📂Folklore Files: Are Black-Eyed Kids. A modern phenomenon, or something much, much older?
From late night knocks to ancient grave rites, the children who ask to be let in may may be more than a thousand years old.
They come at night, just as the world begins to wind down and the lights flicker on inside quiet homes. They knock. Politely, sometimes urgently. They want to come in. They seem like children—young, pale, and still. But something is off. Their clothes are old-fashioned or mismatched. Their skin is too smooth, almost waxen. Their voices lack inflection. And worst of all: their eyes are entirely black.
Stories of the Black-Eyed Kids, or BEKs, have terrified people since the late 1990s, when the internet first began to serve as a conduit for strange personal encounters. To most, they appear to be an internet-age horror, a kind of digital campfire tale. But as these stories spread, researchers and folklorists began noticing something deeply disturbing:
This isn't new. Its predates the 1990s by more then a thousand years.
Entities strikingly similar to Black-Eyed Kids have appeared in human folklore for centuries, particularly in Central and Eastern Europe. The Moroi, ancient spirits of cursed or improperly buried children, share uncanny similarities with modern BEK accounts. In some traditions, the Moroi still wander. They come to doors. They wait by windows. They drain life—and they never truly rest.
What follows is a journey from a dimly lit street in Texas to the damp, fog-choked graveyards of the Carpathians. It begins in our time. But it ends somewhere much older.
The Black-Eyed Kids: Modern Encounters
The legend of the Black-Eyed Kids begins, in popular awareness, in 1996, with a story posted by journalist Brian Bethel in Abilene, Texas. He described an encounter in which two boys, aged around 10 to 14, approached his car late at night while he was parked outside a movie theatre. They asked for a ride home.
Something about them filled him with unexplainable dread. Their behaviour was oddly formal. Their language too mature. Then, one of them looked up—and Bethel saw that the boy’s eyes were completely black, no whites, no irises. Just a glossy void.
He drove away, panicked. The encounter spread like wildfire on early internet forums. And soon, more reports followed:
1998, Oregon: A woman awoke at 2 a.m. to soft knocking on her door. Two children, a boy and girl, stood silently on her porch. They asked, monotonously, to come inside. She was terrified before even seeing their eyes. Once she did, she slammed the door and locked it.
2004, West Midlands, UK: A man reported a boy with black eyes appearing outside his caravan. He claimed the boy knocked for over an hour in the rain, never blinking.
2012, Vermont: A couple said two black-eyed kids appeared during a snowstorm. The children asked to use the phone. After reluctantly letting them in, the couple reported power outages, nosebleeds, and worsening health.
The hallmarks are consistent:
Pale skin, often described as "plastic" or "corpse-like"
Emotionless tone of voice
Outdated or mismatched clothes
Intense unease or nausea in their presence
A persistent request: to come inside
They do not force their way in. They always ask.
Older Than You Think...
Black-Eyed Kids may be much older than you realise.
The way they behave—appearing at thresholds, asking for permission, radiating unease—isn't new. Their pale faces and chilling aura echo beings from centuries-old European folklore.
In the rural stretches of Romania, Hungary, and the Balkans, tales were told of Moroi: the restless spirits of children who died unbaptised, murdered, cursed, or born under ill omens. These were not ghosts in the Western sense. They were parasitic. They lingered. They came back.
Some called them vampires. Others called them dream demons. But nearly all agreed: the Moroi were dangerous, and they often came at night.
The Moroi: Spirits of the Restless Dead
The Moroi (plural moroii) appear in Romanian and other Eastern European folklore as a kind of undead child. Their origins are grim: they were said to be the souls of babies who died before baptism, or children who were cursed in the womb. In some regions, a Moroi might also be a child born out of wedlock, a stillbirth, or a victim of infanticide.
Moroi were not simply tragic. They were feared.
They were believed to:
Feed off the living, often draining vitality, causing illness, or wasting livestock.
Appear in dreams, sapping the life force of sleepers.
Cause misfortune, including spoiled milk, sudden disease, and sleep paralysis.
Descriptions vary, but many accounts note their pale, bloated faces, dark or hollow eyes, and a tendency to appear at doors or windows. In some traditions, they cry like infants in the night to lure the living outside. Others whisper in dreams.
