Ghost stories from Voices

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...

The Pencil Scratch

When I was nine, my family moved into a rambling old farmhouse on the edge of a town that was more dirt road than pavement. The house had been empty...

The Nightshift Reel

During my tenure as a media liaison at the Government Communications Complex in the capital, I was one of several officers detailed to the old executive mansion adjacent to the...

The Linoleum Tiles

Every Thursday, at a quarter to six, I’d walk the half mile from my apartment to the old Mercy Chapel. It wasn’t a church anymore, not officially. It was a...

The Color of Her Eyes

Three weeks ago, I was at my friend Maya’s apartment in the city, killing time before our movie started. Maya had insisted on seeing some independent horror film at the...

The Vermilion Stain

I never believed in haunted houses. Not really. I thought ghosts were just stories we tell ourselves to make sense of the dark. But then I moved into the old...

The Latchkey Game

I was seven when I first saw him, peeking around the corner of our garage. It was a Tuesday, I think, the morning light all pale and watery. I was...

The Constant Tenant

I grew up in a modest two-story house on the edge of a town that was slowly being swallowed by the woods. The house itself was old, creaking, and had...

The Looming Static

At seven, I woke to a pressure in the room, a heaviness that made the air feel thick as syrup. My eyes found the corner where the ceiling met the...

The Last Cart of Jowar

It was the summer of 1953, and the earth had cracked like old leather. In the village of Malkhed, where my grandfather, Devraj, lived, the wells had sunk to mud,...

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