🎬 Жанр: Horror (ориентир — Youtube Channel Mr. Nightmare)
💡 Формат и визуальный стиль - Стоковые Видео + Сгенерированные АИ Кадры
Смена слайдов/видео каждые 15–40 секунд.
На каждом слайде должно быть движение ( приближение, отдаление и тд)
🔊 Звук и атмосфера
Фоновый звук в хоррор-стиле, меняется каждые 30 секунд - 2 минуты в зависимости от сюжета.
Добавляйте звуковые эффекты (шорох, шаги, стук и т.д.) — они должні логично вписываться в происходящее.
🗣 Озвучка Используйте голос Dallin – Storyteller (v3) на elevenlabs.io
(допустимо v2, если нет подписки). Субтитры не нужны.
🖼 Визуалы Для генерации изображений мы используем Leonardo AI + Chat GPT, но для тестового задания можно применять любые AI и любые ресурсы со стоковыми видео
Посмотрите для вдохновения: 👉 Mr. Nightmare — YouTube
Людей не показываем, только как темные силуэты где нужно
TRUE Stalker Horror Stories
История 1
I want to start by saying I’m not the paranoid type. I’ve lived alone for years, and I’m one of those people who actually enjoys peace and quiet. I work in IT, which means most days I’m either staring at a screen or commuting home half-asleep. My life was about as boring as it gets — until I moved into that apartment complex on Maple Ridge.
It was a quiet building just outside Columbus — mostly retirees, a few young couples, and me. I rented a second-floor corner unit with a view of the street. It wasn’t fancy, but it had big windows, decent Wi-Fi, and I could finally afford it without roommates.
The woman who lived across the hall was named Rachel.
I met her my second day there. She knocked on my door holding a basket of muffins, the kind of neighborly thing people do in small towns but not so much in cities. She said she’d lived there for a few years and wanted to “welcome me to the floor.”
She was in her mid-thirties, quiet voice, short blonde hair. Normal enough.
We chatted a few minutes. She asked where I worked, how I liked the building, if I lived alone. I figured she was just being friendly.
But that first week, I noticed something odd. Every time I came home — no matter what time — I’d hear her door click open across the hall. She’d peek out, smile, wave, sometimes say “Evening, neighbor.”
At first, it felt kind of nice. Like someone was looking out for me. But after a while, it started to feel like she was waiting for me.
One night, I came home late — like, 1 a.m. — and sure enough, I heard that door open. She stepped out in her robe and said, “Rough day?”
It was the way she said it — not sleepy, not surprised. Like she’d been standing there, awake, waiting for the sound of my key in the lock.
That’s when it started to creep me out.
The next week, I noticed little things that didn’t make sense. My welcome mat was turned sideways one morning. A coffee mug I left in the sink had been moved. I started second-guessing myself, thinking maybe I just forgot, maybe I was being careless.
Then one day, I came home from work to find a note taped to my door. It said:
“You should really close your blinds before you go to bed.”
It wasn’t signed.
My stomach dropped. I looked across the hall — Rachel’s blinds were shut tight. I stood there for a full minute before going inside. I checked every window, every lock. Everything looked normal, but I couldn’t shake that crawling feeling under my skin.
I texted my buddy Mark, told him about it. He joked, “Congrats, you’ve got your own personal security guard.”
Not funny.
A few nights later, I woke up around 3 a.m. to this faint buzzing sound. It was coming from the living room — my phone vibrating on the coffee table. I checked, but there were no notifications. That’s when I realized the sound wasn’t from my phone. It was from my intercom.
Someone was buzzing my apartment from the front entrance.
I hesitated, walked over, and pressed the speaker button. “Hello?”
Silence.
I was about to hang up when a woman’s voice said, “You left your lights on again.”
I froze. “Who is this?”
“You shouldn’t leave them on,” she said again.
I slammed the receiver down, heart pounding. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
The next morning, I went downstairs and asked the building manager if the cameras in the lobby worked. He said they did, but when he pulled up the footage from around 3 a.m., there was nothing. No one had entered the building.
I didn’t know what to think. Maybe someone already inside had pressed the buzzer.
Later that day, I ran into Rachel in the hallway. She smiled like nothing happened and said, “You look tired.”
I didn’t say a word.
From that point on, I kept my blinds closed 24/7. I started locking my bedroom door at night too.
A few days later, I was working from home when I heard knocking. Not on my door — on my wall. Three slow, deliberate knocks.
