Ghost stories from Misc

The Stained Floorboards

I was eleven that summer, not twelve, and we lived in a house that had been in my mother’s family for decades, a rambling farmhouse in the hills of Virginia....

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The Hollow Lantern

It was the kind of night that felt wrong from the start—a Halloween that didn’t end when the last trick-or-treater dragged their plastic pumpkin home. I’d drifted off on the...

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The Concrete Hum

I suppose every haunting needs a beginning, and mine started with a humming sound. Not the kind from machinery or distant traffic, but something deeper, as if the building itself...

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The Porcelain Girl in the Orchard

I was eight when we moved into my grandmother’s farmhouse on the edge of the San Joaquin Valley, a place where the heat baked the earth into cracked mosaics and...

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The Cardboard Smile

In the autumn of 1987, I was eight years old, living in a weathered farmhouse on the edge of a cornfield that stretched like a sea of gold under the...

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The Brass-Eyed Visitor

Marta Vasquez was a woman of routine, a fact her family both admired and weathered. Known as ‘the Sentinel’ among her siblings for her sharp commands and unwavering standards, she...

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The Veiled Reaper’s Debt

Elena and I had always been drawn to the old cemetery on the hill, not for the dead, but for the stories. The town of Marshwood was a quiet, forgotten...

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The Frequency of His Name

At sixteen, Mara Linwood had learned to live with the static. It wasn’t the kind that fizzed from a broken radio in the attic, though the house was full of...

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The Last Ferry

Arjun, a final-year architecture student, and his childhood friend Vikram, who ran a small organic farm, often met late at night to escape their busy days. They preferred the quiet...

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The Chair at the End of the Table

Growing up in the mist-wrapped valleys of Cornwall, I was no stranger to the thin places where the veil between worlds wears threadbare. My grandmother, with her iron-gray hair and...

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The Crate in the Cellar

Ever since I was seven, the year my great-aunt Marigold passed, I’ve carried a constant, prickling awareness that unseen eyes are fixed on me. It’s not a fleeting unease that...

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The Groaning Machine

The first time I noticed something wrong was on a damp Tuesday afternoon. I was at my aunt’s dental clinic, helping her shred patient records that were older than the...

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The Scent of November’s End

Elena had always loved autumn in her small mountain town of Ashford, but this November felt different. The air was heavier, and the leaves seemed to cling to the branches...

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The Glass Eye in the Attic

I was never the kind of person who believed in ghosts, not really. I loved the shows, the thrill of a good scare, but deep down I figured it was...

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The Brass Earring

It had been nine months since I moved into the old apartment on Marigold Street, and the brass earring was still missing. I’d found the pair at a flea market...

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The Weight of the Air

The first time I noticed it, I was seven, sitting on the cracked linoleum floor of our kitchen in the old apartment building on Juniper Street. I remember the exact...

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The Empty Step

At seven, I was a creature of habit. Every afternoon, I’d burst through the front door of our split-level, dump my backpack in the hall, and thunder up the stairs...

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The Wicker-Bound Guest

I was thirteen when my family moved into the old Briarwood House, a sprawling Victorian that had seen better decades. My name is Eliza, and I’ve always had a knack...

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The Hollow Tune

The Marrowbone house had been a landmark of dread in our town for as long as I could remember. A skeletal Victorian structure slumped at the end of a gravel...

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The Keeper of the Lantern

In the bustling city of Kolkata, where the Howrah Bridge hummed with the ceaseless flow of life, there lived a young man named Arjun. His obsession with horror was a...

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The Silent Hive

In the autumn of that year, I moved into a quaint but aging farmhouse on the outskirts of a town that had seen better days. The house had stood empty...

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The Basement Bell

The day we moved into the old Hartley house, the air itself felt heavy, like the walls were sweating out decades of secrets. My husband, Tom, and I had been...

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The Bread Oven’s Ledger

In the autumn of 1997, I took a seasonal position at the Larkin Stage Stop, a restored inn that once served travelers on the old coach road between Millbrook and...

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The Door in the Wall

Ever since we moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of the marsh, I’d felt a wrongness in the spare bedroom. It was a small room, mostly used for...

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