💰[$1,000] Tell us your spooky story 📚

[rukmini99]

You know how sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night, and it feels like someone’s watching you?

Last night, I woke up around 2:30, and I swear I saw someone standing near my closet. I thought it was just a shadow, so I blinked a few times, but it didn’t move.

I grabbed my phone to turn on the flashlight… and when the light hit the mirror, there was no one in the room.

But in the reflection, I could still see him, smiling at me.

 

rukmini99

[achreefbaabi]

stakeid: achreefbaabi

The Midnight Banquet of Shadows

Eddie wiped the grime from his hands, the scent of smoked ribs still clinging to his apron as he stared at the vellum envelope perched on the cracked wooden counter of his steakhouse, The Searing Ember. The ink was a deep, bruised violet, the letters curling like smoke: "You are summoned to a feast where the living and the dead share a table. Midnight, Hollow Hill. Come alone."

A shiver ran up his spine, but Eddie’s eyes narrowed. He’d built his empire on risk; a mysterious invitation was just another cut of meat to slice. He slipped the envelope into his coat pocket, the weight of it a promise of something beyond the ordinary. The night air outside was crisp, leaves whispering like gossiping spirits as he locked the door behind him.

The road to Hollow Hill wound through a forest where pumpkins glowed with an inner fire, their faces twisted into mischievous grins. Eddie’s headlights cut through the fog, revealing a stone manor perched atop a hill, its windows flickering with candlelight. A butler in a tailcoat, pale as moonlight, opened the massive doors without a word, bowing slightly as if greeting an old friend.

Inside, a long oak table stretched beneath a vaulted ceiling draped with black silk. Candles floated above, their flames dancing without smoke. Seated at the far end, a woman in a Victorian gown turned her head, her eyes twin lanterns of amber. She introduced herself as Lady Mirelle, her voice a silk‑soft echo that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Around the table, faces emerged from the shadows—some familiar, some impossible. Eddie recognized his late uncle, a grizzled butcher who had taught him the art of fire, now pale and translucent, his eyes still sharp. Beside him sat a young girl in a tattered school uniform, clutching a broken doll, her lips moving silently as if chanting a forgotten lullaby.

The banquet began with a clatter of silverware. Plates appeared, laden with dishes Eddie had never seen: blackened figs dripping honey, a stew that steamed with a faint violet glow. As he tasted the first bite, a cold rush of memory flooded him—childhood nights in the kitchen, the scent of his mother’s soup, the echo of laughter that had long since faded.

Conversation fluttered like moths around flame. Lady Mirelle asked Eddie why he kept his heart locked behind a grill of steel. He replied with a grin, “Because fire shows who’s worth the heat.” A ghostly chef from the 1800s chuckled, offering a toast to “the living who dare to eat with the dead.” The dead around the table shared stories of unfinished business, of love left unsaid, of promises broken.

When the clock struck midnight, the candles dimmed, and a hush settled. A spectral figure rose—a man in a tattered coat, his face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. He introduced himself as the Host, the keeper of the veil between worlds. He placed a silver key on Eddie’s palm, its surface etched with runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.

“The key opens a door you already own,” the Host whispered. “Your restaurant is a crossroads. Tonight, you’ve been invited to remember that every steak you serve carries a story, a soul once bound to the earth.”

Eddie felt the weight of centuries in that moment. He looked at his uncle’s ghost, who nodded with a grin that said, “You’ve earned your place.” The girl in the uniform reached out, her hand passing through Eddie’s, leaving a faint chill that settled like frost on his skin.

The banquet ended as the first rays of dawn crept over the hill. The guests faded into mist, the manor’s doors closing behind them. Eddie stepped back onto the road, the silver key warm in his hand. He returned to The Searing Ember with a new purpose: to honor each cut of meat as a story, to listen to the whispers of the past that lingered in the smoke.

From that night on, patrons who entered felt an uncanny comfort, as if an unseen presence watched over them. Eddie never spoke of the banquet, but every Halloween, a violet candle flickered in the window, a silent invitation to those who dared to remember the night the living dined with the dead.

[Rcarey07]

They found the house by accident at dusk, wedged between a row of new developments and a strip of trees that hadn't been cleared. Its porch sagged like a tired jaw, windows boarded but for one narrow crack that looked like a watchful eye. For reasons they couldn't name, neither of them wanted to leave.

Inside, the air tasted like pennies and old rain. The wallpaper peeled in long sighs, revealing pale scratches beneath—like someone had traced letters and given up halfway. In the parlor, a grandfather clock stood frozen at 11:57. Every surface collected dust in identical, patient layers, as if time itself had agreed to stop here.

He laughed when the lights flickered, a brittle sound echoing off the ceiling. She didn't. She felt the house breathing—slow, damp, and very close. When they climbed the stairs, each tread complained in the same tone, one note repeated along the banister. At the end of the hallway, a door stood open, though no wind had passed through the sealed house.