I turned off my headphones and listened. Knock. Knock. Knock.
It was coming from the shared wall between my apartment and Rachel’s.
I finally said, “Rachel?”
Nothing.
Then I heard her voice, muffled but clear: “I can hear you typing.”
I didn’t respond. I sat there, staring at the wall, every hair on my body standing up.
That night, I barely slept. I kept my laptop camera covered, my phone face down.
The next morning, I found another note taped to my door. This one said:
“You shouldn’t ignore people who care about you.”
I was done. I went straight to the manager again. He said he’d talk to her, maybe warn her about harassment.
When I came home that evening, the hallway was silent. Her door was closed. I figured maybe he’d actually talked to her. I was wrong.
That night around midnight, my smoke alarm went off. I ran into the kitchen, but there was no smoke, no fire. I pulled the alarm off the wall — the battery had been ripped out.
Someone had triggered it from the hallway.
When I opened the door, the lights in the hall were flickering. And there she was — Rachel — standing barefoot in front of my door.
Her eyes looked wild, unfocused. She said, “I thought I heard screaming.”
I said, “You need to leave,” and shut the door on her. She didn’t knock again, but I heard her whisper something through the door — I couldn’t make out the words, but I caught the last part:
“... don’t leave me alone again.”
I barely slept.
The next morning, I called the police. They came, took a report, and told me to stay somewhere else for a few nights. So I went to Mark’s place.
That night, I got an email from my home security camera — motion detected in my apartment.
When I checked the footage, my heart stopped.
It showed Rachel. She had somehow gotten inside. She was sitting on my couch, looking straight into the camera — not smiling, just staring. Then she reached up and covered the lens.
The police arrested her that same night. Turns out she had a spare key from a previous tenant who never changed the locks. She admitted to “checking on me” when she thought I was out, said she just wanted to make sure I was safe.
But that’s not even the worst part.
When they searched her apartment, they found a binder full of notes about me — the times I came home, what I ate, what shows I watched. There were printed screenshots of my social media, pictures of me through my window, and even a small flash drive labeled with my name.
It had videos.
Footage from inside my apartment.
She’d planted a small camera in my smoke alarm. That’s how she knew when my lights were on.
I moved out the next day. I’ve changed apartments twice since then, changed my number, deleted all my accounts.
But sometimes, I still get this feeling — like someone knows exactly when I walk through my front door.
A few months ago, I came home from work and found a note slipped under my rug. No handwriting this time — just printed words on plain paper.
“Glad to see you’re keeping your blinds closed now.”
I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again.
История 2
I was in the sixth grade when this happened. This all started on the week of Halloween when I would stay after school to help decorate a haunted house for my school's Halloween carnival. I often got to stay and fool around with some of my friends while getting rewarded with pizza for helping decorate.
Along with my friends there was also this other kid who would stay late — I'll call him Chris. We had gotten along for the entirety of the time that we would stay after school, and he never once gave me any reason to feel uneasy around him. He was genuinely a funny and cool kid.
But anyway, fast forward two weeks. I was suddenly approached by a group of girls in my grade who were all excited and had wide grins on their faces. I asked them what was going on, only for them to tell me that I had a secret admirer and that he would be texting me tonight.
Now, I'd be lying to you if I told you that I wasn't excited — or at the very least curious about this. I wanted to know who. Later that night, when I was about to go to sleep, I got a notification from Messenger. It was the only app I had at the time that I always used to communicate with my parents whenever I was home alone. The message was from Chris. I had completely forgotten that I added him on Facebook on Halloween.
I opened the message and it read: “Maya, I need to talk to you.” I was concerned and quickly replied, “Yeah, what's going on? Everything okay?” To this day I wish I hadn't replied. The typing bubbles appeared and stayed there for a good two minutes, which meant that he was still typing. It felt like forever until his message finally came through.
I didn't expect what came next. In a long paragraph he confessed his love for me and how I’d been driving him crazy since Halloween. He also proceeded to explain how he tried to impress me during recess and with his soccer skills but that I never seemed to notice him. He said that he was growing tired of being ignored, and it ended with: “I want you to notice me, so I guess what I'm trying to say is... will you be my girlfriend?”
I cringed at every word. I stared at the message for a long time — what the hell? I barely even know this kid, and I drifted apart from him a long time ago. I was trying to come up with a way to let him down easily as I didn't want to hurt his feelings. I told him I didn't like him like that and that I wanted to just be friends.
