vintage
Special effects may be lacking, but vintage horror films still manage to keep our palms sweating and blood pumping; a look back at retro horror films, stories, books and characters that prove everything is scarier in black and white.
The Echoing Asylum of Silaos: Where the Patients Never Left | SEASON 2
Chapter 7 FATHER ELIAS’S JOURNAL: Entry 3: The Queen is not a demon, but a soul. A very angry, very vengeful soul. She is the mother of the asylum. Her spirit, and her profound grief, is what has been feeding on the patients' madness. She is what has been devouring them. She is the keeper of the lost. And she is now enraged.
By Tales That Breathe at Nightabout a month ago in Horror
When the TV Woke at Midnight:. AI-Generated.
The first time it happened, I thought it was a glitch. The television in our living room flickered to life at exactly midnight, its screen glowing against the heavy silence of the house. I had fallen asleep on the couch, and the sudden burst of light startled me awake. The channels began to flip rapidly, as though invisible fingers were pressing the remote.
By The Writer...A_Awanabout a month ago in Horror
THE NIGHT THE SNOW WAS MARKED
In early February of 1855, southern England went to sleep under a heavy blanket of snow. It was the kind of winter night that muffles sound, erases detail, and turns familiar streets into pale, quiet corridors. Villages locked their doors. Farmers secured their animals. Churches stood dark and still.
By The Insight Ledger 2 months ago in Horror
Whispers in the Hospital Ward:. AI-Generated.
The hospital ward was quiet at night. Machines hummed softly, monitors blinked, and the faint fragrance of antiseptic lingered in the air. Patients slept in their beds, nurses moved silently from room to room, and the world outside seemed far away. Yet in that silence, whispers began to rise—faint, fragile, but impossible to ignore.
By The Writer...A_Awan2 months ago in Horror
That Same Old Refrain
Misery or Missouri. I'm sure there's a bad pun there. As two local boys with long-established heritage in the state, we knew better than most how easily small town existenz can chew you up and spit you out. Strum, strum, strum, strum, strum, The strumming reverberated from the banjo upon my father's lap through the floorboards to my soul. ingratiating into me a sense of ... Nothingness. Seems I hear those banjos playin' once again, Hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, That same old plaintive strain. As boys we felt the growing strain of Arrow Rock living. Moonshine tainted blood passed from generations supped on from the Ozarks. Hear that mournful melody, It just haunts you the whole day long, And you wander in dreams back to heaven, it seems, When you hear that old time song. Recounted and recalled as. Something like naustalgea. Hush-a-bye ma baby, go to sleep on Mommy's knee, Journey back to paradise in dreams again with me; It seems like your Mommy is there once again, Even after she disappeared in Marvel Cave or was it Taberville Prairie. Memories are so fickle, so lost on plaintive strain of existenz. And the old folks were strummin' that same old refrain. Binaurally as we waved hush-a-bye to our childhood Thomas looked like Mommy did. Then. Nothingness. Too late. Too beyond. I was once. Aware. But awarenez dissolved. Way down in Missouri where I learned this lullaby, When the stars were blinkin' and the moon was climbin' high, And I hear Mammy Cloe, as in days long ago, Singin' hush-a-bye.
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Horror