On the other side was a room full of photographs: people posed in impossible smiles, each picture slightly askew, each face identical to hers. She reached out because the hand in the nearest frame seemed to tremble. It was cold, and when she touched the glass, the reflection behind her blinked.

The clock downstairs resumed with a soft, wet click. 11:58. Then 11:59. He turned to ask what she felt, but his reflection in the photograph did not move with him. It smiled instead, slow and private, and mouthed three words she could not hear but understood perfectly: We're home.

[Bhuvnesh24200]

One day my uncle has got mad and behaving abnormal. We and doctors can not find the true reason day by day my uncle brain health decrease. My uncle got powers like he beat 8-9 people at once only in control of my grand father he was. One day a man said that go to balaji temple because a devil soul has controlled him. So my family go to balaji temple and hanuman mandir and there my uncle got completely cured 

 

 

Stake - Bhuvnesh24200

[RingsHunterz]

Every Halloween, there’s a secret table at Silver Mirage Casino called The Midnight Deal. You don’t find, it finds you.

A gambler named Ethan got the invite last year. One hand, the dealer said. Double your fortune, or lose more than money.

He played. The cards were old, edges burned. He pulled two black queens. Dealer had two red. The lights flickered.

Ethan laughed, thought it was a trick, until his reflection in the table didn’t laugh back.

They found the room empty next morning. Only a silver mask and a single card left behind.

 

ringshunter

[riskplazma]

At the edge of the road stood a house that never aged. Its porch light flickered every night, as if it refused to die.

On Halloween, Mara decided to prove it was just an old story. She opened the gate, and the air grew heavy. Inside, the rooms were tidy, waiting, as if the Harper family had never left.

A clock on the wall began to chime. Once, twice, then thirteen times. Shadows stretched across the walls, forming the shapes of a man, a woman, and two children.

“You came back,” whispered a small voice.

Mara’s breath caught. The figures smiled. The door slammed shut.

The next morning, the house looked peaceful again. But now, five shadows stood in the window instead of four.

stake id: riskplazma

 

Edited October 29, 2025 by riskplazma
forgot to include stake id

[buribureezaemon]

The old mill on the edge of Kalyan had stood silent for decades, its broken windows like empty eyes staring out over the Ulhas River. Everyone knew the stories – whispers of a watchman who vanished one Diwali night years ago, leaving only a half-eaten tiffin box and a blood-curdling scream that echoed across the water. Most dismissed it as folklore, something to scare children.But Rohan didn't believe in folklore. He and his friends, fueled by cheap Diwali firecrackers and bravado, decided this Halloween night was the perfect time to explore the abandoned structure. The air inside was thick with dust and decay, the only light coming from their flickering phone torches. They moved deeper, their laughter echoing eerily in the vast, empty space.That's when they heard it. A faint, rhythmic thump… thump… thump coming from the lower levels, near the rusted machinery. It sounded almost like… a heartbeat?Rohan, bolder than the rest, crept towards the stairs leading down into the darkness. The thumping grew louder, faster. He shone his light down. The beam caught something moving – a large, dark shape pulsing rhythmically. It wasn't machinery. It looked organic, wet, and it seemed to expand and contract with each heavy beat. Suddenly, the thumping stopped. From the darkness below, a raspy voice whispered, a sound like dry leaves skittering across concrete, "Still hungry..."Rohan didn't wait to see what belonged to the voice or the horrifying heart. He and his friends scrambled back out of the mill faster than any firecracker, the whispers seeming to chase them all the way back to the brightly lit streets, leaving the darkness and the rhythmic thumping behind them. They never spoke of what they saw, but every Halloween, Rohan swears he can still hear a faint, hungry heartbeat echoing from the direction of the river.

Stake ID: GauravRai26 

[Shi713]

💀 The Stake Casino

Eddie was a night gambler — the kind who believed in strategy, not luck.
One rainy night, he found an old neon sign flickering at the end of an empty street:
“Stake Casino — Open All Night.”

The place wasn’t on any map, but the doors opened by themselves.
Inside, the air smelled of smoke and rusted coins.
No players. Just a pale dealer with eyes as black as the cards in his hands.

“Welcome, Eddie,” the dealer said, though Eddie hadn’t spoken his name.
“The house has been waiting for you.”

Eddie sat down. First hand — blackjack, 21.
He won. The dealer smiled.
“Again,” he whispered.

With every win, a ceiling light went out.
When Eddie finally lost, a scream echoed from behind the walls — desperate, human.

“What was that?”
“The ones who never knew when to stop,” said the dealer.

Eddie tried to stand, but his body wouldn’t move.
He looked at his hands — they were no longer flesh, but black poker chips with his face carved into them.

“In the Stake Casino,” the dealer grinned, “no one ever cashes out. We just deal again.”

