💰[$1,000] Tell us your spooky story 📚

[Ladea]

🕯️ The Last Pumpkin Light

 

In a tiny foggy village, Halloween wasn’t just a holiday—it was the night spooky things went on a field trip to the human world. Everyone had to keep their jack-o’-lanterns glowing, or the creatures would think the house was “available.” Like a horror Airbnb.

 

Arvin, a boy who was way too proud of his vampire costume, forgot to check his pumpkin. The candle inside had gone out. Oops.

 

When the clock struck twelve, strange footsteps echoed on the street.

 

Tap… tap… tap…

 

Arvin peeked outside. A tall figure with a pumpkin head stood there. Its glowing eyes looked like two angry flashlights and its limbs were long and creaky like old broomsticks.

 

It whispered,

 

> “One dark house… Perfect.”

 

 

 

Arvin nearly screamed like a karaoke mic gone wrong. The figure raised a lantern filled with tiny, crying pumpkin faces—like baby pumpkins having the worst night ever.

 

Suddenly, all jack-o’-lanterns in the village began to dim…

Everything felt colder… and uglier.

 

Arvin panicked but remembered something—he had a lighter!

He dashed outside (tripped once… okay, twice) and relit his pumpkin.

Fwoosh! It shined brighter than a phone screen at 3 a.m.

 

The pumpkin-headed creep hissed like a cat stepping on a Lego, then vanished into the fog.

 

Next morning, Arvin found tiny sooty footprints on his porch—

and a mini jack-o’-lantern with a crooked smile, like it was saying:

 

> “I’ll be baaack…”

 

 

 

Now, every Halloween, Arvin checks his pumpkin every 5 minutes.

 

And if your lantern goes out too…

Run.

Or at least scream in style. 🎃😱

 

[tnew]

The Bells of Bucha

Each Halloween night, the people of Bucha heard the ghost-bells of St. Mykhailo’s church—a church long destroyed, its tower gone, yet the bells still rang through the mist.

They said:

“When you hear them, stay inside. Never follow.”

But Kateryna couldn’t obey. Her brother, Petro, had never returned from the war. When the bells began that night, she walked into the fog, candle trembling in her hand.

At the ruins, a shadow waited—a soldier’s figure with empty eyes.

“Petro?” she whispered.

“I couldn’t leave,” he said softly. “Remember me… and I’ll rest.”

The candle’s light wavered, and countless ghostly soldiers appeared, tolling unseen bells in the dark.

By morning, the village awoke to silence. For the first time in years, the bells of Bucha did not ring.

And on Kateryna’s windowsill, her candle still burned—steady as peace finally found.

 

stake id; tnew

[Stoboard1]

 

“The Lantern Keeper”

Every Halloween, the fog in Merrin Hollow breathes.
It curls through the trees, thick as smoke, and carries a single, swaying light.

Some say it’s a trick of the moon.
Others whisper it’s him — the Lantern Keeper, walking the border between here and whatever waits beyond.

Three kids once followed the light.
They thought it was a pumpkin left from some old prank, glowing in the dark.
But when they got close, they saw faces — dozens of them — faint and flickering inside the lantern’s glass.
Each one mouthing the same silent plea: “Blow me out.”

The Keeper turned toward them.
His lantern burned brighter.

By morning, the fog had cleared.
No one spoke of the kids again.
But if you walk the forest trail on Halloween night,
you can count three new lights swaying behind his.

 

Stake ----IW4K

[CommonSensie]

The Vault That Remembers

I’m writing this at 3:17 a.m. from the back booth of a 24-hour café on Magazine Street, the one with the cracked vinyl seats and the espresso machine that sighs like it’s tired of living. My phone battery is at 4 %, but I can’t plug in. The charger cord keeps slipping out of the port, as if the device itself is refusing the juice. I think it’s embarrassed to be seen with me after what happened tonight.

My name is Etienne LeRoux—no relation to the old riverboat families, just a coincidence that feels heavier every time someone says it. I’m thirty-three, a freelance Solidity auditor who peaked at twenty-six and has been coasting on fumes ever since. I tell people I left the corporate chain because I wanted freedom. Truth is, the chain left me.