Villagers feared the Moroi so deeply that they developed elaborate burial rites to prevent their return. Graves were watched. Iron needles were driven through the hearts of the dead. Unbaptised children were buried face-down or with chains. And yet, sightings persisted:
1718, Transylvania: A priest recorded a case of a baby buried without baptism. Days later, villagers claimed they saw a pale, silent child walking the cemetery at night. Several villagers fell ill. The grave was exhumed, and the body was found twisted, the shroud clawed.
1793, Wallachia: A midwife reported a family tormented by nightly infant cries. Their livestock began dying. The source was believed to be the unbaptised stillborn buried nearby. A local healer performed a midnight reburial with silver coins and hawthorn branches.
The Moroi were not just spirits. They were something between worlds. And they needed something from the living.
Parallels Between the Moroi and Black-Eyed Kids
The similarities between Black-Eyed Kids and the Moroi are striking:
Threshold Phenomenon: Both appear at doors, porches, or windows, asking to be let in. In both cases, folklore says that permission must be granted.
Childlike Appearance: Moroi are often said to appear as children, usually eerily pale or emaciated. BEKs follow the same pattern.
Paralysing Dread: Witnesses of BEKs report overwhelming fear, sometimes physical illness. Moroi encounters were also linked to exhaustion, sickness, and emotional breakdown.
Drainage of Life: BEKs are said to cause nosebleeds, nightmares, or long-term misfortune. Moroi were believed to sap vitality, bring disease, or curse households.
Symbolic Eyes: The most chilling detail—the eyes. Moroi are sometimes described as having "eyes like shadows" or "hollow pits." BEKs have the infamous, soulless black eyes.
Are BEKs a modern interpretation of the Moroi myth? Or are they something older still, appearing in a new guise to match the times? The internet gave us the language to spread the BEK story—but perhaps the entity itself was always there.
Legacy and Interpretations
Sceptics call BEKs a modern folklore phenomenon, shaped by viral storytelling, the uncanny valley, and primal fears. But cultures across the world have long held stories of children who return, of spirits that ask to be let in, and of eyes that reveal a soul's absence.
Some theories suggest BEKs are manifestations of sleep paralysis. Others claim they are psychic projections or a form of modern vampire lore. But in Romanian villages, where tales of the Moroi are still whispered among the old, these entities were never fictional.
Whether Moroi or BEK, the message is the same: they want in. And once invited, they never really leave.
The Story - Black Eyed Kids
1996 – Abilene, Texas: Brian Bethel's Account
It was just after 9:30 p.m. on a warm Texas evening when journalist Brian Bethel parked outside a strip mall in Abilene, intending only to pay a bill and catch a movie. The parking lot was mostly empty, lit by tall sodium lamps casting pale orange shadows across the pavement.
He sat in his car, writing out a cheque, when he noticed two boys approaching from the direction of the nearby movie theatre. At first glance, nothing seemed particularly off—they looked to be between 10 and 14 years old. One was slightly taller than the other and wore a pullover hoodie. The shorter boy had a somewhat nervous air. Both walked with a strange, stiff gait, as though unsure how to move naturally.
As they approached the driver-side window, Brian was overcome by a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread. Not fear, exactly—something deeper, primal. His instincts screamed at him to lock the door, but he didn’t move.
The taller boy knocked on the window. Brian rolled it down just a few inches, enough to hear but not enough to allow them access. The boy spoke, and Brian immediately felt something was off.
"Hey, mister," the boy said. "We need a ride. We want to see the movie, but we left our money at home. Could you take us to our mom’s house to get it?"
His speech was curiously formal—not the way kids talked in the mid-'90s. The words were carefully chosen, almost rehearsed. And despite being in a well-lit area, Brian couldn't clearly make out their facial features. Shadows clung to their eyes.
He began to reach for the gear shift. The boy spoke again, sensing hesitation. “Come on, mister. It won’t take long. We’re just two kids. We don’t have a gun or anything.”
That’s when the alarms in Brian’s head blared. He hadn’t considered whether they might have a weapon. Why would they say that?
Then the boy looked up. Directly at him.
What Brian saw would stay with him for the rest of his life: solid black eyes. No whites. No iris. Just pure, inky darkness, as if two holes had been punched through the child’s face.
The younger boy stood silent. Still. The taller one seemed to press his advantage, his tone shifting subtly from polite to vaguely commanding.