Now, when lightning flashes over the city, the old neon sign sometimes flickers back to life.
And a new player always walks in —
welcomed by a familiar dealer with a chip-shaped smile.

 

Id: franduar13

[noufel1]

Stake : noufel1

Aight so last Halloween i was chillin late night on stakeee trying to hit a bonus when my screen froze for a sec then glitched showing my reflection in the dark part of the screen but the messed up part is the reflection smiled back before I did I thought I was trippin but then the chat started spamming my username sayin we see ya like a hundred times my lights flickered and my balance jumped up by $666 outta nowhere I ain’t even bet that much since that night every time I log in there’s this same shadowy face in the corner of the screen starin right at me waitin for Halloween to come again

Stake username : noufel1

[connpawel]

“The Call at Midnight”

You know, I don’t usually talk about this, but it actually happened to me a few years ago — around Halloween.

I was driving back home from work late that night, maybe close to midnight. The road was empty, cutting through the woods outside of town. It’s the kind of place where your headlights barely touch the trees, and the darkness feels… thick.

Anyway, I had the radio on, just to stay awake. Then, all of a sudden, the music cut out — static, like when you lose signal.

Right after that, my phone rang.

I glanced at the screen, and I swear my blood went cold.

It said: “Dad.”

Now, my dad had passed away the year before.

At first, I thought it was a glitch or maybe an old contact syncing from somewhere, but it was his number. His photo.

The same one I’d put there years ago and never changed.

For some reason, I answered.

“Hello?”

There was nothing — just this low, windy sound, like someone breathing through a phone. Then I heard a voice.

Raspy. Quiet. Familiar.

He said, “Don’t stop.”

Right then, the headlights caught something on the road — a shape. Someone standing there. I slammed the brakes, the car slid sideways, and I barely stopped in time.

There was a man.

Middle of the road. Not moving.

He started turning toward me, slow, like every muscle hurt to move.

And then — the lights flickered, the engine coughed and died.

When I finally got the car started again, he was gone. No one there.

Just silence.

When I got home, I checked my phone.

The call log said:

Dad – Received 12:00 AM.

Three days later, I read the local news.

Some guy had been hit by a car on that same stretch of road.

Same time. Midnight.

And here’s the part that still gets me — every year since then, around Halloween, my phone shows the same missed call.

Same number.

Same name.

Always at midnight.

And every time it rings, I still hear that voice in the back of my mind —

“Don’t Stop''

P- Wujeksqnek

[Nmhthc420]

🎃 The Legend of the Pumpkin Lantern

 

The legend of the pumpkin lantern, or the tradition of the Jack-O'-Lantern, originates from Irish folklore. It tells the tale of a man named Jack O'Lantern, known for his drunkenness, trickery, and cunning. One day, Jack tricked Satan into climbing a tree. While Satan was up there, Jack carved a cross into the trunk, trapping him. Jack then struck a deal: if Satan promised not to take his soul, Jack would let him down.

 

After Jack died, he was denied entry to Heaven due to his wicked nature. He was also barred from Hell because of his pact with Satan. Instead, Satan gave him a single ember to light his way through the dark, cold night. Jack placed the ember inside a hollowed-out turnip to keep it burning longer.

 

The English followed this tradition using hollowed turnips. But when they migrated to America, they found pumpkins more abundant and easier to carve. Thus, the American version of the Jack-O'-Lantern became a hollowed pumpkin with a glowing ember inside.

 

Today, Halloween is celebrated worldwide with events held in shopping malls, amusement parks, restaurants, and more. Shops sell Halloween-themed items such as masks, ghost decorations, and carved pumpkins, making the festival a global phenomenon.

Stake - Nmhthc420

[Nej114]

On 10/27/2025 at 7:37 AM, Jake7589 said:

📚 Tell us your spooky story 👻

Ends: 7/11/2025 @  1.00 AM GMT

Write an original Halloween-themed story that captures the spirit of the season 👻
It can be scary, mysterious, or just a little strange; your creativity is what counts. 🎨
Drop your stories below 💬

Requirements: 

• Reply to this thread with your stories.
• Include your Stake ID.
• To have a valid entry, fill out the below form, providing your details 

HERE

Prize Pool: $1,000

• Distributed to 20 randomly selected winners who meet the above conditions.

How to Enter:

• Reply with your Stories
• Include your Stake ID

Prize pool distribution:

• Complete the challenge within the next 7 days for a shot at the prize pool.
• Winners are limited to 20.
• IMPORTANT: Don’t miss out! Stay tuned for the official winner announcements so you can grab your prize before the link expires. Users will not be credited after the 3 month time period ends.

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For Full Terms of Service - Expand below Quote

🕯️ Title: The Last Light in Willow Lane 👻

Every Halloween night, the small town of Everhollow fell silent after sunset. Curtains closed, lights dimmed, and not a single child dared to trick-or-treat past Willow Lane— not since the light appeared.

