u/Dibyazur_2010

Leo survived. He ran through the forest, bleeding and broken, but alive. He didn't stop until he reached the main road and flagged down a passing car.

Days later, he was back home. He changed his name, moved to a new city, found a new job, and met a new girl. He thought it was over.

He was wrong.

One morning, his girlfriend woke up to find him sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. His back was turned. He didn't move.

She called his name. No answer.

She touched his shoulder. He fell forward.

His head was already gone — cut clean off.

She screamed.

A note was pinned to the back of the chair:

"No one escapes The Bouquet Motel. We always find you."

The window was open. Someone had been inside.

They had taken his head.

In a dark room, rich men sat around a table. A box was opened. Inside, Leo's head stared back at them.

"A perfect addition," one of them said. "Three friends. Three trophies."

He smiled and closed the box.

The collection continued.

And at a motel on the edge of a forest, three women sat at a bar, waiting for the next group of young men to walk through the door.

The night was young.

At The Bouquet Motel — no one ever survives.

And the motel never stopped.

---

THE END

Ethan, Jake, and Leo were backpacking through Eastern Europe. They were young, restless, and always looking for something exciting. One evening, a man in a long coat approached them outside their hostel.

"You want to have a good time?" he asked. "I know a place."

They followed.

He led them to a rundown motel on the edge of a forest. The sign above the door read: "The Bouquet Motel."

Inside, three women sat at the bar. Beautiful. Charming. They drank. They laughed. The night felt perfect.

But slowly, things started to change.

Ethan was the first to lose his mind. He started seeing shadows in the corners — faces in the mirror. He said the women weren't real.

Jake laughed it off.

Then he started seeing them too.

Leo tried to leave. The door wouldn't open.

They were trapped.

The women took Ethan first. They dragged him to a room in the basement. He screamed for hours.

When the door opened again, his eyes were gone.

---

To be continued...

I saw him on Halloween night.

I was walking home late when I saw a man in a white mask dragging an axe toward my neighbor's house. I thought it was a costume. A prank. But he didn't knock. He didn't ring the bell. He just walked through the front door like he owned the place.

I stood there — frozen — watching through the window.

I saw him raise the axe. The father. The mother. The daughter. They didn't have time to scream. He didn't stop. He moved from room to room like he was checking off a list.

When he finished, he walked out the same way he came — dragging his axe behind him, stepping over the bodies, heading to the next house.

I ran home. I locked the door. I didn't sleep.

The next morning, the news was everywhere.

"Halloween massacre leaves 14 dead across the neighborhood. No suspects. No motive. No survivors."

I knew the truth. I saw his face. His white mask. The axe. But I didn't tell them.

Because I knew — he wasn't done.

And I know he'll be back.

My grandmother told me about Heart Eyes when I was young. She said he only comes on Valentine's Day. He only kills couples. I didn't believe her. Why would someone only kill couples?

I'm Sophia. My parents died when I was ten. My grandfather passed a year ago. My grandmother raised me. She is my everything. I work a normal office job. I live a normal life.

Then I met Lucas. At a café. He was charming. A CEO. We exchanged numbers. Three months later, we were a happy couple. My grandmother was happy for us.

Valentine's Day was coming. She warned us again.

"Be careful, Sophia. Heart Eyes is real."

I laughed it off.

"Don't worry, Grandma. Nothing will happen to me."

The day arrived. Lucas booked a mansion for us — Ashford Hall. Private chef. Rose petals. A perfect night.

We arrived. We drank. We danced. We fell asleep in each other's arms.

At 2 AM, I woke up. The bed was empty.

I called Lucas's name. No answer. I walked to the bathroom. The door was slightly open. I pushed it.

Lucas was standing there — but his head was tilted at an unnatural angle. Blood dripped down his neck. His head was cut clean from his body. His eyes were still open.

I couldn't scream. I couldn't move.

A voice came from behind me.

"He didn't feel it."

I turned. A man stood there. His eyes were pale — almost white — like the color had been drained from them.

"Heart Eyes," I whispered.

"He was asleep," he said. "He never woke up."

I ran. I hid in the closet. I tried to call my grandmother. No signal.

I heard him walking outside the closet. I held my breath.

He stopped in front of the closet door.

I knew he could hear me breathing.

