o desconforto.

— Não, obrigado — respondeu.

Sorri. Um sorriso falso, tenso.

— Obrigada por vir... eu sei que é meio tarde...

— Não tem problema. O ambiente noturno às vezes ajuda — disse, tirando o casaco e pendurando no encosto da cadeira.

Se aproximou da mesa. Vi meu caderno meio aberto.

— Posso? — perguntou.

— Claro — respondi, sentindo o estômago revirar.

Ele folheou devagar. Com cuidado, quase com carinho.

— Você tem pressa... nos traços — comentou, sem tirar os olhos das folhas.

— Sou um pouco ansiosa — respondi, me abraçando sem perceber.

— Não…é diferente de ansiedade. A pressa tem método. A ansiedade... tem ruído. — Ele me olhou por cima das páginas.

Tentei sorrir, como se aquilo não tivesse me atravessado feito uma lâmina. Peguei uma folha limpa, tentando tomar controle da situação.

Ele sentou ao meu lado, pegou um pedaço de carvão.

— Vamos fazer um exercício simples. Estudo de boca. Foco na musculatura.

Assenti. Comecei a desenhar. Mas o traço tremia. Borrei. Apaguei. Tentei de novo. O carvão parecia fugir da minha mão. A frustração foi subindo, quente, sufocante.

— Está travando — ele constatou, sem me julgar.

— É... — murmurei, abaixando o olhar — Acho que não consigo hoje.

— Talvez seja o tema. Vamos inverter. Faça um exercício de observação. Me desenhe.

Levantei os olhos.

— Você?

— Só observe. Depois desenhe. — Se ajeitou na cadeira, de frente para mim.

A luz da luminária bateu de lado no rosto dele, desenhando sombras perfeitas. Os olhos dele... verdes. Profundos. Refletiam como vidro molhado.

Respirei fundo. Peguei o carvão. Minhas mãos tremiam, mas não falharam. O traço saiu firme, quase automático. Porque eu já conhecia aquele rosto. Já desenhei ele cem vezes. Mil vezes. Mesmo sem ele saber.

Terminei. Entreguei.

Ele pegou o papel, observou por alguns segundos longos, pesados e silenciosos.

O olhar dele mudou. Um quase sorriso. Uma sobrancelha que subiu, como quem confirma algo que sempre soube. A obsessão.

Eu esperei. Cada célula do meu corpo esperando aprovação. Uma palavra. Qualquer coisa.

Ele virou o papel na minha direção, para eu visualizar. Me aproximei. Devagar.

Minha mão se moveu sozinha, quase involuntariamente. Toquei seu rosto, precisava sentir sua pele

Nossos olhos se encontraram. Não consegui segurar. Eu o beijei.

Ele não reagiu. Não recuou. Não correspondeu. Apenas permitiu. Observou.

Me afastei, mais confusa do que nunca.

— Você não vai dizer nada? — perguntei, com a voz meio falha.

— Eu já sei de tudo — respondeu.

Ele se levantou, segurou minha mão me levando junto. Nos olhamos. E, sem mais, nos beijamos de novo. Dessa vez, intenso. Sua língua dançava na minha boca. Miguel me empurrou contra a mesa e me sentou com uma perna de cada lado, em cima dos papeis. Eu estava em êxtase.

Ele me deitou na mesa e ficou por cima. Minha mão desceu tentando arrancar o cós da sua calça, mas antes ele segurou meus pulsos forte. Muito forte, os prendendo em cima da minha cabeça.

O olhar dele mudou. Não era mais doce, nem curioso. Era fome.

Um sorriso torto rasgou a boca dele. Ele mordia meu pescoço me fazendo arfar, e descia para os meus seios.

Sem aviso. Sem hesitar. A mordida veio direto no meu peito.

O som. O som eu nunca vou esquecer. O osso rompendo cortando o silêncio da sala.

O sangue jorrava quente, pulsando junto com meu coração.

O rosto dele, afundado em mim. As mãos dele apertando meu corpo, me esmagando.

Tentei reagir. Tentei. Mas o corpo foi perdendo força, esvaindo.

Ele recuou. A boca dele, o queixo, as mãos... tudo coberto de vermelho.

Tentei falar. Só saía ar. Meus olhos arregalados.