It was said that when the clock struck midnight, a faint orange glow would flicker in the attic window of the abandoned Wren House, where the Wren family had vanished fifty years ago.

Most thought it was just a story.
Until Mara, a curious sixteen-year-old with a love for the strange, decided to find out the truth.

Armed with her phone flashlight and a pumpkin-shaped lantern, she crossed the creaking gate of the Wren House. The air was thick and cold, and the scent of old wood and smoke filled her lungs. She climbed the winding stairs, each step echoing like a whisper.

At the top was the attic door — half open, breathing darkness. Inside, the glow pulsed softly, like a heartbeat. Mara raised her lantern and froze.

A circle of pumpkins surrounded a dusty mirror.
Each one had a face carved in sorrow — their candles still burning, though no wax melted.

Then, she noticed the reflection.
In the mirror, the pumpkins weren’t carved at all.
They were faces — human faces, staring back at her, mouths open in silent screams.

“Mara,” a voice whispered behind her.
She turned.

A little boy stood in the shadows, holding a flickering candle. His eyes were the color of ash.
“Please,” he said softly, “blow out the light before it finds you.”

But before she could move, her lantern flame flared — and every pumpkin turned toward her. Their carved mouths widened into grins. The reflection in the mirror showed a new face forming among them… hers.

When the townspeople passed the Wren House the next morning, the light in the attic window was gone. But that night — and every Halloween since — the glow returned, just a little brighter.

And if you look closely at the window, you’ll see her — Mara, the newest flame in the circle — watching, waiting, and still holding her lantern. 🔥🎃

On 10/27/2025 at 2:06 PM, Taufeeqkhan said:

 

🕯️ Title: The Last Light in Willow Lane 👻

Every Halloween night, the small town of Everhollow fell silent after sunset. Curtains closed, lights dimmed, and not a single child dared to trick-or-treat past Willow Lane— not since the light appeared.

It was said that when the clock struck midnight, a faint orange glow would flicker in the attic window of the abandoned Wren House, where the Wren family had vanished fifty years ago.

Most thought it was just a story.
Until Mara, a curious sixteen-year-old with a love for the strange, decided to find out the truth.

Armed with her phone flashlight and a pumpkin-shaped lantern, she crossed the creaking gate of the Wren House. The air was thick and cold, and the scent of old wood and smoke filled her lungs. She climbed the winding stairs, each step echoing like a whisper.

At the top was the attic door — half open, breathing darkness. Inside, the glow pulsed softly, like a heartbeat. Mara raised her lantern and froze.

A circle of pumpkins surrounded a dusty mirror.
Each one had a face carved in sorrow — their candles still burning, though no wax melted.

Then, she noticed the reflection.
In the mirror, the pumpkins weren’t carved at all.
They were faces — human faces, staring back at her, mouths open in silent screams.

“Mara,” a voice whispered behind her.
She turned.

A little boy stood in the shadows, holding a flickering candle. His eyes were the color of ash.
“Please,” he said softly, “blow out the light before it finds you.”

But before she could move, her lantern flame flared — and every pumpkin turned toward her. Their carved mouths widened into grins. The reflection in the mirror showed a new face forming among them… hers.

When the townspeople passed the Wren House the next morning, the light in the attic window was gone. But that night — and every Halloween since — the glow returned, just a little brighter.

And if you look closely at the window, you’ll see her — Mara, the newest flame in the circle — watching, waiting, and still holding her lantern. 🔥🎃

 

[alex2277]

The Pumpkin on Willow Lane

Every Halloween, a single pumpkin appeared on the porch of the abandoned Durney house. No one ever saw who placed it there, and no one dared get close. It glowed with a strange blue light — cold and alive, like it was breathing.

This year, twelve-year-old Emily decided she wasn’t afraid. She wanted to prove it was just an old legend. When night fell, she slipped away from her friends and crept up the rotting steps.

The pumpkin was beautiful — its grin too perfect, its eyes too deep. Emily reached out to touch it.

The light pulsed. Once. Twice. Then the pumpkin blinked.

Her scream never came out. The blue glow swallowed her whole, leaving only silence.

By morning, the neighbors found two pumpkins glowing on the porch — one smiling wide, one trembling with fear carved into its face.

No one spoke of it again.
But every Halloween since, another pumpkin appears.

And every year, Willow Lane loses another child.

 

 

stake id alex2277

[PuFF]

I didn't make this with AI.

*gasp* 

- The End 

 

puffxs

[fhabro18]

👻🚨 ¡TERROR EN CHEPES! REMISERO ASEGURA HABER TRANSPORTADO A UN ALMA EN PENA Y DESATÓ EL MISTERIO 😱🛑

Un remisero afirma que una pasajera fantasma desapareció en plena ruta entre Ulapes y Chepes.