Tonight is Halloween, but in 2025 that mostly means pop-up NFT drops and AR filters that superimpose pumpkin heads on your selfies. The real party is quieter, invitation-only, whispered in Discords that auto-delete every thirteen minutes. They call it the Crescent Vault—an instance of Stake.com that only surfaces on certain lunar nodes. You don’t find the link; the link finds you.

It slid into my DMs at 11:11 p.m., a single line from an account with no avatar:

**moon in scorpio. vault open. bring a memory you can afford to lose.**

I should have blocked it. Instead I screenshotted, cropped the sender, and followed the onion link through three VPNs. The landing page loaded like a breath: matte black, no logo, just a pulsing glyph that hurt to look at directly. Below it, three words in lowercase:

**originals live**

Stake’s Originals aren’t games; they’re sigils wearing game mechanics as camouflage. Tombstone Tango is a roulette wheel, sure, but the numbers are replaced with timestamps from your own browser history. Witch’s Wheel asks questions pulled from your unsent drafts. And Voodoo Vault—god, Voodoo Vault—is a crash game where the multiplier isn’t random. It’s your heart rate, scraped in real time from whatever cheap wearable you forgot to turn off.

I started with fifty USDT, the last of my emergency fund. Tombstone spun to 07:14 a.m.—the exact minute my ex walked out three years ago. Black thirteen. 36x. The payout hit my wallet with a soft chime that sounded like her key in the lock.

I wish I could say greed took over, but it was recognition. Every win felt like a memory being laundered. The higher the multiplier, the cleaner the ache.

At 100x I cashed half and bought back the locket I pawned last Christmas—same pawnshop, same bored clerk, same lie about my grandmother. The metal was warm when I clipped it around my neck, like it had been waiting.

That’s when the Vault asked for the Soul Stake.

Not in red caps-lock drama. Just a calm modal, white text on black:

**stake a memory. double the ride. cash out anytime.**

I laughed so hard the barista looked over. Then I opened the locket. Inside was a photo of us at Jazz Fest, her mouth open mid-laugh, my arm around her waist. I held the phone camera over it until the glyph pulsed once—acknowledgment.

The rocket launched.

200x. 500x. The café lights dimmed in waves, though the meter says it’s just my eyes. At 666x the photo in the locket went dark, like someone turned off the sun behind her smile. I felt the memory detach—not erased, but unmoored, floating somewhere I couldn’t reach.

1000x.

The screen didn’t crash. It simply folded, the way a paper crane folds back into a sheet. The phone went cold. When I turned it over, the glass was whole, unmarked, reflecting a face I almost recognized.

I left a twenty on the table and walked out into the wet air. The locket is empty now, just a hollow oval of silver. My wallet shows the USDT, enough to pay rent for six months. But when I try to remember her name, I get static—like a radio station between channels.

The Vault is still open. I can feel it pinging my wearables, polite but persistent. It doesn’t want the money back. It wants the next memory.

I think I’m going to let the battery die.

[Malupit0n]

The Entity on Mirror

based on my real life story
No one believed me when I told them that my reflection in the mirror was alive.

“Grow up, dude, you’re not a 5 years old. You’re 24!”

That was the only response I ever got when I told people my reflection in the mirror was alive. They laughed, but I swore it was true. This wasn't a ghost; it was an entity trapped behind the glass, constantly showing a grumpy, angry face and trying to grab me, as if to pull me in while simultaneously jumping out.

I did my best to keep my distance from all reflective surfaces. When I brushed my teeth, I stood a few meters back. No matter how hard I tried to smile, the entity behind the glass never smiled back. It remained a scowling, grumpy mirror-image of me.

One day, I was at the mall when a huge earthquake struck. Chaos erupted. I tried to run for cover, but something fell from above and hit my head. I went down, groaning from the pain.

As the tremor subsided, I looked around the messy, dimly lit mall. My breath hitched when I saw something shiny nearby: a mirror, likely from a fitting room. Despite my throbbing head and aching legs, I frantically crawled away.

Right then, I saw my reflection. For the first time, the entity in the mirror was smiling at me. It was a devilish, terrifying grin.

