Ghost stories from Misc

The Weeping Wall

My earliest memory of the wrongness was the smell of wet plaster and old pennies, clinging to the air of the guest bedroom at my great-aunt Edna’s farmhouse in the...

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The Grid in the Dark

I’m 47 now, and I’ve lived in the Pacific Northwest for most of my adult life, first in Portland, then up the coast to a small town called Netarts Bay....

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The Kettle of Serpents

The unknown had always been a subject I found both fascinating and deeply unsettling. I was the kind of person who scoffed at ghost stories and dismissed every eerie tale...

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The Shower Ghost of Casa Ventana

I remember the summer I turned ten, the year my mother decided my cousin Elena and I were old enough to spend a week with our great-aunt Rosa at her...

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The Loop of St. Agatha’s

I was eleven that autumn, living with my father in the gray tract house on Willow Lane, two towns over from anything that mattered. The divorce had finalized three years...

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The Static Visitor

I’ve never told anyone about the man in the static, because who would believe me? They’d say it was sleep paralysis, a trick of the mind, a night terror. But...

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The Static Sermon

The old farmhouse sat alone at the edge of a withered cornfield, its dry stalks rustling like brittle whispers. I’d come to stay with my grandmother while my parents were...

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The Blue Door at the End of the Hall

I am writing this from a rented room in a city I barely know, surrounded by boxes I haven’t unpacked. It’s been three years since I turned sixteen in a...

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The Hollow Staircase

The old farmhouse on the edge of Elmwood had always been a place of creaks and groans, but I’d lived there my whole life, and the sounds were as familiar...

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The Glass Door of Number 18

I was eleven when we moved into the old Victorian house on Cranmore Lane. The street was quiet, lined with sycamores, and the house itself, Number 18, was a rambling...

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The Static Between Keys

The humming of the air conditioner was the only constant in my small room, a low drone that seemed to soak into the walls. My computer, a bulky beige tower,...

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Disturbing Nights

It was my regular summer holiday visit to my mom’s native along with my brothers. Just like every year the summer holidays was fun… We live (family) in down south...

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Is It A Dream Disorder?

I want you to read the story of what happened to me. For me is still not clear if it was my imagination, a psychic experience, a dream disorder or...

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The Bone Hands in the Kitchen

When I was six or seven, my mother and my tia used to cross themselves whenever I walked into the room. At first, I thought it was because I was...

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The Static That Breathes

It started with the radio. Not the music, but the space between stations, that soft, sucking hiss that feels like a held breath. My name is Elias Vance, and I...

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The Warden of the Quiet Hours

I was twelve when the world began to warp at the edges, a trick of the light that never quite resolved no matter how many times I blinked. My family...

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The Ceiling Nail

I’ve cataloged spectral anomalies for two decades, ever since I found a Victrola in my grandmother’s attic that played a waltz no one had ever recorded. My name is Elias...

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The Gilded Visitor

The first time I saw the Gilded Visitor, I was five years old and sitting cross-legged on the floor of my aunt’s farmhouse. He was tall, impossibly tall, with skin...

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More Occurances – Paranormal Or Just Abnormal?

I have had a few recent experiences that I would like to share. I have not been able to find rational explanations for them myself. I would also like to...

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The Sunroom’s Arithmetic

Our mother used to say that the three of us were born with a caul, though I never saw it. She had her own peculiar gifts—she’d often know when the...

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The Violet Gate

The year was 2008, and I was eleven, on the cusp of becoming something else. Our school had taken us to a place called Crosswater Pines, a sprawling nature reserve...

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The Unfinished Corner

I was nine when we moved into my lola’s old house in the province, a squat concrete structure with a rusted tin roof and a yard that turned to mud...

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The Hollow Cartographer

I never believed in ghosts, not really. But I believed in the weight of empty rooms, the way some houses hold their breath. I was a cartographer, which sounds more...

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