José H. un vecino muy conocido en Ulapes, relató que todo comenzó tras las fiestas patronales. Una mujer de unos 45 años, de cabello oscuro y mirada enigmática, subió a su remis con rumbo a Chepes. Durante el viaje, la conversación fue mínima, casi susurrada… como si no perteneciera del todo a este mundo.

Pero lo peor llegó al pasar por la zona de una estancia con molino: la mujer dejó de responder. José miró hacia atrás y… ¡NO HABÍA NADIE EN EL ASIENTO! 😳

Frenó de golpe, abrió las puertas, buscó desesperado… pero la pasajera se había desvanecido sin dejar rastro.

Al regresar a su casa, intentó revisar el registro de llamadas… y no había ni una sola llamada entrante. Como si aquella misteriosa mujer nunca hubiese existido.

Vecinos, estremecidos, aseguran que esa zona “siempre fue rara” y que no es la primera vez que se escuchan historias de almas en pena en la ruta. 🌫️🚘👀

2 minutes ago, fhabro18 said:

👻 🚨 ¡TERROR EN CHEPES! REMISERO ASEGURA HABER TRANSPORTADO A UN ALMA EN PENA Y DESATÓ EL MISTERIO 😱 🛑

Un remisero afirma que una pasajera fantasma desapareció en plena ruta entre Ulapes y Chepes.

José H. un vecino muy conocido en Ulapés, relató que todo comenzó tras las fiestas patronales. Una mujer de unos 45 años, de cabello oscuro y mirada enigmática, subió a su remis con rumbo a Chepes. Durante el viaje, la conversación fue mínima, casi susurrada… como si no perteneciera del todo a este mundo.

Pero lo peor llegó al pasar por la zona de una estancia con molino: la mujer dejó de responder. José miró hacia atrás y… ¡NO HABÍA NADIE EN EL ASIENTO! 😳

Frenó de golpe, abrió las puertas, buscó desesperado… pero la pasajera se había desvanecido sin dejar rastro.

Al regresar a su casa, intentó revisar el registro de llamadas… y no había ni una sola llamada entrante. Como si aquella misteriosa mujer nunca hubiera existido.

Vecinos, estremecidos, aseguran que esa zona “siempre fue rara” y que no es la primera vez que se escuchan historias de almas en pena en la ruta. 🌫️ 🚘 👀

Id: fhabro18 

👻🚨 ¡TERROR EN CHEPES! REMISERO ASEGURA HABER TRANSPORTADO A UN ALMA EN PENA Y DESATÓ EL MISTERIO 😱🛑

Un remisero afirma que una pasajera fantasma desapareció en plena ruta entre Ulapes y Chepes.

José H. un vecino muy conocido en Ulapes, relató que todo comenzó tras las fiestas patronales. Una mujer de unos 45 años, de cabello oscuro y mirada enigmática, subió a su remis con rumbo a Chepes. Durante el viaje, la conversación fue mínima, casi susurrada… como si no perteneciera del todo a este mundo.

Pero lo peor llegó al pasar por la zona de una estancia con molino: la mujer dejó de responder. José miró hacia atrás y… ¡NO HABÍA NADIE EN EL ASIENTO! 😳
Frenó de golpe, abrió las puertas, buscó desesperado… pero la pasajera se había desvanecido sin dejar rastro.

Al regresar a su casa, intentó revisar el registro de llamadas… y no había ni una sola llamada entrante. Como si aquella misteriosa mujer nunca hubiese existido.

Vecinos, estremecidos, aseguran que esa zona “siempre fue rara” y que no es la primera vez que se escuchan historias de almas en pena en la ruta. 🌫️🚘👀

Id: fhabro18 

[lukeecab]

 Midnight at Stake  
 

A guy logs into Stake at midnight, the room silent except for the hum of his computer. The screen flickers, shadows dancing across his walls.

“Win big or… disappear?” a message teases. He chuckles nervously, thinking it’s a joke. Suddenly, a ghost emoji pops up, winking at him. He blinks, unsure if he’s hallucinating or if the game is haunted.

Coins start raining across the screen, jingling like tiny bells. “Not bad,” he whispers, heart racing. Then… his cat jumps onto the keyboard, wearing tiny sunglasses, pawing at his winnings as if it owns the casino.

He laughs so hard he spills his drink, but the ghost emoji seems to giggle along with him. Midnight at Stake just got a little strangerand a lot funnier...

 

Stake id: Lukeecab10

[manju55570]

It was 2019, my first year renting a flat in Dublin. I had just moved in — a small, two-bedroom apartment in an old building near the canal. My roommate, Daniel, was quiet, polite, and always wore the same dark hoodie. We got along fine, but he had one rule: never open his bedroom door when he wasn’t home.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. Everyone values privacy. But over the weeks, strange things began happening. I’d hear footsteps in the hallway after Daniel had already left for work. Sometimes, the shower would be wet even though no one had used it. Once, I found muddy footprints leading from his room to the kitchen sink — and back again.

I finally asked him one night, half-joking, “Do you have someone staying here?”