A cold horror gripped me as the entity slowly raised a hand and waved goodbye from behind the glass.



Stake- Malupit0n

Edited November 1, 2025 by Malupit0n

[Deadlyguy]

💀 The Haunted Spin: The Legend of Shuhaibhadi 👻

 

Halloween night on Stake always feels different — the chat’s louder, spins hit weird multipliers, and everyone’s chasing that one lucky win before midnight. But last year… something stranger happened.

 

Around 12:03 AM, a new username appeared out of nowhere — “Shuhaibhadi”. No deposit, no welcome bonus, no profile pic. Just there. Silent.

 

He started playing Plinko. First drop: 1000x.

Second: 500x.

Third: 1000x again.

 

The chat went wild.

 

“Yo, who IS this guy?”

“Luckiest dude alive.”

“Or… maybe not alive at all 👀”

 

Then people noticed something creepy — every time Shuhaibhadi hit a win, someone else’s balance dropped. Exactly the same amount. One user even swore they saw their bet history replaced with his.

 

A few brave souls tried to copy his bets. Same seed, same drop, same everything. But when they clicked spin… their screen glitched.

Just for a second.

Then came the message — glowing red across the top:

 

“Welcome, Shuhaibhadi_2.”

 

The account vanished after that night. No trace in the database. No record in Stake’s logs. But every Halloween since, a few users claim they see the same name appear right before midnight — playing silently, hitting impossible multipliers.

 

So if your screen flickers tonight, and your bet history feels off…

maybe it’s not the RNG.

Maybe it’s Shuhaibhadi, taking his next spin. 🎰👻

STAKE-id:Shuhaibhadi

[Vanhiskakaashik]

The Last Bet

The orange glow of Halloween lights flickered across Karan’s dorm room, blending with the blue shimmer from his monitor. Empty energy drink cans lined his desk like trophies, and the sound of clicking keys filled the silence.

Karan wasn’t studying that night — he hadn’t studied properly in weeks. He was playing. Competing. Grinding. Gaming had become more than a hobby; it was his world. He loved the rush, the sound of the crowd in his headset, the sense of control. In the game, he was someone — precise, confident, respected.

Then one night, someone in his esports Discord mentioned something — betting on live matches. “Bro, it’s easy money if you know the game.”

At first, it was curiosity. Then, it became obsession.

He started small — a few hundred rupees. Won. Then another bet — won again. His heart raced every time he saw that “YOU WON” flash across the screen. It felt like cheating destiny, like he had found a secret path no one else saw.

“I’ve cracked it,” he told himself. “This is how I’ll make it big.”

Days turned into nights. His assignments piled up. Calls from his mom went unanswered. All that mattered were the numbers — odds, outcomes, and that one next bet.

And then… the streak broke.

Loss after loss after loss. Each time, he promised himself he’d stop after just one more. But the more he lost, the more he needed to win. His savings were gone in a week. He borrowed from classmates — “I’ll return it in two days, I swear.” Then from strangers online. Then from his closest friend, Varun.

Varun trusted him. He even defended him when others called Karan “addicted.” But when Karan didn’t pay back in time, Varun changed.

“Five days,” Varun texted. “If you don’t return my money, I’ll tell your parents everything.”

Karan froze. His stomach twisted. He stared at the screen, heart pounding.

Varun wasn’t joking — he had screenshots, voice notes, everything.

Karan’s mind went blank. Fear took over.

He tried to win it all back. Bigger bets, riskier plays, desperate clicks.

But the numbers only went one way — down.

He stopped sleeping. He stopped eating. He could barely look at himself in the mirror. His phone was a nightmare of angry messages, threats, and guilt.

By Halloween night, he had nothing left — no money, no trust, no peace. The dorms outside were full of laughter and costumes, but his world was silent. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at Varun’s last message:

“Pay up or I tell them tomorrow.”

His thoughts turned dark. Too dark.

“What if he wasn’t around to tell anyone?”

The idea came like a whisper — horrible, but tempting.

He stood outside Varun’s dorm, hands shaking. The night was cold. Pumpkins flickered on window sills like mocking grins. He saw Varun through the window — laughing, drinking with friends, like nothing was wrong.

