Ghost stories from Videos

The Static Between Stations

The night air in the town of Millbrook was thick with the smell of wet earth and pine. It was late June, and the sky was a bruised purple, the...

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The Lantern Man’s Debt

I’ve spent every summer of my life at my grandmother’s farm in the low country of South Carolina, where the marshes meet the old railroad lines. The place has a...

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The Night the Static Spoke

The digital recorder sat on the lip of a cracked granite headstone, its red light blinking in the damp air. My daughter, Mira, and I had come to the abandoned...

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The Girl in the Ring

Ava and I had planned our trip to the Scottish Highlands for months, a break from the gray cubicles and glowing screens of our tech jobs. We drove from Inverness,...

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The Red in the Corner

My name is Elias Voss, and I grew up in the flat, misty province of Friesland, in a town where the canals froze solid each winter and the church bells...

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The Pale Visitor at Crofton Crossing

Some of you may recall my earlier tales about the ghostly figure at the old railway bridge in Crofton, where the tracks cross the river at the edge of town....

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The Last Frame

I was sixteen when I learned that some photographs are not meant to be taken. My best friend, Leo, had just moved into a renovated farmhouse on the edge of...

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The Copper Kettle’s Refrain

In the quiet town of Ashford Hollow, where the trees leaned like old mourners and the streets were paved with cobblestones that remembered every step, there lived a baker named...

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The Carpet’s Cartography

Three years ago, we bought the old Hadley place. It sat on a windswept hill above the town of Marrow, a town that seemed to hold its breath when we...

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The Static Visitor

The photograph came back from the developer’s in a yellow envelope, the kind that smelled of chemicals and stale regret. Margaret held it up to the kitchen light, her fingers...

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The Frame of Unmaking

I’m Cora, sixteen, and I’ve lived in the same rust-stained apartment building on the edge of a sprawling industrial district my whole life. The constant hum of the factory across...

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The Hollow Frame

I had spent the better part of three years convincing myself that the unsettling things that once clung to my life were just figments of a tired mind. The bruises...

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The Static in the Stacks

I’ve been able to see things others can’t for as long as I can remember. My first encounter was at the age of nine, in the dusty attic of my...

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The Crawlspace Offering

My wife, Marisol, had a knack for uncovering the uncomfortable. When we moved into the old farmhouse on the outskirts of Millbrook, the rent was suspiciously low, and the smell...

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The Pale Runner of Redwood Lane

The house on Redwood Lane had a way of settling into your bones. We moved in during a wet March, the kind that turns dirt to soup and leaves a...

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The Lenten Lens

On the night before Easter, 2007, the air in our small Ohio town was thick with the smell of rain and freshly cut lilies from the church across the street....

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The Static Visitor

My name is Harold, and I’ve spent the better part of my life being the punchline of my family’s jokes. They think I’m crazy because I claim to see things...

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The Book on the Stone

The iron gate of the old Barlow Cemetery groaned behind me as I stepped inside, the sound swallowed by the heavy silence of the October night. I was here to...

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The Constant Hum of the Marsh

The first thing I noticed was the hum. It wasn’t a sound you heard so much as felt, a low vibration that settled in my teeth and made the fillings...

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The Quilt of Sundered Threads

For three months, the weight of solitude had become unbearable, so I slept curled against my younger sister, Mira, in the narrow bed in the spare room of our new...

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The Lantern Between

In the small town of Maplehurst, Ontario, I lived in a creaky farmhouse that had been in my family for generations. My name is Alex, and I’ve always been fascinated...

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The Face in the Grain

I was snapping a few shots for my fiancé, Leo, who was away on a business trip. I’m not the most photogenic, and our apartment’s lighting was a nightmare—the late...

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The Lantern at Larch Crossing

I’ve always prided myself on being a rational person. As a documentary photographer, my job is to capture reality, not to chase phantoms. So when my colleague, a folklorist named...

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The Static Harvest

Mara Elwood had spent fifteen years chasing ghosts with a digital recorder and a camera, but the dead had grown shy. She had walked the same moonlit cemeteries, the same...

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