Ghost stories from Psychic

The Static Bloom

The year was 1988, and the salt-laced air of Monterey did little to cool Elias’s burgeoning desperation. Laid off from the coastal engineering firm, his days had bled into a...

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The Second Shift at Archival Solutions

When the aerospace firm in Denver folded in 1994, I figured my mechanical engineering degree would find me work within a month. But the city was awash with laid-off techies,...

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The Copper Key

I never believed in ghosts, not really. My name is Elias, and like most people, I thought the dead stayed dead. But then I moved into my great-aunt’s house in...

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The Weaver’s Unraveling Thread

Elara had always dismissed the odd occurrences in her inherited cottage as the quirks of an old house settling. Drafts that seemed to carry the scent of sea salt, though...

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The Spectral Roundup

I moved into the converted barn loft on the outskirts of Cinder Hollow, hoping for a quiet place to write my novel. The landlord had mentioned ‘quirky vibrations,’ but I...

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The Weight of the Unseen

The old lighthouse keeper, Silas, had always been a solitary man. His only companions were the gulls, the ceaseless roar of the ocean, and the creaking timbers of the ancient...

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The Spectral Pony Express

I moved into the Maple Street loft for the high ceilings and the clawfoot tub, not for the company. The building was a converted 1920s postal sorting facility, and my...

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The Weight of Stillness

The motel room smelled of bleach and stale cigarettes, a scent that clung to the cheap floral curtains and the worn carpet. I’d checked in late, exhausted from a long...

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The Weight of the Down

I never believed in the old house on Wrenwood Lane, not really. The town had whispered about it for generations, but I chalked that up to small-town boredom. When I...

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The Pale Weave

The whistle of the freight train at 3 a.m. was the only lullaby I knew. My name is Delia Marsh, and I was born in a rust-bucket town called Hollow...

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The Midnight Requiem of the Wicker Man

At fourteen, Mira was the kind of girl who collected secrets like others collected seashells. Her best friend, Elara, was a walking archive of the uncanny, a girl whose childhood...

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The Lantern Keeper’s Toll

In the heart of the old garrison town of San Esteban, where the cobblestones still bore the stains of colonial blood, there stood a university that had claimed the ancient...

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The Constant Visitor

The first time I saw it, I thought it was a trick of the light. A flicker in the corner of my eye, a shadow that didn’t move when I...

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The Glass Casket of Mulberry Creek

I never believed in ghosts until I moved into the old farmhouse on Mulberry Creek. The place had been empty for years, and the realtor warned me about the drafty...

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The Static Between Heartbeats

Maya had always considered herself pragmatic. Ghost stories were for people who left their windows open at night, who watched too many horror films. She was a nursing student, and...

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The Lamplighter’s Debt

The house on Gilead Lane had never known silence. Even at noon, when the sun bleached the clapboard siding and the heat shimmered off the gravel drive, there was a...

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Poltergeist at my Sisters

This story isn’t about me. This happened to my sister, Stef and her husband, Pat, and is still going on. I am terribly afraid for both of them. My brother-in-law...

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The Lantern of Unseen Ports

In the autumn of 1984, I was twelve, living in the port town of Greyhollow, Maine. My mother and I drove to the old ferry terminal to pick up a...

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The Lantern Keeper’s Bargain

I never thought I’d be writing this down, but the events of the past few months have left me no choice. My name is Elara, and I’ve always been what...

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The Quarry’s Last Echo

The walls of the old quarry were a familiar grey, a constant in my childhood summers. I was twelve when I first heard it, a low hum that vibrated through...

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The Narrow Halls of Ashford

I’m Mira, 16, from the outskirts of Portland, and I’ve never told anyone this. It started when I was seven, with a dream that came every few months like clockwork....

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The Glistening Wound

I’ve always been able to see the dead. Not hear them, not feel them, just see them, like smudges on the air. But when we moved into the creaking old...

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The Cartographer’s Lodger

The old house on Bramblewick Lane had a name, though no one used it anymore: the Cartographer’s Rest. It had been a waystation for surveyors and mapmakers in the late...

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The Mulberry Hollow Visitor

I was nine when we moved to Mulberry Hollow, a sleepy town in Vermont where the autumns were so crisp you could almost taste the apples in the air. Our...

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