And that’s when something broke inside Karan.

Not anger. Not hatred.

Just… shame.

He realized what he was about to do — and who he had become.

He wasn’t a gamer anymore. He wasn’t even Karan. He was just a scared boy who had let greed eat him alive.

He walked away. Slowly. His legs felt like lead, but his heart felt lighter with each step.

Back in his room, he opened his laptop and did something harder than gambling — he told the truth. He emailed his parents:

“I messed up. I’ve been betting. I owe people money. I’m scared. I need help. Please don’t hate me.”

He didn’t sleep that night. When morning came, he answered his father’s call — there was shouting, crying, but also something else… relief.

Varun faced consequences too — the university got involved, and it turned out he’d been threatening others for money as well. But Karan didn’t feel revenge. Just sadness.

Weeks later, he started going to a counselor. He rejoined his old esports team — not for money, but for love of the game. He streamed his comeback match quietly, with one small pumpkin on his desk.

When the chat asked what changed him, he smiled and said:

“Sometimes, you lose everything before you remember who you are.”

The pumpkin light flickered behind him as he spoke — a reminder that the scariest monsters aren’t ghosts or shadows…

They’re the lies we tell ourselves when we can’t face the truth.

 

 

BY stake_id -- leetwhitesnake

Edited November 1, 2025 by Vanhiskakaashik

[Derecksj29]

This is going to sound insane, but I need to get it off my chest. I’m not saying I believe in ghosts or anything supernatural, but what happened last night really shook me.

So, I went out around 9:40 PM to buy something from the convenience store a few blocks away. It’s a walk I’ve done a hundred times before. The streets were quiet, a little damp from earlier rain, just the usual hum of streetlights and the occasional passing car.

On my way back, maybe halfway home, I noticed someone walking ahead of me. They were wearing a black hoodie and jeans almost exactly what I was wearing. I didn’t think much of it until I noticed something strange: the way they walked.

Same pace. Same shoulder tilt. Even the way I adjust my bag strap every few steps. It was like watching a recording of myself from behind.

I slowed down a bit. They slowed too.

At this point, I felt this weird mix of curiosity and unease, so I crossed the street to get a better look from the side. When I did, the person turned their head slightly and I froze.

It was my face.

Not “someone who kind of looks like me.” I mean exactly me  down to the hairstyle, the small scar above my eyebrow, even the same tired expression I always have after work.

I didn’t move. I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, staring. And then they smiled.

It wasn’t a creepy smile, just a small, polite one  but it felt wrong because I knew I wasn’t the one smiling.

Before I could even react, a tricycle passed between us, and when it moved on, the person was gone. Completely gone. No footsteps, no sound, nothing.

I walked home as fast as I could. I didn’t even look in the mirror when I got inside. I kept trying to come up with logical explanations maybe a reflection, or someone who just looked freakishly similar. But the scar, the jacket, the way he moved... I can’t explain that away.

Then this morning, my friend messaged me:

“Bro, you walked past me near the store last night. I called your name twice, but you didn’t even look at me.”

I checked the time on the message 9:55 PM.
At that time, I was already home.

Stake: derecksj29

Edited November 4, 2025 by Derecksj29

[Happyprox]

Blackwood Creek celebrated Halloween with a peculiar silence, shrouded in a cold, damp fog. Lena wasn't here for candy; she was here for The Collector’s Curiosity, a junk shop said to open only on Halloween night for those who "truly seek something."

Inside, the shop reeked of dust and forgotten time. There was no owner, just endless shelves of broken clocks and rusted tools. Lena was drawn to a small, plain brass music box resting on a stool, engraved faintly with: Tempus Fugit.

She reached for it, and a quiet, raspy laugh echoed from the shadows. Ignoring it, she opened the lid. The box played a melody she hadn't heard since childhood—a melody only she could know. As the familiar, unsettling tune played, the air grew thick.

Tiny slips of paper—old receipts, faded notes, postcards—began to lift from the floor, swirling around her like dark moths. With each note of the music, the papers dissolved into nothingness. Lena realized with terrifying clarity: the curiosities were not for sale, but for purchase. The price was not money, but memory.

