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El catálogo completo de lugares aprobados. Ordénalo por valoración, novedad o debate, y acótalo por categoría.
24 lugares
The Black Hand and the Red Spot
Two stories from the same body, usually told back to back: the black hand that reaches out from under the bed or out of the wall, and the red spot on the ceiling that grows every night until it swallows the people living there. Both work the same way — the threat comes not from outside but from the flat itself, from the furniture and the walls, which is the one place a child cannot get away from. Folklorists have recorded them in many variants across the Soviet Union since the 1960s, and they remain the most durable layer of children's urban folklore.
The Queen of Spades: calling her in the mirror
A Soviet children's ritual: in a dark bathroom you draw a staircase on the mirror in lipstick, light candles and call the Queen of Spades three times. If she comes she may grant a wish or she may strangle you — there are as many endings as there were courtyards where children played it. A direct relative of the English-speaking Bloody Mary and a dozen similar rites worldwide: always a mirror, darkness and a threefold call. The mechanism is the same everywhere because the job is the same — to turn fear into a game with rules.
The Red Film
A late-Soviet legend: somewhere there is a special photographic film on which people come out undressed. It was usually attributed to a foreigner, a Japanese or a German, who asked to be photographed in front of a monument and then left with the film. The story rested on two things at once — on scarcity, under which any imported object was credited with impossible properties, and on adolescent curiosity, which had no other outlet in the country. No such film ever existed, of course.
The Coffin on Wheels
The best-known Soviet children's horror story, told in pioneer camps after lights-out. A voice on the radio announces that the coffin on wheels has set off and is coming down the street, then into the yard, then up the stairs; the floors are counted aloud, and on the last line the teller grabs whoever is next to them. The device is purely theatrical — the whole structure exists for one second at the end, and the fear is generated not by the plot but by the countdown. The pin is at Artek as the country's most famous camp, but it was told everywhere.
The Black Volga
A black car with no plates, sometimes with white curtains or red tyres, that drives around the city taking children. The legend circulated across the Eastern Bloc from the 1960s to the 1980s — in the USSR, Poland, East Germany, Hungary — and in each country somebody different was behind the wheel: state security, priests, foreigners, vampires. The Volga itself was not chosen at random: an official car, unavailable to an ordinary person, and therefore the country's most recognisable symbol of an authority you cannot hail.
The Quiet House
The central legend of the Russian-speaking internet: the network supposedly has a floor, and standing on that floor is the Quiet House — a point where a person learns everything and stops existing. A whole pastime grew up around it, netstalking: hunting for the network's "deep levels" through random addresses, fragments of video and strings of digits. The text that started the mass spread, "The Quiet House and 49406", was posted on the 4stor forum in 2013. Not one confirmed "level" has been produced in years of searching — which does the legend no harm at all: its subject is by definition impossible to show.
The Rake
A hairless creature on four limbs, sitting beside a sleeping person's bed. It appeared around 2005 as a collaborative forum project: several users agreed to invent a monster and supply it with "historical evidence" — extracts from a 1691 ship's log, Spanish chronicles, diaries. Every document is fictional and was written the same evening. The case is interesting as a rare documented example of folklore being manufactured deliberately and from nothing.
Smile Dog
One of the first internet horror stories built around a file rather than a text. It appeared around 2008: a journalist visits a woman to ask about a picture called smile.jpg that drives mad everyone who sees it; the woman refuses to talk and eventually sends the file. The trick is that the file does not exist — every "original" circulating online appeared after the story did. The reader has to imagine the image, and imagination does the job better than any drawing.
The Dybbuk Box
A wine cabinet listed on eBay in 2003 with a long description: supposedly it had belonged to a Holocaust survivor and contained a possessing spirit from Jewish folklore. The lot was resold repeatedly, each owner adding fresh misfortunes to the listing, the auction spread across the internet and eventually became a Hollywood film. In 2021 the original seller, the writer Kevin Mannis, publicly acknowledged that the whole thing was fiction he had written — a literary project that accidentally became a modern legend.
The Russian Sleep Experiment
A text that first appeared online around 2010: five prisoners, a sealed chamber, a gas that prevents sleep, fifteen days of observation and what they become by the end of it. It is presented as a declassified report from a Soviet laboratory in the 1940s. No laboratory, no report and no mention of any of it exists before 2010, and the photograph that travels with the text is an animatronic mask sold in Halloween shops. The story spread so widely that it still resurfaces regularly as a "declassified document".
Lavender Town Syndrome
The legend says that in the Japanese release of Pokémon Red and Green in 1996 the music of the graveyard town carried high frequencies that gave children headaches and worse, and that the score was rewritten after a wave of complaints. Only one part of it checks out: the Japanese version does sound different from the international one — but the music was reworked for release abroad for ordinary technical reasons. No medical records, no cases, no names. The story appeared online a decade and a half after the game did.
Herobrine
A character that was never in the game. In 2010 an anonymous user posted a Minecraft screenshot of a player figure with no pupils standing in fog, and a story that it was the creator's brother. The rumour outlived every denial: for years players sent in evidence — squares of felled forest, sand pyramids, tunnels nobody built — and the developers eventually took to adding "Removed Herobrine" to their patch notes as a joke, though there was nothing to remove. His code has never existed in any version of the game.
