💰[$1,000] Tell us your spooky story 📚

[Beekman]

Lila loved her new bedroom, except for the old wooden closet in the corner. It had no handle, and its door never quite closed all the way. Every night, when the moonlight crept across the floor, the closet would creak.

“Probably the wind,” Lila told herself.

One night, she woke to a soft whisper.
“Liiiilaaa…”

She sat up, heart thumping. “Who’s there?”

No answer, just the slow creak-creak of the closet door moving, inch by inch. She pulled the blanket to her chin. The whisper came again, closer this time.

“Lila, I’m cold…”

Terrified but curious, she tiptoed to the closet and tugged the door open. Inside hung only her coats and a single dusty box on the floor. She bent down and lifted the lid…and found a little note.

It said: Thank you for letting me out.

Lila gasped and spun around. The closet was empty. The whisper stopped. The room fell silent. She dove under her covers and didn’t sleep until morning.

When sunlight filled the room, she dared to peek at the closet. It stood wide open now, the box gone. On the wall inside, scrawled in neat chalk letters, was a new message:

Don’t worry, Lila. I’ll come back when it’s cold again.

From then on, she always kept her room very warm.

[Magotti14]

Stake ID : Magotti14

I moved into my new house in 2013. After 2 years, I was asleep and my door opened. My conscious can always tell footsteps around me when I'm asleep but this time there was none. A spirit flowed above my face and I was being pressed into my mattress almost hitting the floor. I was scared for my life and kept praying. It was for almost 2 minutes but felt like 1hr. Never had the same experience but holy shit

[Kampocan]

Eddie had never been a believer in curses.

A regular player on Stake, he treated Plinko as a harmless thrill — a game of chance and insane multiplier. He spent his evenings watching the little ball bounce through its pins, chasing multipliers he rarely caught. But on one stormy October night, he got what he’d always wanted.

The ball danced. It bounced left, right, center — and dropped into 1000x.

His balance exploded. The chat went wild. He laughed until tears came, staring at the number that had changed his luck.

Then, something flickered on the screen.

For a split second, the Plinko board warped. The lights dimmed, game distorted distorted, and a shape appeared behind the pins — tall, humanoid, with hollow eyes glowing faint orange. Eddie blinked, and it was gone.

That night, the sounds began.

Soft clicking noises, like marbles dropping through pins. They echoed through his dark room. The walls seemed to breathe with static. Every time he tried to sleep, he’d hear that faint digital chime — the ball drop sound coming from nowhere.

By the third night, his phone lit up on its own.

The screen showed Plinko again, but the board looked… wrong. The pegs were black and sharp. The ball pulsed like a heartbeat. Against his will, his thumb tapped Play. The ball dropped, clicking down the pins — each hit ringing louder, sharper.

It landed on 1000x again.

A text appeared: “You’ve been chosen.”

Eddie froze. His reflection in the glass wasn’t alone. Behind him stood the figure from the screen — tall, winged, its face stretched in a grin carved too deep to be human. Its skin shimmered with tiny dots of orange light — like Plinko pegs burning under flesh.

He ran.

But every reflection — his phone, his TV, his laptop — showed the entity closer.

Each time he blinked, it took another step.

The final message came at 3:33 a.m. on his phone:

“No one leaves with 1000x.”

The next morning, Eddie's home was empty . The computer was still on, Plinko running in endless autoplay. The chat scrolled endlessly with the same message repeating:

1000x. 1000x. 1000x.

And sometimes — just before the screen flickers — you can still see his reflection, smiling with the same orange glow in his eyes.

Stake 

Kampocan

[Lirba72]

Maya loved Halloween  he candy, the games, the thrill of fear.
This year, she found an old mirror at a flea market, carved with strange symbols. The seller whispered, “Make your wish before midnight… but never break eye contact.”

That night, Maya lit a candle and stood before the mirror.
“I wish to see my future,” she said with a laugh.

The flame flickered. Her reflection blinked  but she hadn’t.
It smiled slowly, whispering, “You won’t like it.”

Maya stumbled back. The reflection stayed still, its eyes following her even after she turned away. Then the glass began to drip not cracks, but tears of blood.

When she finally smashed the mirror, her reflection didn’t vanish.
It stepped out.