He looked at me blankly and said, “Don’t go in that room. Promise me.”

Three weeks later, he didn’t come home. His phone went straight to voicemail, and after two days, I decided to break the rule.

The door opened easily. Inside, there was almost nothing — just a mattress on the floor, a chair, and an old coat hanging on the wall. But the air was ice cold, and the smell hit me — damp earth and something metallic. Then I saw the photos pinned above the mattress.

All were pictures of me — sleeping, eating, brushing my teeth.

My knees went weak. I stumbled out and called the landlord. He told me something I’ll never forget.

“There hasn’t been a tenant named Daniel in that flat for three years. The last one with that name died there in 2016.”

I moved out the next morning. But sometimes, late at night, I still see that dark hoodie in the corner of my room — standing perfectly still

It was 2019, my first year renting a flat in Dublin. I had just moved in — a small, two-bedroom apartment in an old building near the canal. My roommate, Daniel, was quiet, polite, and always wore the same dark hoodie. We got along fine, but he had one rule: never open his bedroom door when he wasn’t home.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. Everyone values privacy. But over the weeks, strange things began happening. I’d hear footsteps in the hallway after Daniel had already left for work. Sometimes, the shower would be wet even though no one had used it. Once, I found muddy footprints leading from his room to the kitchen sink — and back again.

I finally asked him one night, half-joking, “Do you have someone staying here?”

He looked at me blankly and said, “Don’t go in that room. Promise me.”

Three weeks later, he didn’t come home. His phone went straight to voicemail, and after two days, I decided to break the rule.

The door opened easily. Inside, there was almost nothing — just a mattress on the floor, a chair, and an old coat hanging on the wall. But the air was ice cold, and the smell hit me — damp earth and something metallic. Then I saw the photos pinned above the mattress.

All were pictures of me — sleeping, eating, brushing my teeth.

My knees went weak. I stumbled out and called the landlord. He told me something I’ll never forget.

“There hasn’t been a tenant named Daniel in that flat for three years. The last one with that name died there in 2016.”

I moved out the next morning. But sometimes, late at night, I still see that dark hoodie in the corner of my room — standing perfectly still

It was 2019, my first year renting a flat in Dublin. I had just moved in — a small, two-bedroom apartment in an old building near the canal. My roommate, Daniel, was quiet, polite, and always wore the same dark hoodie. We got along fine, but he had one rule: never open his bedroom door when he wasn’t home.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. Everyone values privacy. But over the weeks, strange things began happening. I’d hear footsteps in the hallway after Daniel had already left for work. Sometimes, the shower would be wet even though no one had used it. Once, I found muddy footprints leading from his room to the kitchen sink — and back again.

I finally asked him one night, half-joking, “Do you have someone staying here?”

He looked at me blankly and said, “Don’t go in that room. Promise me.”

Three weeks later, he didn’t come home. His phone went straight to voicemail, and after two days, I decided to break the rule.

The door opened easily. Inside, there was almost nothing — just a mattress on the floor, a chair, and an old coat hanging on the wall. But the air was ice cold, and the smell hit me — damp earth and something metallic. Then I saw the photos pinned above the mattress.

All were pictures of me — sleeping, eating, brushing my teeth.

My knees went weak. I stumbled out and called the landlord. He told me something I’ll never forget.

“There hasn’t been a tenant named Daniel in that flat for three years. The last one with that name died there in 2016.”

I moved out the next morning. But sometimes, late at night, I still see that dark hoodie in the corner of my room — standing perfectly still

 

Stake : Manju55570

It was 2019, my first year renting a flat in Dublin. I had just moved in — a small, two-bedroom apartment in an old building near the canal. My roommate, Daniel, was quiet, polite, and always wore the same dark hoodie. We got along fine, but he had one rule: never open his bedroom door when he wasn’t home.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. Everyone values privacy. But over the weeks, strange things began happening. I’d hear footsteps in the hallway after Daniel had already left for work. Sometimes, the shower would be wet even though no one had used it. Once, I found muddy footprints leading from his room to the kitchen sink — and back again.

I finally asked him one night, half-joking, “Do you have someone staying here?”

He looked at me blankly and said, “Don’t go in that room. Promise me.”

Three weeks later, he didn’t come home. His phone went straight to voicemail, and after two days, I decided to break the rule.

The door opened easily. Inside, there was almost nothing — just a mattress on the floor, a chair, and an old coat hanging on the wall. But the air was ice cold, and the smell hit me — damp earth and something metallic. Then I saw the photos pinned above the mattress.

All were pictures of me — sleeping, eating, brushing my teeth.

My knees went weak. I stumbled out and called the landlord. He told me something I’ll never forget.

“There hasn’t been a tenant named Daniel in that flat for three years. The last one with that name died there in 2016.”

