Ghost stories from Incubus

The Persistence of Static

Mara Voss, a 48-year-old archivist, had spent the last three decades cataloging the forgotten. She lived alone in a creaking Victorian house on the edge of a dying town, a...

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The Static Womb

The apartment on Bramble Lane had a peculiar habit of sighing at night. I’d lie in my fold-out cot, listening to the building’s ancient bones creak and settle, and I’d...

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The Draft Under the Door

It was the summer of 1987, and I was nine years old, spending two weeks at my grandmother’s farmhouse in western Kansas. The house was old, with creaking floors and...

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The Hollow Mannequin

I never believed in ghosts. I was a scientist, a woman of logic, who had spent years dissecting the natural world with the scalpel of reason. So when I inherited...

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The Glass-Eyed Saint

It began with the moth. Not a subtle thing, but a fat, gray creature that beat its wings against the porch light every night for a week, as if trying...

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The Unraveling of Canvas

I am not sure how to explain this experience, or what to do about it all, but I really need help in stopping whatever is happening from destroying my marriage....

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The Night the Wardrobe Shifted

At forty-seven, Marcus had never been the sort to entertain the uncanny. He sold industrial adhesives, watched baseball on Sundays, and kept a meticulously organized garage. When he signed the...

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The Man Who Forgot the Year

The first time I saw him, I thought the heat had finally cracked my skull. It was a sweltering February night in Adelaide, the kind where the air sits on...

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The Cot at the Foot of the Stairs

My grandmother’s house stood at the end of a dead-end lane in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by pine woods and a fog that rolled in like a tide. I...

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The Drowned Locket

I moved into the old Jensen place three months ago, a crumbling Victorian perched on the edge of the salt marshes. The realtor called it ‘characterful,’ but the locals just...

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The Visit from the Tall Man

I never believed in ghosts until we moved to the old farmhouse in the Bavarian countryside. My name is Ana, and I’m fifteen. My mother married Klaus, a German engineer,...

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The Static in the Walls

I was nineteen when I moved into the old Bellweather house on the edge of town, a dilapidated Victorian that had been vacant for decades. The rent was practically nothing,...

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The Twelfth Visitor

The red clay of the county road still clung to my boots when I moved into the hollow. My name is Elena Marsh, twenty-eight, and I’d taken the caretaker job...

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The Loom of the Silent Thread

The old farmhouse on the edge of the Bitterroot Valley had been in Eleanor’s family for three generations, but its walls had always seemed to hold their breath. She had...

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The Weeping Latch

The old farmhouse on Cinder Lane had a way of holding onto things. Dust clung to every surface like a second skin, and the floorboards groaned with the memory of...

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The Hollow Hours

Lena had always been attuned to the spaces between things—the hum of a refrigerator too sharp, the way a curtain moved without wind. Growing up, her grandmother called it ‘the...

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The Static Visitor

I’m 17 and I’ve always been a skeptic. My name’s Reece, and I live in a small apartment above my uncle’s pawnshop, surrounded by the junk of people’s forgotten lives....

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The Lantern Keeper

The coastal town of Saltmarsh was known for two things: the stubborn smell of brine that clung to everything, and the lighthouse that had stood sentinel for over a century....

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The Persistent Itch

The first time I noticed it was the summer I moved into the old farmhouse on Eider Lane. My aunt had left it to me in her will, a crumbling...

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The Stone Recital

Elara had always been a skeptic, even as a child. Her grandmother, a stern woman with a penchant for old hymns and older fears, would tell her tales of the...

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The Unseen Tenant

Marcus had always been a rational man, a believer in science and the tangible world. So when the odd sensations began in his small, one-bedroom apartment on the third floor...

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The Toll of the Carillon

In the arid foothills of the Sierra Morena, where the sun bleaches the bones of forgotten things, stands the village of Albaicín. It is a place of whitewashed walls and...

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The Farmhouse Tally

I’ve never been one to dismiss the strange. My grandmother used to say that the world is thicker than it looks, and I believed her. But knowing something in your...

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The Groaning Oak

I never used to mind the dark. My bedroom faced the backyard, where an ancient oak tree sprawled against the night sky. I’d fall asleep to the creak of its...

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