I burst out and ran down the hallway, my heels slipping on the marble. He followed — slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world.

I turned a corner. Locked. Another door. Locked.

I was trapped.

He stood at the end of the hall, watching me.

"Your grandmother warned you," he said.

"You killed Lucas."

He smiled wider.

"I did what I was told."

I grabbed a vase and threw it. He dodged — but it gave me time. I ran into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and turned.

He walked in slowly.

I lunged. He wasn't ready. I drove the knife into his chest — once, twice — until he fell.

He looked up at me, still smiling.

"I'm not the real one."

He died.

I searched his pockets. I found a folded note. On the paper:

"The real Heart Eyes is still out there. I was just following orders."

At the bottom:

"I will always be watching you."

---
Obsession starts from tomorrow 👀

THE END

Michael hadn't left his apartment in days. He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He just sat in the corner, watching the door.

The door wouldn't open. The window wouldn't budge. He was trapped.

That night, he heard breathing — right behind him.

He turned. No one was there. But the mirror had changed.

His reflection was gone. In its place stood a figure — still, silent, watching.

It was his own face.

The reflection smiled.

"You're not real," Michael whispered.

"Neither are you."

Before he could react, the reflection reached through the glass and pulled him inside.

He fell into darkness.

When he opened his eyes, he was trapped in the mirror.

On the other side, the reflection was sitting in his chair — living his life.

Michael pounded on the glass. No one heard.

The reflection turned and smiled.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of everything."

---

THE END

Arthur was arrested. Claire thought it was over. It wasn't.

A week later, she received a letter. No stamp. No return address. Inside, a photograph — taken from outside her window at night.

"You looked peaceful," it read.

She called the police. They found no sign of anyone watching.

The next night, her back door was unlocked. She had locked it.

She stayed at a friend's place. The letters followed — photos of her sleeping. Notes in her father's handwriting.

"He always liked watching you."

The police searched Arthur's room at the old age home. They found a journal. Inside, a list of names — young nurses who had worked there. Emma's name was crossed out.

The next name: Claire.

Beside it: "She left me here. She needs to learn."

Claire moved to a new city. Changed her number. Changed her name.

But last week, a postcard arrived. No sender. A picture of her new house.

On the back: "I've been watching you."

She studied the photo. The camera had been inside her room. In the corner, a shadow stood watching.

That night, she sat in the dark, staring at the locked door.

Then she heard a knock. Not at the front door.

At her bedroom door.

He is already here.

She looked up.

The shadow from the photo was standing there.

Smiling.

Brian and Markas were roommates. Best friends. They shared everything — food, secrets, late-night conversations.

But Brian had one thing Markas didn't know about — a curiosity for dark things. Slasher movies. Horror stories. Creepy websites.

One night, Brian found a site that looked like a food recipe blog. But the ingredients weren't chicken or mutton. They were human.

"Young people — low fire, less spices."

"Old people — medium fire, more spices."

Brian felt sick. He showed Markas. Markas laughed.

"It's a prank. Relax."

Brian tried to forget it. But Markas started acting strange. At college, girls complained — he was asking about their weight, their health, their blood type.

Brian asked him what was wrong. Markas snapped.

"Mind your own business."

A week later, there was a college party. Brian asked Markas to come.

"I'm not feeling well. I'll stay home."

Brian went alone. He drank too much. When he came back home, drunk and stumbling, he couldn't open the door. He heard a muffled scream from inside.

He called the police.

When they broke in, they found a girl from their college — unconscious, bleeding from the back of her head.

Markas wasn't there. He had gone out. Shopping.

The police found him half an hour later. When he saw them, he tried to run — but he was too slow. They caught him a few blocks away.

He was holding a bag — full of spices, vegetables, and a sharp blade.

When they asked him why, he was so scared he couldn't lie.

"I just wanted to know what human meat tastes like."

Brian moved away after that. New college. New city. New life.

But sometimes, late at night, he still hears that muffled scream.

And he asks himself the same question over and over:

"Who are you, Markas?"

---

THE END

I saw him on Halloween night.

I was walking home late when I saw a man in a white mask dragging an axe toward my neighbor's house. I thought it was a costume. A prank. But he didn't knock. He didn't ring the bell. He just walked through the front door like he owned the place.