The music intensified, becoming a frantic, mechanical shriek. Images flashed through her mind—her first day of school, her grandmother's face, the smell of her childhood home—all vanishing along with the scraps of paper. The box was stealing the substance of her life.

Screaming, Lena slammed the lid shut. The music stopped instantly, and the satisfied, deep laughter returned from the darkness.

She fled the shop without looking back. Once home, safe, she felt a profound, chilling emptiness. She tried to recall the melody, the one only she knew, but found only a silent, blank space where it should have been. A faint, new wrinkle marked the corner of her eye.

Lena knew her Halloween gift was a new, cold fear: the terror of living a life where parts of her past simply ceased to exist.

 

Happyprox

[DanaU]

One late evening, I was walking after work and passed a cemetery... And at some point, a drunk man behind me asked, "Girl, aren't you afraid to walk near a cemetery at night?" To which I replied, "I was afraid when I was alive..."

Username: DanaU 

[BeniQ]

Lena had always loved old things  especially the ones that seemed to have a story.
So when she found a Victorian mirror with a cracked frame at the flea market, she bought it instantly.

The seller only said:

“Don’t place it across from a window on Halloween night.”

She smiled. A silly superstition, she thought.

That evening, she set the mirror right across from her window so the candlelight would reflect and fill the room with a cozy glow.
At midnight, she blew out the last candle, leaving only the pale moonlight.

Then she saw movement.

Not in the room  in the reflection.
Someone, or something, moved behind her shoulder.

She turned around. Nothing.

When she looked back, the figure was closer — standing right behind her.
It had her face, but the eyes were too dark, too deep.

She froze. The reflection raised its hand.
But this time… she didn’t.

The moon slipped behind a cloud.
The mirror went black.

By morning, the room was empty  except for the mirror, still facing the window.
And in it, the reflection of a girl who was still watching.

 

stakeid: BeniQ

[Ommirge69]

The Pumpkin Patch at Midnight

Every October, the Holloway family opens their pumpkin patch on the edge of Blackthorn Road—a tradition spanning three generations. But locals know the real attraction isn't the prize-winning gourds. It's the legend.

They say if you visit after sunset, you can still see the previous owner, Old Man Silas, tending his crops. The problem is, Silas died in 1987. They found him slumped between the rows, his body so withered they couldn't tell how long he'd been there.

This year, teenager Marcus decided to test the legend. Armed with his phone's camera, he entered the patch at 11 PM, long after the gates locked. The air tasted like copper and earth. His breath came in white clouds despite the warm evening.

Then he saw it—a figure in a tattered flannel shirt, moving between the pumpkins with impossible fluidity. No footsteps. No sound. Just the soft rustling of leaves as skeletal hands caressed each pumpkin, whispering numbers: "One... two... three..."

Marcus raised his camera. Through the lens, the figure's face came into focus. It had no eyes—just hollow sockets. But somehow, it was looking directly at him.

The whisper changed: "...and one more."

The next morning, Marcus's phone was found at the patch entrance. The final photo showed him screaming silently, his eyes replaced with glowing orange jack-o'-lantern faces.

The counting continues every October. Local authorities chalk it up to vandalism, but the Holloway family knows better. They've started numbering the pumpkins themselves now, completing Silas's count.

This year, they're at 1,847.

 

stake id- Ommirge69

[Meetu07r]

The House That WaitedThe old Darrington House had been empty for ninety years, but on Halloween night, the lights came on.A group of teenagers dared each other to go inside. The air was colder near the gate, and the overgrown ivy seemed to pulse when the wind blew. Inside, every floorboard groaned as if crying out in pain. The leader, Jake, pushed open the parlor door and froze. On the dusty table sat a tea set arranged neatly, steam rising from the cups.A whisper floated through the room—soft, trembling, almost polite. “You’re just in time.”The others laughed, thinking it was a prank. But as they looked around, they realized all six cups were full—though there were only five of them. The sixth chair creaked, slowly turning toward them. A shadow took shape, wearing a smile that wasn’t a smile at all.The last thing they heard before the door slammed shut was the clink of porcelain and the voice again—closer now—“We’ve been waiting.”No one ever saw the teens again. But every Halloween since, a faint light glows in the Darrington House, and six teacups are always waiting, still warm.Would you like me to make this story darker and more psychological, or keep it in a classic ghost-story style?