Ted the Caver
One of the earliest examples of the form, and possibly the first that really worked. In 2001 a diary appeared on the free host Angelfire: a man and a friend clearing a narrow side passage in a cave. The entries are matter-of-fact, with photographs and measurements, page after page; the tone shifts slowly over several weeks, and the disaster arrives well after the reader has stopped expecting one. It works because until the very end it does not look like a story — it looks like somebody's abandoned website.
Candle Cove
Kris Straub's 2009 story, written entirely as a forum thread: several people reminisce about a children's puppet show a local station ran in the late sixties. The memories agree on the details, then get worse, and in the last post one participant's mother says there was no programme — the television showed static in those hours, and the child sat watching it. The form matters more than the plot: the text does not pretend to be a story, it pretends to be somebody else's conversation.
Slender Man
Invented in June 2009 by Eric Knudsen, posting as Victor Surge, for a photo-manipulation contest on the Something Awful forums: two black-and-white photographs of children with a tall thin figure in a suit added to them, and a couple of lines of caption attributed to witnesses who did not exist. The brief was to make an image look paranormal. Three years later Slender Man was living on his own — hundreds of stories, games and web series the author had nothing to do with. One of the first cases of internet folklore outgrowing any source it came from. The legend has no geography of its own: the pin sits in Pleasant Hill, Missouri, where the forum itself was run from.
Polybius: the arcade cabinet that never was
The story says that in 1981 a cabinet called Polybius appeared in the arcades of Portland, Oregon: no manufacturer's name on it, no usual queue — only children who afterwards suffered insomnia, seizures and gaps in their memory, and men in black who came to take readings off the machine. Not one photograph, not one board and not one document exists. The earliest written trace dates not from 1981 but from 2000, a post on an arcade collectors' site written almost twenty years after the "events".
SCP-173: the Foundation's first file
On 22 June 2007 an anonymous user posted a short text to 4chan in the form of a containment report: an object of concrete and rebar that cannot move while it is being looked at, and kills the instant you blink. The entry came with a photograph of Untitled 2004 by the Japanese artist Izumi Katō, used without asking. That single post grew into the SCP Foundation, a collaborative universe of thousands of documents written over years by thousands of people. The illustration was replaced in 2022: the artist had never given permission.
Momo: the sculpture that became a panic
The face that frightened half the world in 2018 and 2019 was never a character. It is Mother Bird, a sculpture by the Japanese artist Keisuke Aisawa of Link Factory, made in the summer of 2016 and exhibited at the Vanilla Gallery in Tokyo. In July 2018 a photograph of it was used in a YouTube video, from there it spread through messaging apps, and by 2019 it had grown into an international panic about a non-existent "challenge" supposedly pushing children towards dangerous tasks. Police forces and child-protection bodies in several countries stated publicly that no confirmed cases were found. The sculpture itself was destroyed by its maker.
The Backrooms: where the photograph was actually taken
The internet's most famous nowhere turned out to be the second floor of a furniture shop in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. The photograph of a yellow corridor under humming strip lights was posted to 4chan on 12 May 2019 in answer to a request for images that felt "a bit off", and the caption underneath it grew into thousands of stories, games and videos about endless empty rooms you fall into by taking a wrong turn. In 2024 internet researchers traced the picture to its source: a 2003 photograph of renovation work on the upper floor of the former Rohner's furniture store, taken for a local hobby shop's website. The building is still standing at 807 Oregon Street, and there is a model shop in it today.
Country Road Creature
Another of Henderson's: a gaunt figure the height of a telegraph pole, caught apparently by accident through a car window on an empty road between fields. Nothing is formally known about it — no habits, no origin, no name beyond the descriptive one. That is the device: the caption under the picture is shorter than a caption normally is, and the rest is left to you.
Bridge Worm
Henderson posted it on 14 August 2019. A long segmented body, apparently assembled from human skulls and vertebrae, wound around the underside of a bridge span. The mechanism is the one all his work uses: the creature does not chase and does not attack, it is simply already there — under a structure you drive over daily and have never once looked beneath.
Long Horse
A rare thing in Henderson's bestiary: a creature that means no harm. A horse's skull on a neck tens of metres long, hanging down from somewhere above. In the mythology that accumulated around it online, Long Horse warns of danger — its appearance is a sign rather than a threat, and the only thing that hurts is the sound it makes, which it cannot help. Of the whole late-2010s internet menagerie it is the one that grew the friendliest fandom.
Cartoon Cat
Henderson drew it in August 2018, days after Siren Head. The creature is done in the visual language of 1930s American animation — rubber-hose limbs, saucer eyes, a permanent grin — but stands two storeys tall and has teeth a cartoon cat should not have. The trick is a single one and it works every time: take an idiom an entire generation associates with safety and childhood, and scale it up until it stops being funny.
Siren Head
A forty-foot figure of rusted metal with two loudspeakers where a head should be. The Canadian illustrator Trevor Henderson posted the first drawing in August 2018 and nothing happened for a year and a half — by his own account it got a couple of likes and was forgotten. It went off in the spring of 2020, when a clip of the thing towering over a city spread everywhere, and within four months it was the most recognisable monster on the internet. Its voice is playback: air-raid sirens, fragments of other people's conversations, calls for help.