The next morning, her friends said Maya was acting strange quieter, colder, smiling too much.
And when she passed by a mirror, she never cast a reflection again

Stake ID: Lirba72

[pikeyyyy]

On the night of October 31st, in a small forgotten town, a girl named Elena found an old mask lying on her doorstep. It looked handmade — stitched leather, hollow eyes, and a faint grin carved across its surface. A note was attached:

“Wear it at midnight if you dare.”

 

Thinking it was a prank, Elena put it on.

The moment it touched her skin, she felt something cold crawl into her head — a whisper.

At first, it said her name. Then it began to laugh.

 

She tried to pull the mask off, but it clung to her face, melting like wax. Her reflection in the mirror changed — her eyes hollowed, her mouth stretched into that same carved grin.

 

When her parents entered her room the next morning, the mask was gone.

But Elena wasn’t there either.

Only a faint whisper echoed from the walls:

“One more mask… one more soul…”

USER ID PIKEYYYY

[Kunkku02]

There was this guy named Kunkku02. One spooky night after arriving home from driving with friends, he decided to try out this new gambling site which his friends told about.

kunkku registered to stake.com and deposited a little amount of his Litecoin savings ($35)

He managed to peak at over $2 000 but after all lost them. ”Should i try one more depo?”

one more deposit, one more deposit… he kept saying. After a while he realized he lost ALL of the Litecoin savings. He realised his urge to keep gamble was HAUNTING him… SCARY

Happy Halloween every1!

 

stakeid : Kunkku02

Edited October 28, 2025 by Kunkku02
Added id

[RonnyPaslan]

“The Bell on Three-Night Hill”

In a misty coastal village called Teluk Sialang, hidden deep within Indonesia’s Anambas Islands, there stood a small hill the locals called Three-Night Hill. No one knew exactly how it got its name, but every Halloween night, a sound echoed from its peak: a bell tolling three times, precisely at midnight.

Legend had it that the bell once belonged to a Dutch priest who vanished during a great storm centuries ago. He had arrived with a massive bronze bell, intending to build a church—but he never finished. The bell was later found atop the hill, not hanging, not tied, yet it rang… only on Halloween night.

This year, three teenagers—Raka, Intan, and Dimas—decided to prove the tale was just a myth. Armed with flashlights, a camera, and half-baked courage, they climbed the hill as night fell, weaving through ancient trees whose leaves whispered like voices.

At the summit, they found nothing. Just fog, wind, and a moss-covered stone. But at exactly midnight, the air turned cold. Their flashlights flickered. And from within the mist, the bell appeared—standing alone, glowing faintly green like sea-worn metal.

The first toll echoed like a voice from the ocean floor. The second made the ground tremble. The third… made them see something.

A figure. Not quite human. Not quite ghost. Tall, cloaked in black, its face hidden behind a wooden mask carved with a wide grin and hollow eyes. It pointed at them… then at the bell.

Intan, the boldest of the three, stepped forward. But the moment she touched the bell, the world seemed to flip. They each awoke the next morning in their own homes, feet muddy, hands clutching the same thing: a piece of damp, mossy bell rope.

Since that night, every midnight, they hear the bell—not from the hill, but from inside their homes.

Stake: ronnypaslan

[UncleBarneyArt]

Every Halloween, the Lucky Lantern Casino reopened for one night, though it had burned down decades ago. 🕯️ The ghosts of gamblers long gone gathered around the roulette wheel, each spinning for a chance to win back their lost souls. The chips clinked like teeth, and the dealer’s smile never wavered, even as his fingers turned to bone. A newcomer walked in, chasing the promise of eternal luck, unaware the buy-in was his heartbeat. When the wheel stopped on black 13, the room fell silent and then erupted in applause as his pulse joined the jackpot. The next morning, the casino was gone again, but a faint glow shimmered where the table once stood… and a single chip pulsed like it was still alive. ♠️

 

Edited to add stake.com username:

Unclebarneyart 

Edited October 28, 2025 by UncleBarneyArt

[GoldyLuck]

“The Night You Vanished”

 

It started with a reflection.

 

You were brushing your teeth one evening, and for just a second, your reflection didn’t move with you. You blinked, and it caught up — a half-second delay, nothing more. You told yourself it was tired eyes, the bathroom light flickering again.

