Ghost stories from Sleep Paralysis

The Glass Eye

In the autumn of 2016, my grandmother, Vera, and I shared a cramped studio apartment in the outskirts of a city that never truly slept. The building was a relic,...

The Glass Migration

My name is Mara, and six months ago, my father and I inherited an old house from an aunt I’d never met. The place was a labyrinth of dusty rooms,...

The Weight of Noon

Marta had always prided herself on her ability to adapt. Summer had turned her into a nocturnal creature, her days a blur of fan-blades and drawn curtains, her nights alive...

The Chant of the Hollow Man

My name is Elias, and I’m a 24-year-old sound engineer living in a converted warehouse in the industrial district of Manchester. My flat is a sprawling, open-plan space with exposed...

The Weight of Waking

I never told anyone about the bruises. At first, I thought I was just clumsy in my sleep, thrashing against the headboard or the nightstand. But the pattern was too...

The Dry Palm

In the sweltering summer of 2011, I was living in a converted attic studio in the town of Red Hook, not the one in Brooklyn, but a small, forgotten village...

The Weight of the Midden

I never believed in ghosts, not really. Not until the night the house on Midden Lane decided to introduce itself. My name is Lena, and I’d moved into that crumbling...

The Glass-Eyed Man

The summer I turned seventeen, my family moved to the town of Marrow Falls, a place where the trees grew too close to the roads and the locals had a...

The Binding Summer

The summer of 2012 had been brutal, with heat advisories and power outages plaguing the city. My master bedroom’s air conditioner had died, so I moved to the guest room...

The Static Room

I’ve always been the sort of person who reads about the paranormal until 3 AM, my laptop screen the only light in my room, half-hoping something would creep out of...

The Half-Said Prayer

The evening had been perfect, a golden haze of laughter and wine and the comfortable warmth of old friends. Leo and Mira had walked home through the pine-scented dusk, their...

The Weight of Stillness

My obsession with the spectral began in the dusty archives of the Bramble County Historical Society, where I spent my sixteenth summer cataloging sepia-toned photographs and faded letters. It was...

The Static in the Walls

The night the power flickered in the old apartment on Meridian Street, I was already on edge. The speakers on my laptop had been spitting out a low, grumbling static...

The Static Man

I remember the night it started. I was living in a cramped basement apartment on Cormorant Street, above a laundromat that hummed through the floor like a drowsy bee. My...

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