Ele levou a mão suja de sangue até minha boca. E a tocou.

Foi assim que eu morri. De olhos abertos, assustada. Mas, estranhamente, realizada. Olhava para seus olhos verdes.

Ele se levantou. Vestiu o casaco. Passou por mim como se fosse só mais uma coisa no caminho. Saiu.

O som do ventilador girando foi a única coisa que restou.

FIM.

[pleasantstarfishtriumph]

≦q) me in my small town (I WELL BE IN A MOVIE LIKE THIS) ψ

[rhees-rapture]

[bartonsparrow25]

Finally posting part 1 of my original story! This will be multiple chapters, maybe even a book someday!

Likes, comments and replies appreciated-please be kind, I'm new at this! Also, don't plagiarize my work.

Mentions of psychiatric care, murder, blood, and scary supernatural things ahead. Please don't read if these bother you.

Tagging @e-dubbc11 @trickphotography2 @roosterforme

Hello reader! My name is…well, my real name isn’t important, but for the purposes of this story, my name is Eden. Eden Clarke.  Now, you may be asking yourself “Why is this crazy woman talking (writing?) to us like this? I didn’t settle on this story for the author to talk to me, I chose it to read a murder mystery!” Well, to be honest, I’m talking to you right now because it is the only way for me to talk about the events that happened without ending up in psychiatric care. Now I know you found this in the mystery section of wherever you get your reading material from, but hand to whatever Deity exists, what transpired is true. Turning this into work of fiction is another way of keeping me out of an institution, since none of what went down is remotely believable, and even the trained police investigating the case agree. As a way of protecting those involved, I am changing names, dates and not naming the places where things happened. That doesn’t make what happened any less real, or any less terrifying. I also agreed to wait a minimum of a year to publish this, in the hope that the memories of those involved would have faded some. In short, dear reader, I wrote this work of non-fiction fiction not to make it big, but in the hope that it gives me some peace from my nightmares.

Before these events, I wasn’t what you would call a hardcore believer in religion, the paranormal, or things associated with them. I was curious for sure, but never actually put much stock in so-called hauntings, possessions, ghost hitchhiker stories, aliens etc. My mind was open to the idea, but in a novel way. I am a writer after all, and it is my job to indulge my imagination as much as possible while still being able to return to the real world. After what I experienced while researching this book, you can call me a 100% believer in all of it. Hauntings are real? Yes. Do possessions happen? Absolutely. Can these things combine to drive someone crazy enough to commit murder? Without a doubt. Can that person be reliably tried for their crimes when all the eyewitness testimony sounds like something out of a Hollywood movie? That question may never be answered, since that person is dead, and no one else is going to go on record in any kind of official capacity to explain what happened inside that house. In fact, I don’t even know what the official reports do or will say, because the department that handled it is doing its damndest to bury (ha!) the entire thing.

Things started out normally, or as close to normal as life generally gets. The day I was set to interview the homicide detective with my local police department, I rolled out of bed and looked at the chic outfit I put together the night before and hung from my bedroom door to keep it wrinkle-free. Classic cut grey pantsuit, crisp white linen shirt, and dove grey Louboutin heels (don’t judge me, I saved months, MONTHS for them!). Normally when I’m writing at home, I admit I look like a college freshman that couldn’t be bothered to wear real clothes-sweat pants, leggings, oversized shirts, you get the idea. I do shower and shave my legs every day, but the whole makeup and hair thing eludes me when I am in writing mode. No one is around to see me then anyway, so it doesn’t really matter, in my opinion. It’s not like I go live on social media when I’m hip deep in a book. That day however, I was meeting with a homicide detective, and I decided that looking a little extra professional would go a long way toward making sure this interview went smoothly. This wasn’t an interview the detective had voluntarily agreed to, and I wanted to make sure he didn’t feel like I was wasting his time. 

I got up, had breakfast and coffee, showered and did the hair and makeup thing, then got dressed. I slipped into my killer heels, grabbed my tote bag and purse, then made my way out the door. I drive a 5-year-old Mini Cooper and was debating running it through a quick car wash since I was ahead of schedule, then decided against it. It’s not like Detective Burke was going to see my car anyway, right? I made the short drive from my cute Cape Cod style cottage to the police precinct for my interview. There wasn’t going to be anything special about the interview itself, just some standard questions about procedure in handling and investigating a homicide. I was hoping to add a ride along at some point, just to get a feel for the details. I like to be accurate in my writing and I know it drives the police crazy when things in movies and television are wrong. The little details matter!