 

But over the next few nights, it happened more often. Your reflection began hesitating — turning its head slower, blinking later. You started leaving the light off when you passed mirrors.

 

Then one morning, you woke up feeling lighter. Not refreshed — hollow. When you exhaled, you could see your breath, even though the room was warm. You tried to shake the feeling, but your shadow looked… thinner than usual.

 

You checked your reflection again.

 

This time, it smiled before you did.

 

The smile didn’t look cruel — just knowing. And when you stepped closer, it whispered. Not aloud, but inside your head, right behind your eyes:

 

“You’re fading. I’ve been waiting for the rest of you.”

 

You stumbled back, heart pounding — but your body felt delayed, like your limbs were moving through syrup. And when you looked again, your reflection’s lips weren’t moving anymore. It just stared, unblinking.

 

Over the next few days, you started forgetting small things — how coffee smells, how your laughter used to sound. Your voice grew softer. Your reflection’s, however, looked more alive.

 

By the final night, you woke up in darkness so heavy it didn’t feel like night at all. You reached for your phone — but your hand went through it. You couldn’t feel your pulse. Couldn’t even hear your breathing.

 

And in the mirror across the room — your reflection blinked awake, stretched, and smiled.

 

You watched it walk away.

 

You haven’t been seen since.

 

But sometimes, people still swear they glimpse your shadow walking behind them — just half a step out of sync.

 

stake id: Goldy4470

[chodidenhanlai]

Short Story: THE HURRICANING HOUSE 🕯️

The road leading to the Greystone house was covered in a white mist. No one dared to go near it, because every year on Halloween night, the house hummed — a low sound, like someone breathing in the walls.I am Mia, seventeen years old. I don’t believe in ghosts, only in evidence.
This year, I decided to find out the truth. My best friend, Jonah, reluctantly followed.We brought flashlights, a tape recorder, and a little bit of courage and stupidity.When the rusty iron gate swung open, the murmuring grew louder — steady, rhythmic, and cold.The house was dark, save for a lone moonlight shining through the broken window.The air smelled of dampness, cold, and old.In the living room, an old record player was spinning by itself, though there was no music playing. It hummed, steady as a heartbeat.Jonah reached over, trying to unplug it, but the cord went straight into the wall, as if it were digging into the brick.He touched it — and all the sound disappeared.The house sighed.
The flashlight flickered. The door closed.Then a hoarse voice, as light as a breath, rang out behind me:

“It’s late… the song is still waiting.”

With trembling hands, I turned on the record player. The red light flashed twice.Then it went off.Everything was plunged into total darkness.They found only the tape recorder in front of the door. No one could find Jonah or me.When the police turned it on, they heard a murmur… then my voice, faint, echoed through the speaker:

“It’s not the wind… it’s breathing.”

Every year since then, at exactly 11:47 p.m. on October 31, the Greystone house murmured again—the rhythm of two lost hearts.

Five years later – October 31, 11:40 p.m.

My name is Evan, an intern at the Hollow Creek Police Department.
While cleaning out old files, I found a tape recorder with a faded sticker: “Greystone Case – 2020.”
It still had batteries. I turned it on out of curiosity.At first, there was only a murmur. Then a woman’s voice rang out, so soft it was creepy:

“Evan… don’t listen anymore.”

I was startled. No one in the storage room knew my name.I tried to turn it off, but my hand felt like it was being held.The sound on the recorder changed to the sound of slow footsteps approaching. Then another voice, deeper, whispered right next to my ear:

“This time… there are three of us.”

I threw the recorder down and ran from the room. But before the door closed, I heard it — three breaths mingling, rhythmic and slow, then silence.The next morning, the recorder was found lying in the middle of the floor, the red light still flashing.In the latest recording, there were only three breaths.

A year later, the authorities decided to demolish the house. When the excavator reached the basement, workers discovered three wooden chairs arranged in a circle around an old record player.

The chair still had traces of rope on it… and three handprints on the wall behind it.

The police confiscated the record player. In the cartridge, they found a small human bone the size of a fingernail.
When they tried to play it, it hummed again.

The sound was exactly like three heartbeats —
still beating.

