Ghost stories from Voices

The Marble Ledger

In the final week before Elias Thorne retired from the Granite Trust Company, a building of dark marble and brass that had stood for over a century in the heart...

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The Inkwell’s Appetite

I’ve always been drawn to old things, especially books and writing instruments. That’s how I ended up with the inkwell. It was a dusty, ornate thing I found at a...

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The Last Reel

The Grand Majestic Cinema, a sprawling 14-screen multiplex, was my home away from home for nearly a decade. I was the Senior Film Technician, the one who threaded the ancient...

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Shock Whilst Reading

This one happened about a month or so ago in Australia, whilst I was up one night, reading with my torch under my covers, because my family didn’t want me...

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The Catawba Switch

I grew up in the low country of South Carolina, where Spanish moss drips from live oaks like frayed nooses and the marsh fog creeps in with the tide. My...

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The Breathing Wall

The janitor’s closet at St. Agnes High smelled of bleach and old copper, but it was the only place on campus where Cora could steal a moment of silence. It...

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The Grief That Stays

At eight, I knew the house on Thistle Lane was wrong. Not haunted, not in the way the stories said—there were no cold spots or rattling chains. It was the...

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The Boarded-Up Passage

The day we moved into the old farmhouse, I was thrilled to claim the largest bedroom at the end of the hall. It had a huge bay window overlooking the...

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The Clockmaker’s Gift

I’ve always had a knack for knowing things I shouldn’t. Not like reading minds, more like feeling the texture of a room, the weight of an unseen presence. It started...

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The Bleached Field

I was sixteen when my father decided to take the old County Line Road to my grandmother’s farm. It was a route we’d driven a hundred times, a ribbon of...

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The Flickering Candle

As a child in the small town of Ravenswood, I grew up hearing tales of the Blight, a malevolent presence that plagued the old Hartmann house. Unlike a mere ghost,...

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The Lantern in the Loft

My father always said the hill was a good place to build. We left the dry heat of Bakersfield when I was nine, heading north to a plot of land...

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The Hummingbird Room

The summer before my senior year, my family moved from the humid sprawl of Charlotte, North Carolina, to a dry, dusty town in the high desert of New Mexico. The...

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The Lantern in the Crawlspace

I was maybe six when I first saw the thing under the house. We lived in a rusted farmhouse on the edge of a dead cornfield in eastern Nebraska, where...

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The Locked Glass

It had been five years since I last saw the hooded thing in the mirror of that cramped one-bedroom on Vine Street. I’d convinced myself it was a trick of...

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The Wet Stain on the Wall

We moved into the house on Marrow Lane when I was nine, a crooked Victorian thing that leaned into the hill like it was tired of standing. Our town, Ashwick,...

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The Static Visitor

The first time I saw the thing in the TV, I was twenty-one, sharing a cramped two-bedroom with a guy named Marcus. He was the kind of friend who left...

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The Salt Line

The first time I saw the salt line, I thought Grandmother had spilled something while baking. But it ran along every windowsill and doorframe, a thin white trail that glittered...

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My childhood bedroom was a museum of the grotesque, a shrine to my mother’s inexplicable passion for porcelain figurines. They lined every shelf, every windowsill, and especially the six-tiered curio...

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The Figure in the Static

Three years have passed since the night I woke to find myself standing at my bedroom window, staring at the dark shape that had been watching me. I’m twenty-one now,...

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The Wakeful Hours

I’m a practical man. Six years in the Royal Engineers taught me that there’s a logical explanation for everything, and that fear is just a lack of information. My name...

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The Warden of the Upper Landing

The house on Hemlock Lane had a peculiar layout, with a narrow, winding staircase that opened onto a cramped landing. The doors lined up like soldiers: the linen closet, the...

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The Recurrence of Sleep

I never believed in doppelgangers, not until the night my neighbor, Mr. Hargrove, told me he’d seen me cursing at him in the parking lot of the old mill. I’d...

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The Floorboard That Remembered

I’ve only felt true dread a handful of times in my life, but the first time it happened, I was running through the dark, my heart pounding in my ears....

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