I approached the front desk, gave the officer my name, told him I had an appointment with Detective Burke, then prepared to sit down and wait. Just as I turned to find a seat out of the way, Detective Burke walked in from outside, strode over to me with his hand outstretched and a “let’s get this over with” look in his eyes. “Ms. Clarke?”, he asked. “That’s me!”, I said as I took a step forward to shake his hand. “Was that you I saw pull in driving the black Mini?” “It was,” I responded, not liking where I thought this was going. “It’s nice, but it could really use a wash.” he said with a smirk. Damn. I knew I should have hit the car wash before this meeting. I gave him a thin smile, not knowing how to politely respond when my instinct was to roll my eyes and ask if he was going to wash it for me, because if not, then he should shut his yap. Instead, I made a vague “hmm” sound in my throat, then asked “Should we step into your office?” “Follow me.”

I found myself hurrying to keep up as Detective Burke strode with purpose toward his office. He had at least a foot on me in height, most of it leg, and walked at what was almost a jogging pace for me. I could hear the steady click-click-click of my heels on the concrete floor and told myself to slow down just a little, so he wouldn’t be able to hear how fast I was having to walk.

After a minute or two he ushered me into a medium sized office with a faux wood desk, a small window set high up in one wall, a desktop computer, uncomfortable looking chair set in front of the desk for visitors, a filing cabinet in one corner, and various file boxes scattered around. It looked like he had just moved into the office-there weren’t any of the usual personal touches anywhere, and the room felt sterile, like it hadn’t been used in a while.

He pulled the chair in front of his desk out for me, dusted the seat off then motioned for me to have a seat. “Sorry about the mess. I just moved to this precinct and haven’t had a chance to organize everything yet.” Score one for my powers of observation.

 “No problem, I’ve been in my office for 4 years and sometimes it still looks like I just moved in” I said with a smile, thinking about the current state of my office, with old newspapers, various books on various subjects, and general clutter scattered everywhere. I made a mental note to put things away once I got home. No point in starting a new book if stuff from the last one was still scattered around everywhere, right?

“Do you work from home or rent office space?” he asked politely as he sat behind his desk, moving a stack of what looked like eyewitness statements out of the way as he did. “I work from home. I moved here about 4 years ago. Things are unpacked and I’m settled into my house, but after finishing a book I sometimes forget to organize the paperwork and put it away before starting the next one. Once the idea for a new book hits I can be pretty single minded and end up with tunnel vision until I start getting things on paper.” I wasn’t sure why I explained all of that to him when a simple answer would have worked just as well. There was something about him that inspired conversation I supposed. I bet he’s hell on suspects I thought to myself as I unzipped my tote bag and pulled out my iPad with its attached keyboard. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” I asked him. “That’s usually my line” he responded with a grin. The grin changed the whole look of his face. When we shook hands, he had what I call cop-face. Eyes that look like they have seen too much, a slightly grim set to his mouth, and a certain air of authority and presence that made me think he could easily look like someone you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley at night. The grin made him look younger, and lighter somehow. He was a big man, tall with broad shoulders, hazel eyes and dark brown hair, and a tattoo peeking out from underneath the rolled-up sleeve of his button-down shirt. He was dressed in pressed khakis and his shoes were polished, but he looked like he would rather be in jeans and boots. Guess I wasn’t the only one who had decided to try and make a professional first impression.

“Nothing wrong with a little role reversal” I responded flippantly, before it occurred to me that that statement could be taken several ways, none of them exactly polite. Rather than try to cover that statement with something else that was bound to be just as embarrassing, I moved forward from it with a slight head shake. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me. I’m sure you have other things to do, and I promise not to take up too much of your time. My questions are fairly routine this time, and if you don’t mind, as I have more, I may email them to you. I told your chief I would add a special thank you to both you and the department once the book is done. If you don’t want your name out there, I can just put something vague referring to a detective. “As long as the book isn’t completely ridiculous, you can add my name in it. It’s not like you’re going to be getting classified information.” “Unless you felt like passing on some inside secrets of the trade, I would say your name going in the thanks portion of the book is safe”, I said. “I guess my first question is, have you ever investigated a murder in which the defense was that a demon or ghost made them do it? Or been on a case in which the suspect claims that they believed the other person was possessed/haunted and had to be killed?”