Stake id : Meetu07r 

[chromeeyes1]

On Halloween night, Lily carved her very first pumpkin. She gave it big round eyes, a crooked smile, and a tiny nose shaped like a heart. When she finished, she whispered, “Happy Halloween,” and placed a candle inside.

The flame flickered—once, twice—and then the pumpkin blinked.

Lily gasped. “Did you just—”

The pumpkin’s smile widened. “Nice carving,” it said softly.

She stared, frozen. The pumpkin tilted its head. “Don’t worry. I only wake up once a year.”

Then, with a wink, it blew out its own candle.

The next morning, all that was left was an ordinary pumpkin…
except for one new thing carved into its side— a tiny heart, smiling back at here.

 

Happy Halloween

 

stake id: Chromeeyes

 

[virtu2212]

virtu2212

 

Today i stood up early for the Halloween rtp 🤣

I thought i can deposit a big time depo and win big. 

After few spins I got jumpscared because my Balance showed 0

The spookiest Story of All time 🤣

[Anlfurkann]

The Whisper in the Broken Mirror

The oldest house in town was the crumbling mansion that even the wind dared not enter. No one went near it — they said whoever entered began to speak to their reflection.

On the night of October 31st, curiosity drove high schooler Eren to madness. He challenged his friends: “I’ll go inside that house and look into the cursed mirror!”

When the clock struck midnight, Eren stepped inside with a flashlight. The creaking floor groaned beneath him, and the old portraits on the walls seemed to watch his every move. The staircase to the upper floor sighed like it remembered too much.

At the end of the hallway, one room glowed faintly — the mirror room. The mirror was full of cracks, yet Eren could still see his reflection. Then, his reflection smiled. Eren hadn’t smiled.

The flashlight flickered once, then went out. In the darkness, a whisper came: “You’re the one outside now.”

When the light returned, the mirror was whole again. Eren was inside it — staring out. The “Eren” outside smiled and left the house.

The next morning, his friends entered the mansion. In the mirror, they saw something horrifying: Eren’s hands were pressed against the glass, his face frozen mid-scream. But the Eren outside still wandered the town. And every time he passed a mirror, his reflection was begging for help.

[BossToyo]

I work midnight shift at a gas station and I have for quite awhile at various stations in different areas with varying levels of criminal activity.

I have regulars, of course. I’m a small-statured woman (as is my partner the other half of the week, and we’ve always been partners) so these regulars often worry about us and keep watch on creepy occurrences when they can.

I had one man who worked in the metro an hour away who would stop in every morning for his cigarettes. He never smiled or seemed friendly, and as I often do, I tried to think of what I could do that might make him smile one day.

It took many months but I finally pulled it off by having his cigarettes ready on the counter and already scanned for him to pay for as he walked in. He smiled, and then asked me

“Do you ever get scared on the night shift? You small girl, is not safe.”

I said I sometimes did but we could lock the doors and hide if we had to, and that the provincial police (think state troopers, if you’re American) had a station close by and came in often to get their highway vehicles washed. I had a good rapport with those police. He nodded and then told me a story about when he first moved to our country from Eastern Europe with his wife and child back in the late 80’s, early 90’s.

He fell asleep at work one night at the gas station he worked midnights at. When he woke up, the phone had been ringing for hours and his manager was shaking him violently asking if he was alright. He was fine, he said, what was the problem? He was sorry he fell asleep.

His manager screamed that it was fine he fell asleep, to look outside. All of their motor oil was missing and the outside of the place was a mess.

The thieves had come and swiped all the oil and left him be because he slept through the entire thing, and then moved down the road to the next station for an encore. At that station, the clerk was awake and fought back, so the thieves stabbed him to death and left him to bleed out.

