Ghost stories from Demons

The Spit of the Unseen

At forty-four, Elara Voss had long since filed the incident under ‘childhood nightmares.’ It was a summer evening in the dusty town of Porphyry Creek, where the heat clung to...

The Loom of Sorrow

I’m writing this from a motel room off Route 9, the kind with a flickering neon sign that buzzes like an angry hornet. My hands are still shaking. I need...

The Night They Answered

I was born in the sweltering heat of Arizona, but when I was six, my father’s job transferred us to the damp, evergreen-choked town of Ferndale, Washington. The move was...

The Persistence of Static

I’ve always been a skeptic, even after everything that happened at my grandmother’s cabin. But now, after this weekend, I’m not sure I can ever look at a television the...

The Humming Dryer

I was nineteen, fresh out of a revival meeting where I’d given my life to Christ, and I believed with all my heart that no demon could touch me. My...

The Salt Path

In the faded autumn of 1997, I was nineteen, living in the flat farmlands of southern Nebraska, where the horizon stretched like a taut wire and the cornfields whispered with...

The Salt-Bleached Locket

Arjun and Meera had been planning this escape for months. Their jobs in the IT sector had turned their lives into a blur of deadlines and high-rise meetings, and the...

The Frequency of Ash

I never believed in ghosts. Not really. I was a man of science, a retired electrical engineer who found comfort in circuits and logic. So when my niece, Mira, brought...

The Static Garden

My first supernatural encounter happened when I was twelve, in the autumn my parents sent me to live with my grandmother in the Vermont countryside. My father had lost his...

The Hollow Hall

I’ve never been one to see ghosts or demons in every flickering shadow. I’ve chalked up most of my life’s oddities to tired eyes and an overactive imagination. But there...

The Pigment Vigil

In the sweltering August of my sixteenth year, my father and I repainted the guest bedroom of our creaking Victorian in Portland, Maine. The color was a deep, arterial red—’Oxblood,’...

The Weight of August

The summer of 2009, in the dusty outskirts of Ashburn, Georgia, I turned seventeen. My family attended the First Baptist Church every Sunday, and I sang in the youth choir....

The Cinder Gift

The house at 13 Raven’s Lane had always felt like a held breath. My grandmother, Marta, called it the ‘breathing house’ because of the way the floorboards creaked and the...

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