5 Trending Real Horror Stories 2024

1. The Haunting of Silverpine Creek, USA

Contributor: Sarah Jenkins, reporter from Ashland, Oregon

Silverpine Creek is not your average small town. Nestled deep within the Oregon wilderness, it’s surrounded by towering pine trees that seem to stretch endlessly into the foggy horizon. I’d heard of the village through an old colleague who mentioned its eerie reputation, particularly regarding the “Witch of the Fog,” a figure locals referred to with hushed voices. The journalist in me couldn’t resist investigating the tales firsthand. I figured, how scary could it really be?

Arriving in the late afternoon, I immediately felt a sense of unease. The fog was unlike anything I’d experienced before—it wasn’t just a weather phenomenon; it was an entity, clinging to every surface, muffling sounds, and obscuring sightlines. My destination was an inn run by Mrs. Leland, an elderly woman with kind eyes but a wary demeanor. As she handed me my room key, she gave me a stern warning: “Don’t wander outside after sunset. The fog doesn’t like strangers.” I laughed nervously, unsure if she was serious.

That evening, I ventured into the heart of the village. Its charm was undeniable, with quaint wooden buildings and cobblestone streets, but it felt abandoned, almost as if the town were holding its breath. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the fog thickened. My footsteps echoed eerily, and I could no longer see the inn’s warm lights behind me.

That’s when I heard it—the faint sound of whispering. At first, I thought it might be the wind rustling through the trees, but as I stood still, the voices became clearer. They weren’t speaking English; it sounded ancient, guttural, like a chant. My skin prickled, and I felt an undeniable urge to run.

I turned a corner and froze. Standing in the distance was a shadowy figure, its outline barely visible through the fog. It wasn’t moving, but I could feel its gaze fixed on me. My heart pounded as I forced myself to look away and take slow, deliberate steps back toward the inn. When I glanced over my shoulder, the figure was gone, but the whispers were louder, surrounding me like a sinister embrace.

Back at the inn, Mrs. Leland noticed my pale complexion. “You saw her, didn’t you?” she asked knowingly. She explained that the “Witch of the Fog,” or Korana, was believed to be the restless spirit of a healer wronged by the village centuries ago. Legend had it that she cursed the land, ensuring no stranger could ever leave unscathed.

That night, I struggled to sleep. My dreams were plagued by visions of Korana—her hollow eyes, her outstretched hand, and the fog curling around her like a shroud. At one point, I woke abruptly to find my window covered in condensation, as if someone—or something—had been breathing against it from the outside.

The next morning, desperate to make sense of my experience, I spoke to a few locals. One elderly man named Thomas claimed he’d seen the witch when he was a boy. “She’s not evil,” he insisted, “but she protects the forest fiercely. If she showed herself to you, it means you disturbed something sacred.”

Determined to uncover the truth, I ventured back into the woods during daylight. I stumbled upon a circle of ancient stones covered in moss, arranged like a ritual site. The air here was colder, and the silence was oppressive. As I examined the stones, a sudden gust of wind carried the faint sound of Korana’s chant again. It was as if the forest itself were warning me to leave.

I returned to the inn, packed my belongings, and left Silverpine Creek without looking back. Yet, the experience lingers. Sometimes, in the quiet moments before sleep, I hear her voice in my mind, chanting her strange, haunting melody. I don’t know if Korana was protecting the land or warning me of something darker, but I do know one thing—I’ll never set foot in that village again.

2. The Shadow in the Japanese Inn

Contributor: Kenji Nakamura, Osaka, Japan

It all started as a simple travel blog project. I was supposed to spend a weekend at Kage no Yado, a centuries-old inn located deep in Japan’s countryside. Known for its stunning traditional architecture and its rather unsettling reputation, the inn was a hot topic among enthusiasts of folklore and the supernatural. As someone who prides himself on being rational, I was more intrigued than frightened. I wasn’t prepared for what awaited me.

The inn was beautiful, with sliding shoji doors, tatami mats, and wooden beams that seemed to hold stories of their own. The air was crisp, and the surrounding forest was serenely quiet. But as I checked in, the elderly innkeeper gave me a peculiar warning: “Keep the room dark at night. The shadow prefers darkness.” I chuckled nervously, thinking it was part of the inn’s haunted charm to thrill guests.

The first night passed uneventfully. I was lulled to sleep by the sound of crickets and the faint rustling of leaves outside. But on the second night, strange things began to happen. I was brushing my teeth when I heard scratching sounds near my futon. It was subtle at first, like the sound of fingernails lightly dragging across wood. Thinking it might be a rodent, I approached cautiously, but when I pulled back the covers, there was nothing there.