(Legend has it that if you listen closely at exactly 11:47 on Halloween night, you can still hear their whispers — even if you're not near the house.)


Stake : Chodidenhanlai

[caacooccc]

Stake ID:  caacooccc

On the edge of Hollow Creek stood a house no one remembered building.
Every Halloween night, it lit itself — one flickering candle per window, no more, no less.

Kids dared each other to step on the porch, but none ever made it past the gate. The air felt heavier there, as if the house was breathing.

This year, twelve-year-old Nora decided to find out the truth. Armed with a flashlight and a bag of candy for courage, she waited until midnight and crossed the gate.

The door creaked open before she touched it.
Inside, dust floated like glitter in the beam of her light. A table sat in the middle of the room — set for one.
And beside the plate, a handwritten note:

“Welcome home, Nora. We’ve been waiting.”

The candle flames brightened.
In their glow, the portraits on the wall turned — and every face was her own.

The next morning, the house was dark again.
But if you look closely from the road, there’s a new candle in the window — thirteen now, instead of twelve.

[nyihtwe1]

The Perpetual Echo of October

Elias Thorne, a Foley Artist hunting a genuinely unsettling sound, spent Halloween midnight in the abandoned WZAR radio station. The station was famous for its final, unexplained broadcast silence decades ago.

He set up his high-fidelity microphone. At 12:07 AM, his equipment registered a sharp frequency spike. Elias put on his headphones and heard it: the sound of a single, perfect drop of water.

Drip.

He pulled the headphones off. Silence. He put them back on. Drip. It was close and crisp, but his ears heard nothing standing right next to the mic. The sound existed only in the recording.

As he chased the impossible noise, Elias realized its true horror: it was the sound of the drop perpetually falling, and never landing. The acoustic signature of a release was there, but the splat of impact was always missing. It was pure, unresolved suspense—a flaw in reality only his gear could perceive.

The sound vanished instantly at 3:00 AM, the hour the original broadcast had cut out. Elias left, haunted not by a ghost, but by the impossible tape he carried. He keeps it in a lead box, waiting for the one night of the year when the phantom drop begins its endless, agonizing descent once more.

stake: nyihtwe1

[e55hi]

Stake ID: ehiremedta

The old-timers in Blackwood still called it the Glimmer Man. It wasn't a man, of course. No one had ever seen its face, if it even had one. The stories said it was a shimmer in the air, a distortion of light and shadow that drifted through the woods on Halloween night, collecting things that were lost.

Leo, at sixteen, thought it was the town’s collective madness, a folktale to scare kids away from the treacherous Ravine Ridge. But this year was different. This year, his younger sister, Lily, had vanished into those woods three days ago. The official search had been called off, the sheriff muttering about runaways and rocky terrain. But Leo had found something they hadn’t: one of Lily’s hand-knit mittens, snagged on a thornbush deep in the Ravine, and beside it, the air felt… thin. Cold, in a way that had nothing to do with the October chill.

So, on Halloween night, with a sky the colour of a fresh bruise and a sliver of moon like a sharpened fingernail, Leo went back. He carried a backpack with a flashlight, a rope, and Lily’s favourite book of fairy tales. The woods were unnaturally silent. No rustle of nocturnal creatures, no hoot of an owl. It was as if the forest was holding its breath.

He found the spot where he’d discovered the mitten. The thornbush was there, but the mitten was gone. In its place, nestled among the brambles, was a small, porcelain doll he’d never seen before. Its face was cracked, one eye missing, and it wore a tiny, faded green dress. It felt ancient.

A soft, whispering sound reached his ears, like dry leaves skittering across pavement. But there were no leaves on the ground here; the earth was bare and hard.

“Lily?” he called out, his voice swallowed by the oppressive quiet.

The shimmer appeared at the edge of his vision, a heat-haze mirage in the cold air. It hovered near the trunk of a great, gnarled oak, and for a moment, Leo saw things suspended within it: a tarnished silver locket, a child’s wooden top, a single, men’s leather glove. Things lost. The Glimmer Man was a walking cabinet of forgotten things.

It began to drift away, deeper into the ravine.

“Wait!” Leo shouted, his fear overshadowed by a desperate hope. “Do you have my sister?”