“That’s a hell of a question Ms. Clarke,” he said. “Guess I know what your book is about now. No, I can’t say I have ever been on a case that had anything spooky about it. Mostly murder cases are violent, sad, and senseless. I’ve never been on one that had more than the usual amount of mystery.”

“What would you call a “normal amount” of mystery Detective,” I asked curiously.

“Please, call me Leo. Motive that isn’t straight forward, sometimes the way someone was killed, that kind of thing,” he replied looking a little tired. I didn’t want him to go down a path that would end the interview early, so I hurried to ask my next question.

“Leo. Have you ever been to a murder scene at what would be called a haunted spot? In fact, are there any haunted houses here? I’m still learning about things in town and haven’t really explored much.”

“As far as I know there aren’t many places that people are willing to admit could be haunted, outside of the county courthouse, and one or two other historic places. Most people here don’t go around talking about believing in ghosts and demons in polite conversation. If you’re going to make this town your home, you should get out and explore it Ms. Clarke,” he said with a smirk. I felt like my line of questioning was amusing to him, and maybe a little ridiculous.

“Please, call me Eden. I’ve done the usual stuff, explored the main drag and some of the shops, found a favorite pizza place, but I’ll admit writing takes up most of my time. I guess going to the gym doesn’t count as exploring either,” I said. “Not really,” he said. “I’ll try harder in the future. How would you handle a case in which the motive behind the crime centered on the paranormal, not something tangible? What would you even put in the initial report? Would that be an immediate insanity plea?”

“Well, I’m not a lawyer, but I think if a suspect was claiming possession or that the devil made them do it, any defense lawyer would set them up for an insanity plea. I can’t say what I would put in the report, beyond what was on the scene, and what the suspect said and did. Straightforward facts. If something spooky happened, I probably wouldn’t notice or give it any credence. In my experience, people don’t need ghosts to make them do horrible things to each other,” he said with a touch of sadness in his voice. I felt like Leo needed a long vacation somewhere far away from his job. He gave off an air of burn-out that I had seen before when interviewing cops in other big cities like New York. It might be time to rotate him to another unit, I thought to myself. Then I gave myself a mental head shake. It wasn’t my job to analyze this man or his job. His chief would move him if he needed to. My job was to wrap this up, schedule a ride along, and hopefully leave with a way to ask him more questions if I needed to.

I realized I had paused for too long, and must have a sympathetic look on my face, because he was looking at me oddly. “Sorry about that, I went down a mental rabbit hole,” I said sheepishly. “Would you be open to thinking that last question over and letting me know if you come up with anything? Mostly I’m curious what you would write-up if you came upon a scene and there was supernatural activity going on that you saw with your own eyes. Levitation, a ghost, things moving on their own, stuff like that. Any insight is helpful at this stage.”

“I’ll think it over, but if I give myself nightmares, I’ll be knocking on your door, no matter what time of day or night it is. Horror isn’t my thing for a reason” he said half-jokingly.

“Well Leo, if thinking my questions over gives you nightmares bad enough to knock on my door, I’ll assume my book is going to be good and terrifying, which is what I’m aiming for,” I said with a grin. I love horror and this was going to be my first real foray into blending horror with a murder mystery police procedural. I wasn’t sure how it was going to go, but if I could give my consultants the shivers, that was a good start. Mostly I’ve written your standard murder mysteries, with maybe a little weird thrown in, but never anything full on supernatural before. Little did I know that my pursual of facts for a fictional book would lead to stumbling on an actual case of haunting and possession, murder, and the most terrifying night of my life.

[avargskeletorium]

PastaRevivals Series [VOL.1 | Part. 2]

[psykikowel]

Trying to make a creepypasta. Been a fan for years just finished to a point that I feel is good enough to release, i will edit if needed. Even after releasing. I know I'm soooo late, and the prime creepypasta hype has passed. But I'd still like to make creepypastas for fans that are still here.