"You must let us in. We can’t come in unless you do."
Brian’s hand shot to the gear shift. He fumbled with the keys. As he pulled out of the parking space, he glanced in the rearview mirror. The children were gone.
Vanished.
There was no place to run in that flat, empty lot. Yet they had simply disappeared. Brian sat in silence, heart pounding. The dread lingered long after he drove home.
He wrote about it later, not expecting anyone to believe him. But others did. People from across the country began to come forward with stories of strange children at their doors, their cars, their windows—always at night. Always polite. Always asking to be let in.
And always with those empty black eyes.
2013 – Vermont: The Storm Visit
It was during a blizzard in early January, deep in rural Vermont, that a middle-aged couple, who wished to remain anonymous, experienced an encounter they would later call the most terrifying night of their lives.
They lived in an isolated farmhouse, the nearest neighbour over a mile away. The snowstorm had knocked out the satellite signal and dimmed the lights more than once. They had settled in for the evening with a wood fire burning and a battery-powered radio crackling with local weather warnings.
Then came the knock.
Three slow, deliberate taps at the front door. The husband, confused, checked the clock: 2:12 a.m. No one should have been out in that storm. The snow was already waist-high on the porch.
He opened the inner door but left the storm door latched. Standing outside were two children. A boy and a girl, around 8 to 10 years old. Both wore oversized coats but no gloves, no hats, no boots—just sneakers already soaked through. Their skin was extremely pale, almost grey.
They stood perfectly still. Not shivering. Not swaying. Just... waiting.
The girl spoke first. Her voice was flat, unnervingly calm. “May we come in? Our parents will be here soon.”
The man felt the first stirrings of dread, a gut-deep instinct warning him to close the door. But his wife, peering over his shoulder, urged him to help. “They’re kids,” she whispered. “We can’t leave them out in that.”
Reluctantly, he unlatched the storm door.
The children stepped in without thanking them, walking in perfect unison. They didn’t remove their shoes or coats. They simply walked to the living room and sat silently on the couch, their heads down.
That’s when things shifted.
The fire dimmed suddenly, though the logs were still red. The room grew cold. The couple’s dog, normally calm, bolted upstairs and refused to come down.
Then, the woman noticed something: the girl’s hands were clenched tightly in her lap. Her knuckles were raw. The boy was staring directly at the husband.
“May we use the restroom?” the girl asked, though she made no move to stand.
That’s when the husband finally looked into the boy’s eyes.
They were entirely black. No white. No pupils. Just darkness.
The woman screamed. The boy blinked slowly. “Our parents are here,” he said, and stood up.
At that exact moment, the couple’s nosebleeds started. Both of them. Simultaneously. The woman staggered to the kitchen while the man rushed to grab tissues. When they turned around, the children were gone.
Outside, a black car idled at the end of the snow-covered driveway. A tall, thin man in a dark suit stood beside it. He didn’t wave. He didn’t speak. The children walked calmly to him, climbed into the back seat, and the car drove off without a sound.
In the days that followed, the couple’s health deteriorated. She developed chronic nosebleeds, migraines, and insomnia. He suffered from hallucinations, nausea, and intense anxiety. Their electricity began to fail for no reason. Their dog refused to enter the living room. And one morning, all three of their cats were gone. No signs of forced entry. No blood. No tracks in the snow.
They moved within a month.
They never opened their door at night again.
1718 – Transylvania: The Cemetery Child
In the autumn of 1718, in a small village nestled in the shadow of the Carpathian Mountains, a local priest began recording strange reports from his parishioners. The village, known then only as Valea Sângelui—the “Valley of Blood”—was already burdened by famine and illness. But what disturbed the priest most were the whispers from the cemetery keeper and grieving mothers.
It began with the burial of an unbaptised infant. The child had died during childbirth. The mother, weak from blood loss and grief, insisted the baby be given a Christian burial, though local canon law forbade it. The priest, citing custom, refused. The child was buried in the northern edge of the cemetery, where animals were also laid to rest, without rites or holy water.
Within days, the village livestock began dying.
First, the goats. Then cows, their milk turned sour in the pail. Chickens were found dead with broken necks and blood near their beaks. One child claimed he saw a “small figure with grey skin and black eyes” watching from between the headstones. The boy said it had climbed down into the grave itself when he approached.