The shimmer paused. It didn’t turn, but the air around Leo grew colder still. He felt a profound sense of absence, as if all the sound and warmth in the world were being siphoned away. He fumbled in his backpack and pulled out Lily’s book.

“She loves this one,” he said, his voice trembling. “The one about the moon princess. She… she reads it every night.”

He held the book out, a pathetic offering to a thing he couldn’t understand. The Glimmer Man shifted, its form rippling. The objects inside it swirled, and for a terrifying second, Leo saw a small, red sneaker, Lily’s sneaker tumbling in the distortion.

Then, it moved. Not towards him, but onwards, a silent command to follow.

Leo trailed the shimmer, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. It led him to a part of the ravine he’d never seen, a place where the trees grew so close together their branches wove a canopy that blotted out the sky. In the centre was a clearing, and in the centre of the clearing stood a structure that made his blood run cold.

It was a house. Not a real house, but a patchwork replica built entirely from lost items. Walls of weathered books and broken picture frames. A roof of bent umbrellas and shattered slate. A chimney stack of rusted bicycles. A porch made from a single, massive church door. Light, a pale, sickly yellow, bled from the windows, which were made of stacked, empty picture frames.

The Glimmer Man flowed towards the house and simply dissipated, its collected objects settling into the structure with a series of soft clicks and thuds. The red sneaker was now part of the front step.

This was its nest. Its collection.

Leo pushed the church-door porch open, the groan of its hinges sounding like a long, tired sigh. The inside was a labyrinth of lost things. Towers of mismatched china threatened to topple. Coats from a hundred different eras hung on invisible hooks. A river of single socks flowed along the floorboards. And the air hummed with a low, melancholic energy, the ghost of a thousand memories.

“Lily!” he cried, wading through the clutter.

A small whimper came from a corner piled high with stuffed animals, all missing an eye or a limb. He scrambled over, pulling away a one-eared bunny and a bear with no stuffing. There, curled in a nest of torn blankets, was Lily. She was pale, her eyes wide with a fear so profound it was almost peaceful.

“Leo?” she whispered. “I couldn’t find my way out. The path kept changing.”

He grabbed her, holding her tight. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

As he pulled her to her feet, the house seemed to shudder. The objects around them trembled. The Glimmer Man was reforming, pulling itself from the very walls, a coalescing storm of absence. It didn’t want its collection disturbed.

Leo looked at the thing, then at his sister’s terrified face. He remembered the stories. It collected what was lost. Not just objects, but people. It didn't mean harm; it was just its nature. To correct it, you couldn't fight. You had to bargain. You had to offer a piece of your own world.

He reached into his backpack and took out the fairy tale book. Then, he gently took the cracked porcelain doll from his pocket, the one he’d found in the thorns.

“You can keep these,” he said to the shimmering void. “They’re lost now too. They belong to you. But she doesn’t.”

He placed the book and the doll on a nearby stack of encyclopedias. The Glimmer Man paused, its shimmering form hovering over the new additions. The air lost its biting cold. The oppressive silence lifted, replaced by the distant, grateful hoot of an owl.

The path behind them was clear now, a straight shot through the trees to the edge of the ravine. Leo didn’t look back. He carried Lily all the way home, to the warm, solid light of their house on the edge of Blackwood.

The next morning, Lily was safe in her bed, sleeping deeply. Leo stood at his window, looking out at the autumn-burnished woods. He knew the story of the Glimmer Man would continue. But he also knew he had faced the spirit of the season not a monster of flesh and blood, but a mysterious, sorrowful keeper of forgotten things. And he knew, with a chill that would never quite leave him, that a part of him was now part of its collection. Not a thing, but a memory. The memory of the absolute, soul-swallowing silence at the heart of that shimmering dark. And that, he suspected, was a loss the Glimmer Man treasured most of all.

[locbtc123]

Stake id : Locbtc123

 

“A KNOCK AT 12 O’Clock” 👁️

-Room No. 7

I am Linh, a first-year student, who just moved to a small boarding house next to the town cemetery.My room – room No. 7, is at the end of the hallway. The old landlady warned me before receiving the key:

“If you hear a knock at midnight… don’t open the door. Even if it’s only three times, absolutely not.”

I just smiled. In this noisy city, who believes in ghost stories anymore?

