The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house. The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing. Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed. Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft. She had nailed it shut last week. She had bolted it the day before yesterday. She had prayed over it last night. Nothing worked. From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand. Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house. The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing. Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed. Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft. She had nailed it shut last week. She had bolted it the day before yesterday. She had prayed over it last night. Nothing worked. From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand. Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
Warming up the keys
.
.
.
*Banned in Russia, owned by Meta
EN
layout and design of the project:
Ekaterina Safonova
Ekaterina Safonova
Fear printed on paper. Someone who made nightmares part of pop culture. In his books, it’s not the monster that’s scary — it’s that the monster is just like us
Stephen King
King of Horror
Stephen King
before King
BOOCKS
"By the time I turned fourteen, the nail in my wall could no longer support the weight of the rejection slips pounded on it"
Before Stephen King’s name became world famous, he was a simple English teacher living in a trailer and working nights at a laundromat. He survived over 30 rejections from publishers and magazines. The wall in his trailer was hung with rejection letters nailed
His first manuscript, Carrie, was thrown in the trash. He didn’t believe anyone would want to read about a strange girl with telekinetic powers
But his wife, Tabitha, pulled the manuscript and talked him into finishing the book. In 1974, "Carrie" was published and brought King a fee of 200 thousand dollars
30 rejections from publishers and journals
the first manuscript, "Carrie," was thrown in the trash
The Shining, 1977
The Shining
A closed hotel, a little boy with a gift and his father’s slow madness. Psychosis, isolation and fear of being himself
A closed hotel, a little boy with a gift and his father’s slow madness. Psychosis, isolation and fear of being himself
The twins from The Shining are one of the most sinister and memorable images in movie history
Carrie, 1974
Carrie
The actress refused understudies and starred in all scenes, even with pyrotechnics and indoors, without removing the bloody makeup
Margaret White speaks exclusively in pseudo-biblical phrases. Her scenes are one of the creepiest elements of the movie
A story of loneliness, violence and revenge. Carrie is an outcast at school who finds the strength to literally destroy the entire world
It, 1986
It
Pennywise the Clown is a symbol of horror. But "It" is not just a monster. It’s a childhood fear that haunts us into adulthood
Pennywise is only one form of it. It’s actually an ancient cosmic being that reflects the fear of everyone
King wanted to create a modern mythology and thought: what if the troll from the fairy tale hides not under a bridge, but in the sewers?
King’s writing isn’t just about horror. It’s about life, the fear of loss, the fear of being nothing
but by discipline
A writer not
by inspiration
Stephen King Stephen King writes 10 pages every day without a break and regardless of the day of the week
King likes to have no distractions when he’s writing, and suggests that aspiring writers do the same. If there’s a window, pull back the curtain; if there’s a phone, get rid of it while you’re writing
King likes to take examples from his own life and develop them further to find horror. His novel "The Pet Clutch" is based on real events that King encountered. He lived in a house next to a dangerous road, and he had to stop his child from running out into the roadway. He used this experience as inspiration
He doesn’t believe in the muse, only in labor
Stephen King doesn't scare you with screamers. He scares you with what you already know
Fear the
silence before
the dark
«You can, you must, and if you have the courage to start, you will»
He often writes about small towns where the darkest things lurk
He uses childhood fears — loneliness, judgment, hopelessness
Real fear doesn’t shout. It whispers — again and again, until you listen
He takes the ordinary — a car, a dog, an old hotel — and makes them scary
Stephen King is the writer who always kept going
His story is a reminder to anyone who feels lost. He was poor, desperate, addicted — and yet he kept on writing
Today, Stephen King is the author of more than 60 novels, 200 short stories, and dozens of screen adaptations. He shows us not only how to be afraid — but how not to give up, even if your story is in the trash right now
He started
— that’s why everyone knows his name
Contacts
“The scariest moment always comes just before the beginning”
BEHANCE
BEHANCE
INST*
INST*
layout and design of the project:
Ekaterina Safonova
Ekaterina Safonova
2025
Images and materials are used for non-commercial/educational purposes only. All rights belong to their authors
*Banned in Russia, owned by Meta
Nonprofit project as part of @citadel.study
"We make up horrors to help ourselves cope with the real ones"
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house. The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing. Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed. Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft. She had nailed it shut last week. She had bolted it the day before yesterday. She had prayed over it last night. Nothing worked. From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand. Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house. The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing. Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed. Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft. She had nailed it shut last week. She had bolted it the day before yesterday. She had prayed over it last night. Nothing worked. From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand. Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
