Horror
Drink to tales in the Dark, the podcast that brings your deepest fears to life. Every occasion, we dive into chilling tales of the supernatural, the uncanny, and the truly intimidating, designed to shoot jitters down your chine and keep you looking over your shoulder long after the story ends. From haunted houses and restless spirits to civic legends and unsolved mystifications, our stories explore the murk lurking in the corners of our world and occasionally, in our minds. Each week, we precisely draft immersive narratives, combining atmospheric soundscapes, chine- chinking goods, and masterful liar to make you feel as...
The Room That Breathes When No One Is There
Elias stepped onto the veranda of the Alderidge Lane house as if drawn by a glamorous force. The fog rolled in thick swells, entwining around the broken rail, around the gnarled trees, concealing the path beneath. The house impended like a living guard, its makeup shelling, its windows dark yet nearly shimmering with expectation. A low hum sounded to radiate from the walls, wobbling through the rustic bottom beneath his bases, threading into his bones. He broke, gobbling sprucely, every instinct screaming to flee, but some unnoticeable tether embedded him in place. He knew that whatever awaited him outside...
Whispers Beneath the Floorboards
The night after escaping the house on Alderidge Lane, Elias could n't sleep. The moon hung low over Willowcreek, tableware and indifferent, and the wind rumored through the trees with voices he could n’t ignore. Every shadow sounded to stretch toward him, every breath carried a subtle bite that reminded him of the house’s cold grasp. He'd returned to the auberge, shivering under a thin mask, trying to move himself that it was over. That he'd survived. But deep in his casket, an apprehension palpitated, a patient shower that would not be silenced. The house had n't let...
The Door That Never Should Have Opened
The house stood at the furthest edge of Willowcreek, an old puritanical structure whose windows caught no sun and whose shutters cleaved to the frames like dying hands unintentional to release their grip. For times, the townspeople crossed the road rather than walk beside its iron hedge, bruiting stories of the family who formerly lived there,