-The night of October 31st – 12:00 sharp

I stayed up late studying. The clock on the wall turned to 12:00, then I heard knock… knock… knock…
Three knocks, slow, clear, even as if someone was tapping their fingertips on wood. I opened the door. No one was there. The hallway was dark and quiet, the wind blew through the window. There was only a yellow envelope on the floor.

I picked it up and opened it. Inside was a white piece of paper with a scribbled line:

“Thank you for opening the door. Now it’s my turn.”

I felt a chill down my spine. Thinking someone was teasing me, I threw the paper in the trash and went to sleep.

-The next morning

The landlady woke me up to collect the electricity bill. No one answered. The door was still locked from the inside, the light was still on, the kettle was still boiling. She called a few more people to break the lock. As soon as the door opened, the room was empty. Linh was not there. Only a piece of paper fell from the table, with the same old line… and a new sentence below:

“Six rooms left.”

She trembled as she looked at the dormitory, which had exactly seven rooms.

-A month later

Room number 7 was cleaned up and rented to a new tenant named An. An was a transfer student, cheerful, and did not believe in ghosts.

The first night, the landlady told her again:

“If you hear a knock at midnight, don’t open the door, my child.”

An smiled and said: “You’re very brave, if there’s a ghost, it’s even better.”

-Night of November 30 – 12:00

Knock... knock... knock...

An opened the door. No one. Only a yellow envelope, inside was a white piece of paper, with the trembling handwriting:

“Thank you for opening the door. Now it’s my turn.”

She saw the handwriting… trembling, exactly like Linh’s, the previous occupant.

-Later

People said that room number 7 was locked, no one rented it anymore. But every time the clock struck 12, even though there was no one in the room, people would still hear three regular knocks from inside:
knock... knock... knock...
And whoever pressed their ear close to the door would hear a faint whisper:

“Thank you for listening.”

THE END.
(If you hear three knocks tonight, don't open the door. It might be... your turn.)

[jcpogi]

A chill, damp morning. I was running late for my shift at the coffee shop, so I took the shortcut through the alley behind Main Street. The air smelled of stale garbage and exhaust.
Halfway down, I saw a figure huddled against the brick wall. A man. His coat was too thin, and his head was bowed, hidden by a dirty beanie. I tried to walk by quickly, keeping my eyes on the wet pavement.
As I passed, he lifted his head. His eyes weren't looking at me; they were just staring blankly at the opposite wall. Then, he spoke, his voice a dry, rasping whisper that cut right through the morning silence.
"It never stops."
I froze. "Excuse me?"
He didn't move his head. "The ringing. In my ears. It never stops." A single, slow tear tracked a clean line through the grime on his cheek.
I wanted to help. I reached into my pocket for my wallet, but by the time I pulled it out, a small, sudden fear had gripped me. What if he wasn't talking about his ears? What if he was talking about something else?
I dropped a crumpled five-dollar bill near his boot and practically sprinted out of the alley. I didn't look back. The image of those empty eyes and that tear on the dirty face haunted me more than any ghost story ever could.
stake: jcpogi

[JackyStabik]

Mara didn’t believe in tales. One Halloween , she blew out her lantern to prove it. The wind died. The woods hushed. A faint tapping echoed outside her window — deliberate, patient. When she finally looked, a shadow stood there, holding a lantern that glowed brighter than the moon. Inside it, she saw faces — hundreds of them — all flickering in silent screams.

The next morning, the villagers found Mara’s house empty. Only a new lantern sat on her porch, its green flame still alive. And that night, when the Lantern Keeper passed by again… there were two lights glowing in the dark.

 

 

ID: JackyStabik

[MK470]

Last Halloween, I was driving home kinda late, like around midnight. I saw this guy walking on the side of the road orange hoodie, hood up, just… moving slow. I passed him, looked in the mirror he was gone. Completely. When I got home, I saw someone standing under the streetlight across from my house. Same orange hoodie. Just staring. Next morning, there were footprints in the frost leading up to my door. But none going back.

[ohhpugga]

My spooky story is short but never forgettable when i was alone on my appartment and i went to my closet to get a tshirt to sleep and the closet closed and opened and closed again on its own and i had to legit go sleep to my friends house.

Stake Id ohhpugga

[ホットドッグ]

There are people who distribute poisoned sweets on Halloween.