I shook it off as paranoia and decided to read a book before sleeping. Around 2 AM, a creaking noise jolted me awake. The room was dim, lit only by the moonlight streaming through the shoji windows. And that’s when I saw it—a shadowy figure standing at the far end of the room. It was tall, with indistinct features, like a person blurred in a photograph. My heart raced as I sat frozen, unable to look away.

The figure didn’t move, but the air around it felt heavy, almost suffocating. I blinked, hoping it was a trick of my tired eyes, but when I looked again, the shadow was closer. It wasn’t walking—it was just…there, its presence pressing against me like a weight. A wave of cold washed over me as I scrambled to turn on the lights.

The room was empty.

The next morning, I told the innkeeper what I had seen. Her face grew solemn as she poured me tea. She explained that my room, in particular, had a history. Decades ago, a guest—a young woman traveling alone—disappeared without a trace. All that was found was her luggage, neatly packed, and a dark, human-shaped stain on the tatami floor. No one could explain it, but soon after, other guests began reporting sightings of a shadowy figure.

“Sometimes, it just watches,” the innkeeper said. “Other times, it tries to follow.”

That night, determined to capture proof, I set up my phone to record while I slept. I left the lights dim, hoping to provoke the shadow’s appearance. Exhaustion eventually claimed me, and I fell into a restless sleep.

The next morning, I checked the footage with trembling hands. At first, it was uneventful—just me tossing and turning. Then, at exactly 3:07 AM, the screen flickered. A faint outline appeared near the door, growing darker and more defined as it moved toward my sleeping form. The figure stood over me for what felt like an eternity before the screen went completely black.

When I woke up, I was lying in the far corner of the room, shivering. My futon had been dragged several feet from its original position, and the phone I had left on the table was on the floor, its battery drained.

I packed my things and left without breakfast, ignoring the innkeeper’s attempts to ask if I was alright. To this day, I can’t explain what I saw or experienced. I deleted the footage, afraid that keeping it might somehow tether the shadow to me. But even now, when I close my eyes in the dark, I sometimes feel its presence, lingering just out of sight.

3. The Curse of Mount Nyiragongo, Democratic Republic of Congo

Contributor: Mwamba Katana, tour guide from Goma, DRC

You’ve probably heard of Mount Nyiragongo, a volcano famous for its bubbling lava lake. It’s a place of intense natural beauty, but it’s also steeped in local folklore and superstition. As a tour guide in Goma, I’ve led many groups to the volcano, but there’s one trip I will never forget. What I witnessed there left me questioning everything I thought I knew about the world.

It was early morning in November 2024 when a group of tourists and I began our trek up Mount Nyiragongo. The sun had barely risen, casting an eerie glow on the landscape as we climbed. As we made our way up the winding paths, I began to notice something strange—whispers in the air. At first, I thought it was the wind, but the sounds were too distinct, too… human.

By midday, we reached the summit, where the lava lake lay before us, glowing with a fiery intensity. It was a sight to behold, but it was also strangely unsettling. My tourists were in awe, snapping photos and talking excitedly, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

That’s when it happened.

I heard it clearly—loud and unmistakable—a voice calling my name. “Mwamba…” I froze. The voice was familiar, yet there was something wrong about it. It sounded like someone I knew, but I couldn’t place who. I turned around, expecting to see one of my tourists, but no one was behind me.

The whispers grew louder, surrounding me like a swarm of bees. I tried to dismiss it as nerves, but then I saw him—a figure standing on the edge of the crater. He was tall, cloaked in black, his face hidden in the shadows of his hood. I couldn’t make out his features, but I knew he wasn’t a part of our group. My heart pounded, and I called out to him, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he raised his hand as if beckoning me to come closer.

I stepped back, but my legs felt like lead. The air around me seemed to thicken, and I could feel an unnatural heat radiating from the volcano. The figure’s eyes suddenly glowed red, and in that moment, I knew—I knew that he wasn’t human. Something far darker was at play here.

I turned to my group, but when I looked back, the figure was gone. The lava lake’s glow seemed even brighter, and the air around me felt suffocating. I rushed my group down the mountain, and the strange whispers followed us the entire way down.

Later, I learned from an elder in Goma that the figure I saw was the spirit of an ancient warrior, one who had been sacrificed to appease the volcano gods centuries ago. Legend says that the spirits of the sacrificed still haunt the summit, calling to those who dare disturb the volcano’s slumber. I don’t know if that’s true, but I won’t ever lead another tour to Nyiragongo after dark.