I moved out the next morning. But sometimes, late at night, I still see that dark hoodie in the corner of my room — standing perfectly still

 

Stake : Manju55570

[dums66]

En una aldea olvidada, un hombre despertó una noche con la certeza de que alguien lo observaba desde dentro de sí mismo.

Encendió una vela y buscó al intruso en los rincones de su casa, pero solo halló su reflejo temblando en los vidrios rotos.

La figura lo imitaba con un leve retraso, como si pensara antes de moverse.

Comprendió entonces que no era su reflejo, sino su conciencia, cansada de ser ignorada.

Le habló: “Creíste pensar, pero solo repetías pensamientos ajenos”.

El hombre gritó, intentando apagar la vela, pero la llama se mantuvo, sostenida por otra voluntad.

Sintió que su cuerpo se movía sin él, obedeciendo a la sombra.

Al amanecer, el espejo estaba vacío, y el reflejo caminaba libre, dueño de la razón.

El cuerpo dormido en el suelo aún respiraba, pero sin pensamiento alguno.

Quizá —susurraba el viento— la verdadera muerte es seguir vivo sin saberse ser.

[Chinnas18]

Stake username : Chinnas18 

Don't miss it 

Leo, a self-proclaimed connoisseur of vintage horror, only kept his grandmother's huge, dust-covered tube radio for one reason: the legend of the Ghost Frequencies.

The story went that every Halloween, precisely at midnight, Station 107.9 FM—a frequency that was always static any other day of the year—came alive with a single, bizarre broadcast.

Leo watched the clock tick toward 12:00 AM. Outside his apartment window, the streetlights seemed to flicker in sync with his pounding heart. As the minute hand clicked to twelve, he twisted the dial to 107.9.

The static didn't vanish—it was replaced by a low, insistent hum, like a distant swarm of bees. Then came the music: a crackly, tinny jazz melody that sounded like it was being played in a vast, empty hall. It wasn't scary, just profoundly lonely.

Then the announcer’s voice cut in. It was smooth and warm, but with a strange, echoing quality, as if he were speaking from the bottom of an empty well.

"Good evening, travelers," the voice whispered. "And welcome back to the last stop on the dial. Tonight, we celebrate the thinning of the veil. We have a few announcements for those who've... just arrived."

Leo leaned closer.

"To the gentleman in the blue Ford, currently lost on Route 55: The detour you seek is not for the living. Please turn back at the weeping willow."

"To the young lady near the trestle: The light you see is only a memory of home, not a path. Do not follow it."

The announcements continued, each one a chillingly specific warning directed at someone lost or facing danger. Leo grabbed his phone to try and record the broadcast, but the radio hissed loudly, and the announcer paused.

"And to our listener, Leo," the voice said, suddenly clear and right next to his ear. "It is not wise to record what is not meant to be remembered. Simply listen."

Leo froze, dropping his phone. The announcer chuckled softly—a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement—and returned to the lonely jazz.

Leo didn't need to hear another warning. He scrambled to the radio and ripped the power cord from the wall. The apartment was plunged back into silence, save for the rhythmic tapping of a distant, unseen branch against his window.

He never plugged the radio back in. The next morning, 107.9 FM was static again. But Leo still checks the news every November 1st, just to see if anyone was found near a weeping willow on Route 55. And every year, the silence is almost worse than the broadcast.

[kidcaleb]

🕯️ “Don’t Turn Around”

Eli was walking home after midnight when he saw a woman standing at the corner of the street — long hair, bare feet, her head slightly tilted.
He slowed down, uneasy, but when he blinked… she was closer.

Her voice came soft and broken:
“Can you help me find my face?”

He ran. The sound of her footsteps followed, faster than his heartbeat. He reached his front door, slammed it shut — silence.

Relieved, Eli leaned against the door and whispered, “It’s just my imagination.”
Then a hand — cold and trembling — slid over his mouth from behind him.

A whisper in his ear:
“Found it.”

 

Stake: kidcaleb

[titano22]

Me pasó una vez cuando fui a un cementerio, quise llevar unas flores, resulta que era medio anochecer y cuando intentaba salir del cementerio veo un reflejo por detrás de una tumba una niña corriendo, sinceramente quedó muy muy asustado, no sabía cómo seguir, me congelé en el momento. Desde ahí nunca más fui a un cementerio 

Mi ID: Titano22

Les dejo un diseño que cree

 

Edited October 29, 2025 by titano22

[Pratty007]

🎃 The Whispering Lantern 💡

by Stake ID: Pratty007

Every Halloween night, the town of Maple Hollow lit hundreds of paper lanterns to guide friendly spirits home. But one year, a strange thirteenth lantern appeared on the edge of town — dark, unlit, and humming softly like it had a heartbeat.

Mira, the youngest lantern bearer, was curious. She picked it up, feeling warmth pulsing through the paper. On its side, words shimmered faintly:
“Light me only if you are brave enough to see what hides behind your own shadow.” 🕯️

Ignoring her better judgment (as most good Halloween stories go), Mira struck a match and lit the wick.