 

At first, this rumor was an unfounded rumor, a kind of urban legend. However, an incident kicks out, and this scary story becomes true.

 

A city in the United States in 1974. On Halloween, an 8-year-old child eats poisoned candy and loses his life. The father initially claimed that the child ate the candy he got on Halloween.

 

However, in a later investigation, it was discovered that a large amount of insurance money was incurred in the child. As a result, the child's father was arrested.

 

The media called this father "Candyman" and continued to be on the news every day. As a result, the existence of "adults who distribute poisoned sweets on Halloween" was recognized among people at once and spread.

 

This incident is only an incident between related parties, and there have been no similar incidents with sweets received from others yet. However, when it comes to Halloween, more and more parents are worried about receiving sweets from others because of this incident.

stake🆔ホットドッグ

[producerblud]

On a sunless afternoon, I stepped out my front door, and walked over to the grocery store that sits a few minutes away from my home. I walked in the doors of the store, it was an unnerving maze of fluorescent lights that hummed with the usual metallic groan. I grabbed a cart and started walking through the aisles, each passing row of packaged food feeling less like sustenance and more like a collection of silent sentinels watching my every move and giving me an eerie feeling in my stomach.

Finally, at the checkout line, the cashier's dead eyes bore into me. It was then, as I reached into my pocket, that a cold dread seized me. My card—it was gone. A sudden, vivid image flashed into my mind: the smooth, plastic rectangle lying on my wooden desk at home. But something was wrong with the vision. The card was not alone. Something else was forming in the vision, a shape began to coalesce, a faint, shadowy figure standing behind my desk. It wasn't menacing, not yet, but its presence sent a jolt of ice through my veins. The feeling of being watched intensified, not just in the store, but a deeper, more primal sense of surveillance.

I fumbled through my other pockets, a frantic attempt to break the vision's grip of my thoughts. The cashier's eyes seemed to follow my every movement, a faint, almost predatory smile playing on their lips. The shadowy figure at my desk grew more distinct, its formless limbs stretching, and for a terrifying moment, I wasn't sure if the vision was a memory or a live feed. What if the card wasn't just left behind, but was a key to something else? What if the figure was waiting? I left the cart of groceries abandoned, which was now seeming more like an offering, and fled the store.. i started feeling a growing sense of unease on my way home, the vision had not fully faded away, i still felt like i was being watched.

 

When i got home i went inside and slammed the door shut and locked it right away, after taking off my shoes i was a little scared to go into my room, so i brought a broom with me, then slowly opened the door to my room and looked at my desk. The card was not there... i looked all around my room without finding the card anywhere.. where could it be?? as i sat down i felt something in my pocket, it was the card. but how?? i was so confused, i did check all my pockets several times while i was in the grocery store, all of a sudden my door slammed shut at full force and i heard a low, almost devil like laugh echoing through the hall followed by a total silence, the thing that was in my room just vanished and left no trace.. What could this have been? What was its business in my room?? Is there something sinister stuck to an object in my house?

 

 

ID: producerblud

Edited October 28, 2025 by producerblud

[zedfear4]

🎃 Title: “The Jackpot Room” 🎃
Stake ID: itszed4

The old casino on the edge of town wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. Locals swore it burned down decades ago, yet on Halloween night, a faint orange glow shimmered where the ruins should’ve been.
Curiosity and a gambler’s instinct pulled me closer.

Inside, the place looked pristine: red carpets, chandeliers, and rows of slot machines blinking like they’d never been touched by time. A single dealer in a skull embroidered vest waved me over to a blackjack table.

“Double or nothing,” he rasped.
I laughed nervously. “On what?”
He smiled, teeth too white, eyes too black. “Your luck.”

The cards hit the table. 21. Again. Again. Again. Every hand perfect, every win pulling me deeper into a haze of music and lights. Around me, the other players were frozen mid smile, glassy eyed, their chips stacked like tombstones.

When I finally turned to leave, the doors were gone. The slot machines began to chant my Stake ID over and over, their voices metallic, mechanical, eternal.

The dealer leaned close.
“House always wins,” he whispered, as my reflection grinned back from the polished table still sitting, still playing, long after I’d walked away.