— Mwamba Katana, Goma, Democratic Republic of Congo

4. The Dark Secrets of Bali’s Sacred Forest, Indonesia

Contributor: Siti Rahayu, local guide from Ubud, Bali

Bali is known for its beauty, its temples, and its rich cultural heritage. But hidden within the island’s lush landscapes is a place where darkness resides—a place where tourists rarely tread and where the past is never truly forgotten. I’m talking about the Sacred Monkey Forest in Ubud. I’ve lived in Bali all my life, and even though I’ve walked these paths a thousand times, there’s something about that forest that chills me to my core.

In early November 2024, I took a small group of tourists on a walking tour through the forest. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was beginning to set. As we entered the forest, the air grew noticeably cooler, and the sounds of the bustling city faded into the distance. The monkeys, who are usually active and curious, seemed oddly still.

We walked deeper into the heart of the forest, passing ancient stone temples and towering trees. The quiet was almost oppressive, like the forest itself was holding its breath. As we approached one of the old temple ruins, I noticed something strange—a figure standing motionless at the temple’s entrance. He was dressed in traditional Balinese clothing, but there was something wrong about him. His eyes were wide, unblinking, and his face was too pale—almost ghostly.

I called out to him, but he didn’t move. The tourists behind me began to whisper nervously. I tried to dismiss the feeling of unease rising in my chest, but it was impossible. The figure remained, his eyes fixed on us as we approached.

Suddenly, the monkeys in the trees above us began to screech, a loud, frantic sound that echoed through the forest. I turned to my tourists, trying to calm them, but when I looked back, the figure was gone. The temple was empty.

But the sense of dread remained. We hurried out of the forest, and when we reached the edge, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was following us. The next morning, I asked an elderly woman who lives near the forest about the figure. She told me that the spirit of a Balinese priest, who had been wrongly executed for a crime he didn’t commit, haunted the area. The priest was said to have cursed the forest before his death, vowing to return and protect it from those who disrespected its sacredness.

I don’t know if what I saw was the spirit of that priest, but after that day, I’ve never felt the same about the Sacred Monkey Forest. There’s a heaviness there that I can’t explain, and I’m not sure if I want to understand it any better.

— Siti Rahayu, Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

5. The Curse of the Amazon, Brazil

Contributor: Eduardo Silva, ecotourism guide from Manaus, Brazil

The Amazon Rainforest is a place of unparalleled beauty, but it’s also a land of secrets—secrets that have been kept hidden for centuries. As a guide in the region, I’ve heard my fair share of strange tales from the locals, but nothing could have prepared me for the terror I experienced in November 2024.

I was leading a group of tourists deep into the heart of the Amazon when we came across a remote village. The villagers were wary of outsiders, and the atmosphere felt thick with superstition. Despite their warnings, we pressed on, eager to explore the wilds of the forest.

We had been hiking for hours, the air heavy with humidity, when we stumbled upon a clearing. In the center of the clearing was a large stone monument, covered in strange markings. It wasn’t something I recognized, but the tourists were fascinated. They began snapping photos, but I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

As the sun began to set, I felt the temperature drop, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The monkeys and birds that usually filled the air had fallen silent, and an eerie stillness descended upon the forest.

That’s when it happened.

From the edge of the clearing, a figure emerged—tall and gaunt, its skin pale as death. It was dressed in tattered clothes, but its face was what froze me in place. It was featureless, a blank slate, as if it had never been human at all. The figure moved slowly, its footsteps silent against the forest floor.

I called out to the group, but when I looked back, the figure was gone. The air felt colder now, and the shadows seemed to lengthen. We quickly packed up and left the clearing, but the fear had already taken root. That night, as we camped by the river, the figure returned.

I heard it first—soft whispers in the darkness, calling my name. I looked around, but no one was there. The air grew so cold that I could see my breath, even though it was the middle of the night in the middle of the Amazon. The whispers grew louder, and then I saw it—the figure standing at the edge of the campfire’s light, watching us.

We packed up and left the jungle that night, and I’ve never returned to that village since. I later learned from a local elder that the figure was the spirit of an ancient shaman, cursed for his cruelty. Legend says he still roams the forest, seeking vengeance on anyone who dares disturb the sacred grounds.

I don’t know if the spirit I saw was the shaman, but I know one thing for sure—some places in the Amazon are better left untouched.

— Eduardo Silva, Manaus, Brazil