Ghost stories from Friends Visits

The Clockwork Ward

In the autumn of 1983, I was scraping by as a janitor at the Meridian County Museum, earning just enough to keep my drafty studio above a pawnshop. My brother’s...

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The Lantern’s Toll

Dr. Arjun Mehra, a man of science and skepticism, had recently renounced the faith of his forefathers. His father, the late Dr. Vikram Mehra, had been a pillar of the...

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The Boy on the Balcony

When I was a child, my grandmother was my constant companion. Wherever she went, I went like a shadow, though that word is too cliché for what I felt. I...

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The Paint on the Brick

The summer I turned twelve, the heat in our small town of Red Hook pressed down like a damp blanket. My parents, both working in the city, had decided I...

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The Constant in the Static

The old house on Balsam Lane had a way of reminding you of things you’d rather forget. I moved there after my grandmother passed, hoping the quiet would help me...

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The Silent Trolley

I was twelve when my family moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of the Cranston orchard. It was a sprawling, drafty place with a wrap-around porch and a...

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The Uncovered Glass

I was six when my grandmother first noticed. She said I’d sit in my crib, giggling and cooing at the empty corner, as if someone were playing peek-a-boo. My mother...

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The Cradle Exchange

In the early hours of a rain-soaked morning, in a small town settled between the cornfields of Illinois, a young mother named Clara was trying to catch up on sleep...

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The Lantern in the Orchard

My mother-in-law, Eleanor, had been a quiet constant in our lives, a woman of small rituals and softer words. When she passed, it was a mercy, a sudden end to...

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The Static Garden

The first time it happened, I was eleven, standing in the ferns at the edge of the old Culver estate. My great-aunt Elara had died the previous spring, and her...

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The Sun on the Ash

My mother passed on a bitter February morning in 2019, when the radiators in our old farmhouse clanked like skeletal fingers against iron. Since then, I’ve slept on the pull-out...

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The Clockmaker’s Ledger

I’ll tell you what happened to us, but first, let me be clear: the old farmhouse on Crimson Hill is what my family calls the ‘homestead’, and this is a...

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The Wind That Took the House

The summer I turned twelve, my father decided we should spend a month in the old farmhouse my grandmother had left us in the high desert of New Mexico. He...

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The Plastered Door

At 4 AM, the house on Cinder Lane was a frozen cathedral of creaks and sighs. I lived on the top floor, a converted loft with sloped ceilings and a...

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The Last Ferry

My father, Elias, passed away on a cold November morning in 2015, a few hours after my daughter’s sweet sixteen. He had been drinking heavily, but that was nothing new....

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The Seventh Painting

The summer I turned thirteen, my parents sent me to stay with my uncle in his crumbling Victorian house in the middle of nowhere. The house was a maze of...

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The Static Garden

My name is Clara Reyes, and I’m fourteen. For as long as I can remember, I’ve seen things that shouldn’t be there—people who have passed on. It stopped for a...

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The Humming Wardrobe

The summer I turned thirteen, my parents moved us from our cramped city apartment to a sprawling Victorian house in the middle of nowhere, a town called Coldbrook. The house...

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The Lantern Keeper’s Debt

In the autumn of 2003, I returned to my grandmother’s house in the village of Thornwell, nestled in the rolling hills of Yorkshire. I had spent my childhood summers there,...

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The Glass Apiary

The glass case had always sat on the sideboard in Uncle Elias’s study, a relic from his travels in the Far East. Inside, a swarm of iridescent insects, their wings...

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The Ledger of the Deceased

Four years ago, my closest friend from childhood, Marcus, died. He was living over three hundred miles away in a coastal town I’d never visited. His wife, a woman I’d...

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The Unlatched Hatch

I never put much stock in the supernatural. Ghosts were just stories to scare kids, and the afterlife was a comforting thought I couldn’t quite believe in. But that changed...

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The Severed Thread

My grandmother’s farmhouse was a place of permanence, a bulwark against the shifting world. It stood on three hundred acres of black soil and whispering pines, its bones of oak...

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The Unfinished Wreath

I found the box in early December, wedged between old quilts in the attic of my apartment. The label, in my grandmother’s precise hand, read: ‘Kerst, 2009.’ Inside, nestled in...

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