Ghost stories from Canada

The Frequency of Nails

Elena had always prided herself on her rationality. She was a sound engineer, a woman who dealt in measurable frequencies and signal-to-noise ratios. So when she moved into the dilapidated...

The Saffron Room

The house on Hemlock Lane had a way of keeping secrets, but the one it kept best was the room at the end of the upstairs hall. I never went...

The Cedar Knot

Evelyn had been harvesting cedar from the ridge behind her workshop for years. The wood was perfect for her handcrafted rocking chairs, and the solitude of the forest was a...

The Salt Trail

Winter had wrapped the small town of Gray Hollow in a blanket of snow and silence, but the warmth inside the Kowalski house was a fortress against the cold. The...

The Pale Passenger

I am not fluent in this tongue, so forgive the clumsiness. My name is Lena. I moved to this town three months ago, to a crumbling Victorian house that the...

The Rotating Screen

Mara had always felt watched in the old farmhouse on Cedar Lane. It wasn’t just the creaking floorboards or the way the wind moaned through the eaves; it was the...

The Hour of Arrangement

When I was twenty-nine, I moved with my wife, Elena, and her mother, Marta, into a converted church in the small town of Millbrook, Saskatchewan. The building had been split...

The Orchard’s Grasp

The day had been long, and the headache had settled in behind my eyes like a stubborn tenant. By the time the sun dipped below the neighbors’ roofline, I was...

The Mark in the Morning

After a tiring day, Elara went to her room early. Her head throbbed, and she needed rest. Outside her window, the old orchard stood dark and still. She often felt...

The Crimson Thaw

The old farmhouse creaked under the weight of an oppressive February wind, a stark contrast to the usual hushed solitude of late winter. Elias, a student weary from an all-nighter...

The Bookkeeper’s Ledger

The Carmody family had always been tight-lipped about the old hotel. Even before it burned down in ’74, my grandmother, Nana Rose, would only speak of it in hushed, reluctant...

The Rust-Stained Ceiling

The house on Maple Hollow Road was a sagging Victorian with a porch that groaned like a dying animal. My parents called it a fixer-upper; my seven-year-old self called it...

The Humming Dryer

I was nineteen, fresh out of a revival meeting where I’d given my life to Christ, and I believed with all my heart that no demon could touch me. My...

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