[juhnkit]

a mind-bending tale where reality glitches at a midnight convenience store. An abandoned notebook transforms a night shift worker into part of an artist's creation, blurring lines between creator and created. The ultimate meta-horror: discovering you're just a character in someone else's masterpiece.

[deeptyphoonsoulart]

I found a diorama that I made a million years ago. It used to glow:(

I haven't shown it before... Maybe I should come up with a plot involving her? How did it all start? And what does this have to do with Alfred and Ivan? Need to think....

[fujiuro]

"About Our Eternal Bond: Bon's Obsession (Bon Obsession! X Reader)"

You never should have returned to Bunny Smiles Incorporated, but something

--perhaps a strange curiosity or a deep-seated need to unravel the mysteries that haunted that place—

drew you back to the old pizzeria, now abandoned and in ruins. The tales of disappearances, the lost voices, and the secrets buried beneath layers of rust and dust had always haunted you, yet the morbid pull was irresistible.

The place was exactly as depicted in those disturbing tapes you had watched, the ones that chronicled the downfall of Bunny Smiles.

The lights were off, and the air reeked of mildew and rust. The once-beloved animatronics that had delighted children were now mere twisted shadows of their former selves.As you wandered through the dark corridors, you felt a familiar presence. Bon, the blue rabbit animatronic, stood there on the empty stage. But something was different

—his usually blank eyes now gleamed with an unsettling intensity, as if something conscious, something hungry, resided within him."You came back," the metallic, distorted voice echoed through the empty hall, tinged with a disturbingly sweet tone. "I knew you couldn't resist... You belong here."A wave of dread washed over you, but your legs felt rooted to the ground. Bon slowly moved off the stage, each step echoing in the silence of the pizzeria. He began speaking of "eternity" and "union," his words dripping with a sickening obsession. He believed that for you two to be together forever, you needed to become "one of them."He led you to the back of the pizzeria, to a room you had never seen before

—dark, cramped, filled with disassembled animatronic parts and loose wires. In the center of the room, one of the old animatronic suits hung open, empty and waiting, as if it had been prepared just for you. The smell of old metal and oil made your stomach churn.Bon, with an insane glint in his eyes, approached. "I'll take care of you, protect you... forever," he murmured as he extended his metallic hands, ready to force you into the suit. You realized with horror that to him, this wasn’t just an obsession

—it was an inevitable destiny he was determined to fulfill.You knew that if you didn’t escape now, you would be trapped in that suit forever, your consciousness imprisoned alongside the darkest secrets of Bunny Smiles Incorporated. Time seemed to slow as you fought desperately to break free, knowing that with each passing second, Bon drew closer, ready to complete his twisted plan.

---This version ties Bon’s obsession into the dark and unsettling context of *The Walten Files*, making full use of the old pizzeria's atmosphere and the psychological horror that permeates the series.

[maharshi87k]

Her

Full story in my blog

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He put the pen down, tired of writing til late night, turned the lights off and lied down on the bed, tucked himself in his blanket, trying to sleep.

He always had a hard time trying to sleep because of his passion for writing as if he poured himself along with his heart in all his writings.

The pages of his workbook that he left open by his legs started flipping, slowly, one by one because of the cold wind.

Instantly regretted leaving the window open but the voice wasn't that disturbing so he kept trying to fall asleep.

The pages kept flipping, too much, slowly but constantly, it didn't stop despite it being such a thin book.

Pages kept flipping like there's no end to it.

Fed up of it, he sits up to take the book and close it

And there's someone,

Sitting right there on the bed,

A girl.

He yelled and turned the lights on immediately

And she's gone with the darkness.

Scared and shocked he sits there looking around breathing heavily, til he could gather the strength to drink some water and stand up to close the window. His legs were still shaking but he managed to walk to the window.

As he looks out of the window through the dark, there she is,

Standing next to the well she fell in and drowned a few weeks ago

[coraleeeee]

Gente vocês leriam se eu postasse minhas histórias de terror?

.🥺🥺🥺

[kazhinau]

hi everyone, i created a creepypasta about the photo where phil is seen through their doorbell camera in the video amazingphil did "what dan and phil text eachother 3". it's not finished yet, thought theres 2 chapters for now. please read it and tell me if you like it!