Ghost stories from Psychic

The Donut Stone Prophecy

In the autumn of 2013, I found myself drawn to the old donut-shaped crystal that had once belonged to my grandmother. It was a simple thing, a circle of smoky...

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The Marrow of the Walls

My name is Elara, and I’ve just turned eighteen. We live in a creaking, salt-eaten house on the edge of a town that smells of fish and rust. My mother,...

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The Lantern of the Chapel

When I was thirteen, I lived with my family in a small village nestled between dark pine forests and the edge of a cold lake. It was the kind of...

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The Coal-Dust Sentinel

The Silver Vein Mine had been the heart of our small town for a century, but by the time I started working there, it was a skeleton of its former...

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The Last Call at the Bluebird Diner

I had been driving through the Nevada desert for hours, the radio crackling with static between stations. Just outside of Tonopah, I picked up a broadcast of an old folksy...

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The House on Meridian Lane

I never believed in signs. Not the kind you see in church or the ones your grandmother swears by. But that night, the universe was trying to tell us something,...

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The Sunday Paper Prophecy

I never considered myself haunted, not in the way movies portray it. No cold spots, no flickering lights, no spectral apparitions in the hallway. But I’ve learned that my mind...

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The Persistent Companion

My great-grandmother, Rosa, was a curandera in the high deserts of New Mexico. She could read the patterns in dropped coffee grounds and speak to the spirits of the dead....

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The Long Grass on Baines Bridge

The bungalow at 14 Marigold Lane had always been a place of sharp edges and cold drafts, and I, Elara, had grown up believing that the creaks and sighs of...

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The Coin and the Cracked Tile

The afternoon sun beat down on the dusty parking lot of the Fairview Flea Market, turning the air into a thick, gritty soup. I trailed behind my friend Maya, past...

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The Corn Husk Ritual

Mara had always been a quiet observer of the world, but her dreams were anything but silent. Since childhood, she’d seen slices of her own life unfold in vivid, tactile...

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The Window Watcher

When I was six, I began having nightmares so intense that I would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding against my ribs. These terrors clung to me...

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The Sunday Note

In the autumn of last year, I lived with my mother, Clara, and her husband, Gerald, in a small town called Millbrook, nestled near the edge of a dark forest....

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The Blue Bottle on the Shelf

The house on Cedar Lane had always felt like a living thing, its bones creaking with age and secrets. I’d bought it five years ago, drawn by the overgrown garden...

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The Static in the Hallway

There is a particular kind of silence that settles over a house at 3 a.m. It is not the normal quiet of sleep, but a thick, waiting stillness that makes...

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The Hollow Curve

The first time I felt it, I was driving home from a late shift at the diner, cutting through the old county roads to save time. I’d taken that route...

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The Last Seat at Table Nine

I’ve been a night orderly at Cedar Haven Convalescent Home for six years, and I’ve learned that the old ones carry their histories in their spines. Some bend with grace,...

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The Room of Unfinished Things

My earliest memory isn’t a face or a voice, but a cold draft that smelled of dust and old paper. I was barely three, sitting on the linoleum floor of...

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The Bone Garden

My grandmother, Elara, was the first in our family to speak to the dead. She lived in a crumbling farmhouse on the edge of the Thornwood, a place where the...

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The Grief of the Back Stair

The first time I noticed the prickling, I was nine, standing at the edge of my grandmother’s garden, watching the rose bushes bend in a wind that didn’t touch my...

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The Hollow Gift

I never believed in the tooth fairy, not in the way children do. For me, it was a half-forgotten nursery tale, a thing parents use to soothe a crying child....

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The Garbage Can Prophet

The first time it happened, I was eleven, riding my bike through the scrubby outskirts of Red Bluff, where the pavement gave way to dirt paths and the only sound...

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The Jelly Limbs of Maple Street

In the sweltering summer of 1995, my buddy Carl from Tampa came up to visit me in Chicago, but he spent most of his time crashing at our mutual friend’s...

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The Carousel of Glass

At sixteen, I had my first real job at the oddly named Pleasure Pier, a cavernous indoor amusement park that had once been the pride of our small lakeside town....

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