I stood there — frozen — watching through the window.

I saw him raise the axe. The father. The mother. The daughter. They didn't have time to scream. He didn't stop. He moved from room to room like he was checking off a list.

When he finished, he walked out the same way he came — dragging his axe behind him, stepping over the bodies, heading to the next house.

I ran home. I locked the door. I didn't sleep.

The next morning, the news was everywhere.

"Halloween massacre leaves 14 dead across the neighborhood. No suspects. No motive. No survivors."

I knew the truth. I saw his face. His white mask. The axe. But I didn't tell them.

Because I knew — he wasn't done.

And I know he'll be back.

Aarav waited for the call every night after that. 5 AM. It never came.

He stopped checking his phone. Stopped watching the clock. But the voice stayed in his head.

"I'm the only one who cares about you."

Days passed. Then weeks. He started to believe it was all in his head. A breakdown. A glitch.

Until he found the recording on his phone.

One file. Dated the same day as the first call.

He opened it. His own voice played.

"You are not alone."

He didn't remember recording it. But the timestamp showed it was made at 5 AM.

While he was asleep.

He sat in the dark, staring at the screen, trying to understand. Trying to remember.

Then his phone rang.

5 AM.

He looked at the caller ID.

It wasn't his own number this time.

It was the number of his dead father.

He answered.

Silence.

A whisper.

"I was never the only one."

The call ended.

The screen went black.

And in the reflection, Aarav saw someone sitting behind him.

He turned around.

No one was there.

But the chair was still warm.

He looked back at the phone.

A new message had arrived.

"You're not alone — I'm right behind you."

He felt a breath on his neck.

He didn't turn around.

He knew who it was.

The phone rang again.

"Hello, Aarav."

It was his own voice.

"I told you — I'm the only one who cares about you."

"And I'm never leaving

I saw the same car in my rearview mirror for 20 minutes. A black sedan with a cracked windshield. Same headlights. Same speed. No matter how fast I drove, it stayed behind me.

I turned into my street. It followed. I parked. It stopped behind me, engine still running.

I ran inside and locked the door. My hands were shaking.

My phone buzzed.

"You forgot your wallet."

I looked down. My wallet was still on the passenger seat of my car. I hadn't touched it. I hadn't left the house with it.

I looked out the window.

The car was empty. The door was open.

But someone was standing at my front door.

Holding my wallet.

I didn't open the door. I pressed my eye to the peephole.

A man stood there — pale, still, his head tilted slightly. His eyes weren't looking at the door. They were looking at the peephole. At me.

He smiled.

"You left this in your car," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm.

I backed away. My phone buzzed again.

"Don't open the door. He's not here for the wallet."

I looked at the screen. The message was from my own number.

I looked back at the peephole.

The man was gone.

But the wallet was on the doorstep.

When I opened the door to grab it, I saw something inside that I hadn't noticed before.

A photograph — of me sleeping.

Taken from inside my room.

In the corner of the photo, a reflection in the mirror. The same man. Standing behind me.

And in the photo, I was smiling.

I had never seen that photograph before.

And I had never smiled like that.

I looked up at the street.

The black sedan was still there.

The engine was running.

And in the driver's seat, the same man was staring at me.

He didn't move. He just waited.

I closed the door. Locked it. Checked every window.

When I looked out again, the car was gone.

But the photograph was still in my hand.

And on the back, a message written in ink:

"You'll see me again. You already have."

Chapter 1 — The Call

Aarav lived a quiet life. The kind of life that felt like waiting. A job he didn't like. A boss who ignored him. A small apartment where the silence was louder than his thoughts.

He woke up at 5 AM. His phone was ringing.

He picked it up.

"Hello?"

A voice answered. His own voice.

"You need to go to work early today. Don't ask anyone. Just go."

Aarav froze.

"Who is this?"

"You know who I am."

He looked at the caller ID. It was his own number.

The call ended.

He sat there, staring at the screen, heart pounding. He thought it was a prank. A dream. A glitch.

But he went to work early.

His boss was waiting for him. Angry. About to fire him.

But Aarav interrupted him.

"I know what you're about to say," he said. "I know what you did. You blamed me for the mistake you made."

His boss went silent.

"How did you know?" his boss whispered.

Aarav didn't answer.