The lantern didn’t glow. Instead, it breathed. The air trembled, and suddenly, the night around her folded inward — streets gone, stars replaced by faces of her own reflection, each whispering secrets she’d never said aloud.

“You told no one about the letter under your bed,” one murmured.
“You never forgave yourself for leaving the cat outside that winter,” said another.
Her own voice, multiplied a hundredfold, became the wind.

Terrified, Mira tried to snuff the light, but the flame wouldn’t die. Then she remembered her grandmother’s words: ‘Lanterns burn brightest for those who listen.’

So, she stood still.
She listened.
She forgave.

The whispers softened, turning into laughter — light, airy, and kind. The faces faded. The lantern dimmed to a soft amber glow. When the world snapped back into place, Mira found herself on the same road, the lantern now calm and ordinary.

She placed it on the town’s bridge and whispered, “Thank you.”

The next morning, the townsfolk found it still there — unlit, but warm to the touch. No one claimed it. Yet every year after, one lantern in the parade would glow a little brighter when someone with a heavy heart walked by. 💛

Because Halloween, Mira learned, wasn’t just about facing ghosts outside — sometimes it was about forgiving the ones within. 🌕

[Mohammad830]

 

🕯️

Title: Steek

 

 

In a small village on the edge of the forest, children eagerly awaited Halloween night. Every house was decorated with glowing pumpkins — except one at the end of the road: the house of Steek.

 

Steek was an odd carpenter who lived alone, spending his days carving faces from pumpkins. But his faces weren’t ordinary — they were too realistic. People whispered that his pumpkins didn’t grow in fields, but were found near old graves.

 

On Halloween night, a group of children dared to peek through his window. They saw Steek placing a candle inside a new pumpkin head — but this head moved! Terrified, the children stepped back as Steek looked up at them with a crooked smile and whispered:

 

“Every face has a soul… I just bring it back.”

 

The next morning, one of the children was missing. On Steek’s doorstep sat a fresh pumpkin — with the child’s face carved upon it.

 

And since that day, they say every smiling pumpkin on Halloween might just be one of Steek’s creations.

 

Id :Mohammed120sh 

Edited October 29, 2025 by Mohammad830

[sebacantero66]

ID:sebacantero66

 

 

 

 

1. Golpes en el coche

 

Una familia, compuesta por dos pequeños y sus padres, viajaban por carretera hacia [....] cuando el coche se les averió. Los padres salieron a buscar ayuda y, para que los niños no se aburrieran, les dejaron con la radio encendida. Cayó la noche y los padres seguían sin volver cuando escucharon una inquietante noticia en la radio: un asesino muy peligroso se había escapado de un centro penitenciario cercano a [....] y pedían que se extremaran las precauciones.

 

Las horas pasaban y los padres de los niños no regresaban. De pronto, empezaron a escuchar golpes sobre sus cabezas. “Poc, poc, poc”. Los golpes, que parecían provenir de algo que golpeaba la parte de arriba del coche, eran cada vez más rápidos y más fuertes. “POC, POC, POC”. Los niños, aterrados, no pudieron resistir más: abrieron la puerta y huyeron a toda prisa.

 

Solo el mayor de los niños se atrevió a girar la cabeza para mirar qué provocaba los golpes. No debería haberlo hecho: sobre el coche había un hombre de gran tamaño, que golpeaba la parte superior del vehículo con algo que tenía en las manos: eran las cabezas de sus padres.

[dafdeften]

stake id : dafdeften

 

the story:

The House That Blinked

Every Halloween the kids on Ashford Lane dared each other to run up to the old Merrin House, the one with the boarded windows and the crooked weather vane that always pointed east no matter which way the wind blew.

Nobody ever got closer than the porch because sometimes, if you stared long enough, the house blinked.

Not with lights or people inside, but with windows. They would open and close like eyes, shutters creaking like eyelids. Once, a brave kid named Rory swore he saw a curtain lift itself, peeking out, like the house was trying to see who was watching it.

This year Rory decided he was done with stories. He was going in.

He waited until midnight because of course he did, flashlight trembling in his hand. The air was cold but the doorknob was warm. He pushed and the door swung open with a sigh that sounded almost relieved.

Inside it smelled like dust and rain. Every step he took echoed as if someone else were walking a split second behind him. He aimed the flashlight down the hall and for a moment he thought he saw the walls ripple as though they were breathing.

Then he heard it, a whisper right by his ear:

You finally came back.

The light flickered out.

When the neighbors found the Merrin House the next morning, the boards had all fallen from the windows. The house looked newer somehow, brighter. And in the upstairs window there was a silhouette of a boy, smiling and waving.

No one has seen Rory since.

But every year, when the clock strikes midnight on Halloween, the house blinks.

And if you look close enough, you will see two shadows in the window this time, watching for who is next.