Ghost stories from Misc

The Copper Plate Arrival

There are some mornings when the fog swallows the world so completely that sound becomes a liar. That’s how it was on the morning I met the plate. I was...

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The Salt Wind Feeds

The island of Kestrel’s Reach was a speck of rock and scrub in the North Atlantic, a place where the only constant was the bite of salt wind and the...

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The Cardboard Box

The desert highway unspooled into a ribbon of black asphalt, the sun a molten coin sinking into the horizon. Elena, a fresh-faced graduate from Ohio, clutched her purse tighter as...

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The Last Door on Carrow Lane

It was a lazy July afternoon in 2005 when Mara and her best friend, Josie, decided to search for Josie’s older brother, Evan, and his friend, Leo. The two boys...

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The Third Name

I’m 22, and last Saturday night I found out that some stories don’t stay buried, no matter how many miles you put between them and yourself. I was at my...

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Shadows Moving

It was a normal saturday, except for the fact that everyone in the house had gone out (there are 9 people that live in the house, brothers, sisters, parents) so...

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The Salt Lick

I was crashing at my buddy’s place in the desert, helping him house-sit for his folks while they were at some distant relative’s funeral. His name was Cole, and he...

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The Last Ferry at Three

My grandmother, Elara, had always been the anchor of our small coastal town, her house perched on the cliffs overlooking the churning sea. When she fell ill, my son Toby...

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The Oubliette of Ashford Hall

I was twelve when my father inherited Ashford Hall from a distant uncle he’d never met. The place was a crumbling Victorian monstrosity perched on a cliff overlooking the gray...

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The Wet Ink Incident

The rain hammered the windows of the old farmhouse as I lay on the couch, a fever heating my skin. My group members had left an hour ago, their voices...

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The Last Broadcast

It began, as these things often do, with a video. A grainy, amateurish clip of a dimly lit hallway, a door creaking open on its own, and a faint figure...

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The Keeper of the Static

The first time I saw him, I was seven, standing in the dusty attic of our new home. We had moved to the outskirts of a town that smelled of...

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The Last Note in G Minor

The attic was always cold, even in July. Linda knew this, but she still felt a chill run down her spine as she climbed the creaking stairs, a cardboard box...

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The Hollow Floor

The house at 14 Barlow Lane sat at the end of a dead-end street, its white paint peeling in strips like dead skin. The Wilson family had moved there because...

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The Lantern in the Vineyard

When I was eleven, my family moved into the old Bellamy house, a sprawling Victorian with a wraparound porch and a vineyard that had gone feral. The previous owners had...

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The Hollow Hallway

I was fifteen, not sixteen, but close enough that the year blurs. It was a Tuesday in late October, the kind of cold that clings to the windows and makes...

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The Gray Itch

Marta had been sleeping twelve hours a day for weeks. Her skin took on a sallow, waxy quality, and she complained of an itch that no cream could soothe. I...

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The Last Visitor at the Willow Gate

I was thirteen that autumn, and death was still a distant rumor, something that happened to old folks and stray cats, never to anyone I knew. But the morning Mrs....

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The Gaze in the Frost

It began not with a scream, but with a silence so complete it pressed against the ears like water in a deep well. I was eleven, living in a town...

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The Pale Visitor in Apartment 4B

Marla had always been sensitive to the energies of her small apartment, a cramped one-bedroom on the fourth floor of a building that had seen better decades. The radiator groaned...

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The Flickering Hallway

I only ever visited the old farmhouse on weekends. During the week, I lived with my mom in a cramped city apartment, where the walls were thin and every sound...

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Warning Signs And Peculiar Visitors

It was the spring of 2001, and quite frankly, I was in a job that I hated at a local community college. My immediate supervisor was a red-faced, shrewish man...

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The Looming Thread

I’ve never told this to anyone before, because it sounds insane, but I need to get it out. I’ll try to piece it together as best I can. For as...

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The Cartographer’s Loom

In the autumn of 1993, I accompanied my cousin Elias, a cartographer from Lisbon, on a trip to the Atlas Mountains of Morocco. He was there to map ancient trade...

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