I could tell right away that he didn't like this answer. He kept asking me why, and I had to come up with a reason each time until he eventually stopped answering. The next morning was a nightmare for me. Some of his friends kept coming up to me and telling me that Chris wanted to kiss me, which he told the entire grade he wanted to do — and that he would do it even if it meant cornering me.
Taking this as a threat, I decided to tell my teacher. She told me to stay inside during recess and lunch, and that if he ever got even close to me, to run right back to the classroom. This wasn't enough for me. I reported him to the principal, who told me he would do something right away, and this gave me some relief.
I feel I should mention that I lived right across the street from my school — and everyone knew this, including Chris. Which leads me to what happened next. Later on in the week, I was walking home from school. I hadn't even been inside my house for more than two minutes before I heard someone knocking on my front door.
I peeked out the window just in time to see someone ducking behind a parked car across the street. It had to be Chris. He must have been following me. My mom opened the door to find a piece of paper on the floor and, not surprisingly, it was addressed to me. I read the note out loud and it said there was a surprise waiting for me under the Cadillac in my driveway — which at the time belonged to my brother.
My mom went to check, only to find nothing. But it was after this day my brother's Cadillac stopped working. I still have no idea what Chris did to the car, but my brother was forced to sell it.
Unfortunately, my nightmare doesn't end there. I was constantly harassed by Chris's friends telling me to give him a chance and that he would treat me right. There was even a moment when I caught Chris taking a picture of me walking home, and the only reason I saw him was because I barely heard the sound of an iPhone camera behind me. Who knows how many photos of me he had on his phone.
Every morning I woke up to a message from him with something along the lines of: “I can't wait to see you at school,” or “I bet you'll look beautiful today.” The harassment and stalking were only getting worse, and it was making me fear for my safety — especially now that he knew where I lived.
Finally, I got a call into the counselor's office, and I felt relieved — expecting her to tell me that Chris was going to get in trouble, or that the cops would get involved, anything. Instead, what I heard was worse. The counselor proceeded to tell me that “boys will be boys,” that they do crazy things when they're in love, and that I shouldn't be mad about this.
She told me I should feel flattered, as this kind of stuff was bound to happen, and that the only thing I could do was to accept it and learn from it. At the time, I didn't see the problem with her words, as I genuinely believed her. But looking back on it now, this was an insane and disturbing thing to say to a sixth grader who was being sexually harassed and who was fearing for her safety almost every day.
That afternoon I came home from school telling my mom everything the counselor told me — and she was rightfully furious. I was called to the principal's office again that same week, this time with my mom present. I remember very clearly my mom telling the counselor and principal: “What are you waiting for? For something bad to happen to her before you do something?”
She continued to ask why it was taking so long for something to be done. They both stayed silent. My mom ended it by threatening the counselor and telling her to never speak to me again unless she was present. But unfortunately, I don't think the school ever did punish Chris — which to this day enrages me. He basically got away with everything.
It doesn't even end there. One night during the weekend when my parents had gone shopping, I was about to go to bed after watching a YouTube video on my iPad when I heard something at my window. Now, I'm on the second floor, so this was especially strange. The only thing that hits my window are birds accidentally flying into it.
I sat up, listening. Then it happened again. It sounded as if someone had thrown something at the glass. Then it happened again. And again. They were consistent thuds and it was starting to freak me out. I finally got the courage to get up from my bed and see what it was.
My heart dropped into my stomach when I opened the curtain and looked down to see Chris holding a handful of rocks, looking up at my window. He somehow had managed to figure out which window was mine. He was about to throw another when he noticed me. I could ever so slightly see that he was saying something, but I didn't stop to see what.
I remember going to see if every window and door was locked — and thankfully everything was. When I returned to my room, I received four messages from Chris:
“Why did you leave?”
“I just want to talk.”
“I'm sorry, all I wanted was a kiss.”
“Please forgive me, you are not who I thought you were. Bye.”
I blocked him after that. Thankfully I never had another incident, even though I had to see him throughout the entirety of my school years from sixth grade to senior year. The last thing I heard about him was that he was arrested — God only knows for what.
The saddest and scariest part of my story, though, is the fact that a counselor was comfortable with telling me that this kind of behavior was a compliment and a learning experience for me as a girl. I just hope that woman no longer works with children — and that I never have to see Chris again.
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