The priest, alarmed, began a vigil at the cemetery. On the third night, just after the bell struck midnight, he claimed to hear soft weeping—like an infant’s cry—but with no clear source. The grave where the unbaptised baby had been laid was sunken in, as if something had disturbed the earth from below.
By the next morning, three more villagers had fallen ill. All complained of nightmares involving a child’s voice, and all had thin, fresh scratches across their chests. A fever swept through their homes, and every mirror in one woman’s cottage cracked on the same day.
The cemetery keeper, terrified, confessed that he had heard scratching sounds coming from the baby’s grave on multiple occasions. When questioned why he hadn’t reported it, he claimed he feared excommunication.
The priest, now convinced that a Moroi had risen, ordered an exhumation.
Witnesses present swore under oath that when the grave was opened, the shroud was torn. The infant’s tiny corpse was twisted unnaturally, as though it had writhed in pain. Dirt was packed beneath its fingernails. Most disturbingly, the mouth was full of black fluid—blood, they believed, from the livestock.
Following old practices, the priest had a hawthorn needle driven through the heart of the corpse and placed a silver coin in its mouth. A final rite was read, and the body was reburied with a chain wrapped around the coffin.
The disturbances stopped.
But for years afterward, villagers reported fleeting glimpses of a small, grey child wandering the graveyard at dusk—never crying, never speaking. Just watching.
1793 – Wallachia: The Cry Beyond the Orchard
In the summer of 1793, in the forested hills outside Craiova, a respected village midwife named Ana Cârstea made a sworn statement to the local Orthodox parish. Her testimony, later archived in clerical records, detailed a series of inexplicable and terrifying events that followed the stillbirth of a child she had delivered.
The infant had been the fifth child of the Stoica family, a humble household living at the edge of the village, beyond a small orchard and near the thick woodland. The child, a boy, was born under a rare lunar eclipse. Superstition already hung over the delivery, and when the baby emerged cold and silent, the parents—deeply religious—were too distraught to act rationally.
The local priest refused to baptise a stillborn. Out of desperation, the father buried the child alone at night, without ritual, laying him in a simple wooden box beneath a lone apple tree in their orchard. He did not mark the grave.
Three nights later, the crying began.
Every evening, as dusk fell, the Stoica family heard the unmistakable wail of a baby outside their window—coming from the direction of the orchard. At first, they believed it to be a fox or bird. But the crying grew louder each night, until it sounded as though it was coming from directly beneath the house.
Ana Cârstea, the midwife, was called in when the mother began waking with deep scratches across her stomach and chest. The woman swore she had seen her baby crawling toward her in dreams, its eyes hollow, its skin grey and flaking like old bark.
At the same time, strange afflictions began spreading: milk curdled hours after milking, food spoiled within a day, and their youngest daughter—previously healthy—fell gravely ill. Her skin grew pale, and her lips dried and cracked despite water and broth. Each morning, she awoke weaker. She whispered to Ana one day, “The baby sits on my chest at night. He wants to come inside.”
The midwife, alarmed, consulted an old herbalist and folk healer who lived in the hills. The woman instructed them to locate the grave and rebury the child with proper rites. She also warned them not to look directly into the child’s eyes should he appear.
That night, the father and midwife dug beneath the apple tree.
The coffin was there—but it was scratched from the inside. The wood was split at the corners. The baby’s body had shifted, one arm bent unnaturally over its head. Soil clung to its mouth and fingers.
Following folk tradition, Ana placed a silver coin in the child’s hand, wrapped his small form in a new linen shroud, and buried him again—this time face-down, with blessed ash spread across the grave. Hawthorn branches were placed in a circle around the tree.
The crying stopped.
The girl’s health returned within a week. The milk no longer spoiled. But the Stoica family never again harvested apples from that tree. They claimed the fruit always grew bitter.
Ana’s statement concluded with a warning: “When the child dies outside the blessing of God, he may still hunger for the warmth of the womb. He may knock on the walls of your house. He may call out for a name.”
These stories span centuries and continents, but the pattern remains: pale children. Hollow or black eyes. Permission to enter. Illness or misfortune soon after. Whether called Moroi or Black-Eyed Kids, the warnings are the same—and so are the consequences.
These so called 'black eyed kids' are really demons 👿 😈 who appear to the weak minded person.