That night, he waited for the call again.

5 AM. His phone rang.

He answered.

"Who are you?"

The voice replied, calm and cold.

"I'm the only one who cares about you.
Chapter 2 coming at 1 pm today 👀

Michael hadn't slept in days. Not really. Just short bursts of nothing that left him more tired than before.

He stopped going to work. Stopped picking up calls. Sat in his apartment, staring at the walls, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing did.

But the silence felt heavier. The shadows seemed longer. He kept looking over his shoulder.

He called Alex. No answer. He left a message — short, quiet.

"I think I'm losing it."

He checked the door. Locked. The windows. Locked. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror. The handprint was still there — smeared and dry.

He didn't try to wipe it.

He didn't leave the apartment.

He sat in the corner of his room, phone in hand, staring at the dark.

Hours passed. His eyes hurt. His mind felt foggy.

He wasn't sure if he was awake anymore.

Then a notification lit up his screen.

Photo message. Unknown number.

He opened it.

It was a picture of him — sitting in that same corner, looking at the camera.

The timestamp was from two minutes ago.

He had been alone.

He looked up.

The bathroom door was open.

He hadn't opened it.

He stood up slowly. Walked toward the bathroom. Pushed the door open.

The mirror was clean — no handprint, no fog.

His reflection stared back at him.

And then it smiled.

Before he could react, his phone buzzed again.

Another message.

"You're not the only one here."
Chapter 3 coming soon

Michael lived a quiet life.

A 9-to-5 job, a rented apartment, and a silence that followed him everywhere. His parents died when he was six. His uncle raised him — and died two years ago. His last relationship ended badly. His office colleagues barely noticed him. He had one friend left — a childhood friend named Alex — and even that connection felt fragile.

At night, the silence in his apartment was the loudest thing he'd ever heard.

And then, one night, he heard something else. A soft knock. Not at the door. At the window.

He lived on the third floor.

He stood up, walked toward the curtain, and pulled it back.

No one was there. But the glass was smeared — like someone had pressed their hand against it. From the outside.

He didn't sleep that night.

The next morning, he found a note slipped under his door. No name. No address. Just a message:

"I've been watching you."

He threw it away. But the next morning, it was back — tucked under his door again. Same message. Same handwriting.

He checked his phone. No missed calls. No texts. No one knew where he lived.

He told himself it was a prank.

Then he opened his camera roll. There was a photo he didn't remember taking. It was a picture of him — sleeping in his own bed — taken from the corner of the room.

He was alone in the apartment.

But the photo was taken at 3:17 AM.

And he had been asleep.

He called Alex. No answer.

He called the police. They said they'd check the apartment.

They never showed up.

That night, he locked every door, every window, checked every corner.

After some days, at 3:17 AM, he heard a whisper from the other side of his bedroom door.

"I've been inside longer than you."
Chapter 2 coming tomorrow ✌🏻

Arthur lived with his daughter, Claire, and her husband, Daniel. He was old, tired, and lonely. Every day, he repeated the same words: "I want to go to an old age home."

At first, Claire ignored it. Then she got irritated. Finally, she gave in.

"If that's what you want, we'll take you," she said.

Daniel was the one who drove him there. He didn't look back.

The home was clean. Quiet. Too quiet.

Weeks passed. Then one night, a young nurse named Emma collapsed in the hallway. She was dead before anyone could help her.

The police arrived the next morning.

They showed Claire a CCTV footage. Arthur was standing in the kitchen corner, pouring white powder into Emma's coffee.

"That's not coffee," the officer said. "That's poison."

Claire watched her father's calm face on the screen as Emma drank it and smiled at him.

His eyes said something she had never seen before. Not sadness. Not kindness. Satisfaction.

The camera caught the last moments before Emma fell. She looked at Arthur with fear in her eyes.

He didn't move. He just stood there, watching.

The officer handed Claire a note found in Arthur's room.

"I never wanted the home. I wanted the silence."

The house they grew up in never felt the same again.

And every night, Claire woke up to the sound of her father's spoon stirring a cup of coffee.

Even though he was locked in a cell.

---

Chapter 2 coming soon

Six friends. One chalet. One killer.