[reddevilc1]

🎃 “The Mirror Game”

When Eddie woke up, the cold metal chair bit into his wrists — chained tight.

A voice echoed through the darkness.

“Hello, Eddie. You’ve spent your life staring at others’ reflections, judging their flaws. Tonight, you’ll face your own.”

A single light flickered on, revealing a cracked mirror before him.

On the glass: a timer counting down from 02:00.

Beside it — a scalpel.

“Behind your left eye is the key. Free yourself before time runs out.”

His breath quickened. He leaned closer to the mirror — and saw something move inside his reflection.

It smiled back.

The timer hit 00:00.

The mirror whispered, “Your turn.”

Then it pulled him in.

[td911lamdong]

On Halloween night, at the end of an abandoned street, there’s a single pumpkin lantern that never goes out.

People say if you approach it at midnight, you’ll hear soft laughter coming from inside.

This year, a man came to prove the legend was fake.

He entered the old house, phone in hand, recording every step. The flickering orange light danced across the walls, forming distorted shadows.

He leaned closer — the candle inside was still burning, though there was no wind, no air, nothing that could keep it alive.

Suddenly, the flame flared up, revealing his reflection... and another face, grinning right behind him.

The phone fell to the ground.

The last sound on the recording was a whisper:

> “Thank you… for keeping the flame alive.”

The next morning, the lantern was still burning.

But now, a new face was carved into it.

 

 

Stake: td911lamdong

[941Monu]

The Halloween fog wasn't natural; it smelled like cinnamon and damp earth, clinging low to the ground. Thirteen-year-old Leo was ready to go home, cynical about his plastic pumpkin bucket and the disappointing candy haul. Cutting through the ancient oak grove, he noticed a heavy, black box camera tucked beneath a root. Engraved in silver script were the words: Specter-matic 5000. It hummed like a heart, and instead of film, it had a single slot labeled Output. Leo clicked the shutter, and a square of matte paper slid out, the image slowly blooming in impossible green and orange light. He instantly realized the camera did not photograph reality; it captured the magical energy of Halloween. He photographed a dark house, and the print showed it ablaze with an ethereal blue glow and smoke-winged spirits. Finally, trembling, he raised the Specter-matic at his own normal, slightly dilapidated front door. The resulting print made him gasp, revealing an impossible sight. His house was a massive wooden galleon, its sails billowing with the fog, anchored only by the front porch. His mother stood on the deck, dressed as a formidable sea captain, expertly navigating the night. The candy in the rigging was transformed into glowing, magical orbs, serving as their guide lights. Leo knew this was the night the world went sailing, and he gently tucked the camera into his bucket. Next Halloween, he wouldn't be looking for candy—he would be looking for the Specter-matic 5000 and the next port of call.

 

Id- 941monu

[PinkPoon]

I never believed in ghosts… until that night. It was Halloween, and I was alone in my room, laptop open, Stake.com loaded – planning just “one quick spin” to kill some time.

It started innocent enough. I was spinning the slots, placing small bets… until suddenly the screen trembled. The winning lines kept repeating in this weird, unnatural way, like someone from another dimension was messing with the reels. My room got cold, and the laptop’s screen glowed this creepy orange-and-black light.

Then I heard whispers. At first, I thought it was just game sounds, but the words were clear:
“Don’t stop… until you feel fear.”

My heart was pounding like crazy, but curiosity overpowered sense. I clicked for another spin. The screen went black. The room plunged into darkness, and the only light was the jackpot symbols glowing on the monitor. And then I felt it – HIM – invisible, yet right behind me, watching my every move.

“One more round… or you’ll stay here forever,” the whisper said.

My fingers shook, but I clicked. And then it happened – something I’ll never forget. The ghost symbols on the slots started pulsating – every move I made on Stake.com felt… alive. Winning, losing, it didn’t matter – in that chaos, I could feel something pulling me into a game whose rules only HE knew.

I woke up the next morning with the laptop on my lap. The screen was normal, like nothing happened. But in my pocket, there were a few Stake coins – and a note saying:
“See you in the next round…”

Since that night, I play differently. Not for money. Not for wins. I play because I know that somewhere in Stake.com, there’s something else… something waiting only for those who aren’t afraid to stare their fear in the face.

Stake: PinkPoon