When he finished telling me this, he concluded with

“If you ever feel sleepy just lock the door and do it, it might save your life”

I don’t work at that station anymore but I think about that guy all the time and wonder how his grandkids are.

stake user: BossToyo

[asmael1212]

Once i tried to hit a big prize in stake so i depo more than 10,000 $ and lost it all like it was a sip of water this story scares anyone more than any monster 

 

stake id : asmael1212

[Th937721]

Every Halloween, I carve a pumpkin and leave it by my window.

This year, I woke at midnight to hear it whispering my name — softly, like someone learning how to speak for the first time.

By morning, the pumpkin was gone.

In its place was a note carved into the table: “Thanks for the voice.”

Stake: Thai937721

[van1997]

The trick-or-treaters had all gone home hours ago.

But at 12:01, the bell rang — three slow, heavy chimes.

Outside stood a group of children, pale and quiet, their costumes covered in dirt.

They held out empty bags and said, “We were buried before candy was invented.”

Stake: van93770

[Th937724]

Jenna bought a witch mask from a dusty old shop that only opened once a year.

It fit perfectly — maybe too perfectly.

After the party, she tried to pull it off but felt skin tearing beneath her fingers.

When she finally looked in the mirror, the mask had eyes. And they blinked.

Stake: th937724

[quochung50]

Everyone knew the last house was abandoned.

So when kids dared each other to ring the bell, it was supposed to be harmless fun.

But when the door creaked open, an old woman smiled and said, “You’re early — I wasn’t expecting my children until next century.”

The door slammed, and no one saw them again.

Stake: quochung50

Edited November 1, 2025 by quochung50

[duyquang19911]

I found an antique radio at a flea market that only played one channel.

Every night at 3:07 AM, it broadcasted live news — from October 31st, 1923.

Tonight, the announcer described a man listening in the dark, who doesn’t know he’s next.

 

Stake: duyquang1991

[sedop0909]

I always thought the woods behind my grandmother’s house were quiet—lonely, but harmless. That changed last Halloween.

 

She used to tell me not to go past the crooked oak tree.

“Past there, the woods don’t stay empty,” she’d whisper, her voice trembling like she remembered something she wished she could forget.

 

I laughed at first. I was seventeen—fear felt childish.

So on Halloween night, armed with a flashlight and arrogance, I walked into the woods.

 

The crooked oak was easy to find. Its branches stretched like broken arms reaching for help. My breath felt heavy as I stepped past it. Behind me, the wind stopped. The world… paused.

 

Then I heard a whisper.

 

It wasn’t from the trees. It wasn’t the wind.

It was right beside my ear:

 

“You came back.”

 

My flashlight flickered. I spun around. Nothing.

 

Footsteps crunched—soft, dragging, slow. But when I moved, the sound stopped. When I froze, they continued. Close. Too close.

 

My heart hammered as the whisper came again, a little clearer, a little colder:

 

“You left us here.”

 

My throat tightened. The air turned sharp like glass. Shadows pooled around the trees, stretching toward me like long, thin fingers.

 

I ran. I didn’t care where—only away.

 

But the woods twisted. The path I knew warped into something unfamiliar, sickening.

Branches scraped my skin like claws. My lungs burned.

 

Then, ahead—

a figure standing perfectly still.

 

Tall. Pale. Eyes black as rotting soil.

 

Its face stretched into a grin too wide for anything human.

 

My legs wouldn’t move.

The whisper came from its gaping mouth:

 

“You will not leave again.”

 

Darkness swallowed me.

 

I woke up at my grandmother’s door, blood on my arms, dirt under my nails. She didn’t ask where I’d been. She just stared at the woods and whispered:

 

“They never let go of what is theirs.”

 

Every night since, I hear footsteps outside my window. Slow. Dragging. Waiting.

And sometimes, when the house goes silent, a voice breathes against my ear...

 

stake id: sedop0909

[wgrong]

深夜，她在床上滑著手機，突然聽到廚房裡有人開冰箱的聲音。
她以為是男友回來了，大聲喊道：「你回來啦？」
沒有人回答。

她拿起手機，看到男友傳來的訊息：
“我今晚加班，別等我。”

有了──廚房的燈，自己亮了。

ID:wgrong

Edited November 1, 2025 by wgrong
忘記打ID