Ghost stories from Misc

The Doomsday Broadcast

I’ve always found comfort in the static-filled crackle of old radio shows. My grandfather left me his vintage Philco, a relic from the 1940s, and I’ve spent countless nights tuning...

The Honeycomb Hum

In the fall of 2019, I moved into a converted grain silo on the outskirts of a faded Kansas town. The silo had been gutted and renovated into a two-story...

What Did I Do?

“Você pagará pelo que fez.” (You will pay for what you did.) I heard a deep voice in my dream and woke up around 4am. I was begging for forgiveness...

Vacation Went Wrong

This is my first time to share my scary experience. This is about my uncle. We went on a vacation in our province, Cebu. When we got there, we saw...

Bike Accident

A month ago, I was riding my bike home after school and I was in a pretty bad mood because of school stuff. My mind was pre-occupied and I was...

The Kudzu Man of Sapporo

I never believed in ghosts, not really. I moved to Sapporo for the engineering job, expecting snow and silence, not the creeping dread that settled over me like a wet...

The Gilded Promise

In the autumn of 1971, I was a girl made of ink and ambition, my fingers permanently stained from the library’s oldest volumes. I had a plan: a scholarship to...

The Neon Hum

My name is Diego, and I work the graveyard shift at a call center in the heart of Makati’s business district. I’m from Batangas, but I rent a narrow townhouse...

The Clockwork Intruder

Leah had traded the cornfields of Illinois for the rolling hills of Tennessee, hoping the change would silence the whispers that had followed her since childhood. The old farmhouse she...

The Weeping Fig

It started with the smell. A sweet, cloying rot that clung to the curtains even after I’d scrubbed the house top to bottom. I’d always had a weak constitution, but...

The Sixth Figure

My parents were married in the summer of 1984, in the small town of Millbrook, nestled in the rolling hills of Ontario. The ceremony took place in St. Andrew’s United...

The Stationary Bird

Marla had been driving the same route home from the night shift for three years. The 5 AM drive was usually empty, a gray ribbon of asphalt slicing through the...

The Third Eyelid

I flew from New York to Manaus two weeks after my guide, Senhor Almeida, died. He was the one who, thirty years ago, took me up the Rio Negro to...

The Last Tape

My name is Clara, and I am a widow. My husband, Arthur, was a historian, a man who found comfort in the quiet hum of old projectors and the smell...

The Painted Mouth

I first knew Edgar as a quiet, lanky young man with ink-stained fingers when I was thirteen. He taught folklore at the University of Dunedin, and he was one of...

The Marble Floor Listens

I’ve worked at the Meridian Galleria for three years now, a palace of polished marble and hushed voices where the air smells of expensive perfume and coffee that costs more...

The Grammar of Falling

The bus let me off at the corner of Ash and Ninth, a neighborhood where the streetlights flickered like dying stars. I was walking home from the late shift at...

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