We rented a chalet in the Swiss Alps — a white coffin buried in snow, miles from the nearest village. It was supposed to be a reunion. But the moment we arrived, we knew something was wrong. The door was unlocked. The fire was lit. And on the table, a single note: "Welcome back. I've been waiting."

We laughed it off. Until we found the photographs — pictures of us, taken from inside the chalet, hours before we arrived.

None of us had been here.

The doors locked from the outside. And the snow kept falling. Part 2 coming soon

We heard the knock again. Coming from the basement.

Arjun was the first to move. He took the knife, unlocked the basement door, and walked down the stairs. The light flickered. His footsteps stopped.

Then silence.

Maya called his name. No answer.

We heard footsteps coming back up.

Arjun stood at the top of the stairs. His hands were clean. His face was calm.

"Someone is down there," he said. "But they're not coming up."

He sat down by the fire, the knife still in his hand. He didn't say anything else.

We wanted to run. But the basement door was still open.

Then I heard a sound. Not from the basement. From behind me.

I turned around.

Ria was standing at the front door. It was wide open. Snow was falling inside.

She was holding Vikram's phone — the one he was holding when he died.

"He called me," she said softly. "Before he died. He said — it's one of us."

We all turned to look at each other.

Maya stepped back. Arjun froze. Ria didn't move.

Then she smiled.

"It's always been me."

"I just wanted to see how long it would take you to figure it out."

She moved fast — faster than we could react. Maya fell first. Arjun tried to fight, but he was too slow.

I ran. I didn't look back.

When I reached the forest edge, I stopped and turned around.

Ria was standing at the cabin door, watching me leave.

She didn't chase me.

She just smiled.

And raised her hand to wave.

---

THE END

We found the second body at dawn. Vikram was still holding his phone — the screen cracked, but the call was still connected. On the other end, silence. And then a whisper: "You're next."

We moved him to the basement. No one spoke. Snow kept falling.

The fire had died down. We were just sitting in the dark.

I looked at Maya. She was still staring at the floor, like she was counting something in her head. Arjun had his back to the wall, holding that knife. Ria hadn't spoken — not a word since we found Vikram.

No one was crying. We were too tired for that.

Then I saw it. A photograph, lying on the table. Face down.

I picked it up.

It was all of us — inside the chalet, laughing, eating. The photo was taken from outside, through the window.

But we hadn't been here when it was taken.

We had just arrived.

No one had taken that photo.

I looked around the room. Maya was watching me. Arjun's grip tightened. Ria had her eyes closed.

And then I heard it. A knock. From downstairs.

The basement door was still locked.

But something was in there.

Knocking. Waiting. And I knew — the thing in the basement wasn't one of us.
Part 3 coming out at 8:10 today

I found a door in my grandmother's house that no one else remembered.

It wasn't there when I was a kid. But after she passed, and I inherited the place, I noticed a crack in the wall of the study — a faint outline of a doorframe, like someone had plastered it over and hoped no one would notice. Behind the wall, I found it. A room. No windows, no furniture, just a single photograph on the floor.

The photo was black and white. A woman — my grandmother — stood beside a man whose face was burned out. On the back, in faded ink, a date: March 11, 1984. And a warning: "Never speak of him again."

I asked my mother about it. She went pale. She told me my grandmother had a brother who vanished before she was born. He was found dead in a locked room, with his mouth sewn shut, and a single word carved into the wall.

My mother never told me the word.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I went back to the room. The photograph had moved. The man's face was no longer burned out — it was mine.

I looked at the date again.

It was tomorrow.

Six friends. One chalet. One killer.

We rented a chalet in the Swiss Alps — a white coffin buried in snow, miles from the nearest village. It was supposed to be a reunion. But the moment we arrived, we knew something was wrong. The door was unlocked. The fire was lit. And on the table, a single note: "Welcome back. I've been waiting."

We laughed it off. Until we found the photographs — pictures of us, taken from inside the chalet, hours before we arrived.

None of us had been here.

The doors locked from the outside. And the snow kept falling. Part 2 coming soon

Five friends spend the night in an abandoned forest cabin despite local warnings. As midnight strikes, a masked killer silently hunts them one by one. Every escape route is blocked, and trust turns into fear. By dawn, only one survivor remains, covered in blood but alive. When the police arrive, the killer is gone—leaving only a blood-stained mask hanging on the cabin door.