Ghost stories from Psychic

The Cold Draft at Junction 12

Elara had always been the kind of person who filled a room with laughter, the one friends called to lift their spirits. But lately, the laughter had become a hollow...

Read Story →

The Clockmaker’s Bargain

I never believed in the supernatural, not really. I was an engineer, a man of logic and numbers, until the night I met the clockmaker in the town of Verdigris....

Read Story →

The Cold Shoulder

My name is Alex, and I’ve been seeing things since I was six—figures that flicker in the corner of my eye, voices that whisper from the static of an old...

Read Story →

The Broken Rag Doll

I was barely three when we moved into the creaking farmhouse on Hemlock Lane, a relic from the 1920s with peeling wallpaper and a cellar that smelled of damp earth....

Read Story →

The Veil of Feasting

Marta had lived in the crumbling three-story building on Denmore Street for nearly a decade. The walls were thin, the radiators clanked, and the neighbors changed like seasons. But the...

Read Story →

The Moth in the Static

The first time I saw the moth, I was nine, sprawled on the shag carpet of our rented duplex in Poughkeepsie, watching the TV snow. The screen wasn’t just static—it...

Read Story →

The Constant Company

After my mother passed, we moved my father, Arthur, into a tidy apartment in the old Meridian building—a place with high ceilings and drafty windows that moaned in the wind....

Read Story →

The Salt Path

I was nine when I learned that some doors should never be opened, even if they are left ajar. My family had come to the small coastal town of Porto...

Read Story →

The Lantern of the Last Vigil

The old lighthouse keeper, Elias, was dying. For fifty years he had tended the lamp at Blackrock Point, a jagged spit of land where the North Sea gnawed at the...

Read Story →

The Draft Through the Keyhole

My name is Elara, and if you’re reading this, it’s already too late. This isn’t just a story; it’s a warning. I’ve seen things that would curdle your blood, but...

Read Story →

The Porch Light Theory

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been obsessed with the paranormal. I read every book, watched every documentary, and even set up my own little ghost-hunting kit when I...

Read Story →

The Awning House

Lyra was six when she first noticed the house on Thornwood Lane. It wasn’t the crumbling brick or the boarded windows that caught her eye; it was the awning. A...

Read Story →

The Stucco Queens

The first time I saw them, I was six, sprawled on the cold linoleum of our Miami apartment, a hand-me-down Rubik’s cube clutched in my sweaty fingers. It was the...

Read Story →

The Crooked Porch Light

It was the summer of 1983, and the heat in the double-wide was unbearable. My son Tommy was nine, and little Danny was six, and they were sprawled on the...

Read Story →

The Red Door at the End of the Hall

I never told anyone about the itch. It started on my wedding day, a faint tickle on the back of my neck, like a fly that wouldn’t land. By the...

Read Story →

The Last Straw

In the autumn of 1987, I was eight years old, living in a clapboard house on the edge of Pemberton, a town so small it didn’t even have its own...

Read Story →

The Static Between

The chat room was my sanctuary, a place where I could feel less alone in my strange gift. That night, the cursor blinked at me like a heartbeat as I...

Read Story →

The Grandmother’s Gaze

I first met Elias when we were both eleven, during that hazy, humid stretch of late August when the New Mexican desert seemed to hold its breath. His family had...

Read Story →

The Tide That Keeps

The first time I saw them, I thought they were seals. Dark heads bobbing in the gray-green chop off Alisal Point, where the old cannery used to stand before the...

Read Story →

The Amber Bloom

The salt spray coated the windows of our coastal cottage, a perpetual film that blurred the jagged outline of the sea stacks against the bruised twilight sky. I was seven...

Read Story →

The Man in the Dusty Hat

My grandfather, Elias, never spoke about the figure unless pressed, and even then, his words came slow, like molasses dripping from a jar in winter. He’d sit in his worn...

Read Story →

The Brand of the Unraveling

I’ve always been a patchwork of oddities. The dead have never been strangers to me; they’ve been as constant as my own heartbeat. From my first wobbly steps, I could...

Read Story →

The Sunken Gallery

The algae-slick tiles of the Havenbrook Community Pool echoed with the shrieks of children long after the last kickboard had been stored. I wasn’t a lifeguard, but my sister, Dana,...

Read Story →

The Alder House Visit

My grandmother used to tell me about the time she helped her sister, Aunt Clara, look at a house. It was back in the early ’70s, when Clara and her...

Read Story →