Ghost stories from Canada

The Map of Static

It was 2:17 AM on a Tuesday when Lena realized she’d been driving the same stretch of highway for what felt like an hour. The radio had switched to a...

The Crate of Roots

I was seventeen when the house on Maple Street started feeling wrong. We’d moved there three years earlier, after my father’s transfer to a small Ontario town. It was an...

The Replacement Frame

The antique shop was a cluttered mausoleum of forgotten things, and Clara had been searching for months for a replacement for the ornate silver frame she had shattered during her...

The Sun-Dried Linens

I’d never put much stock in the supernatural. Ghost stories were for campfires, not for the sun-drenched afternoons of my aunt and uncle’s farm in the high desert. Their place...

The Hollow Field

The farm had been in the Ashworth family for six generations, a sprawling acreage of wheat and corn that rolled gently toward the distant treeline. My grandmother, Elsie Ashworth, was...

The Crawlspace Above

My name is Elias, and when I was ten, my family moved to a farmhouse in the dusty heart of Saskatchewan. After years of cramped city apartments, the wide, wheat-filled...

The Clockmaker’s Debt

In the autumn of 2019, I won a weekend getaway to the town of Stillwater, a quaint place known for its preserved 19th-century architecture and its annual Harvest Festival. The...

The Blossom Signal

The day I went to the cemetery was unseasonably warm, a false spring that fooled even the hardiest of perennials. My mother had been gone for three weeks, and the...

The Counting Game

It started when my daughter was two, a few months after we moved into a cramped apartment above a closed-down bakery. My wife worked nights, so I was the one...

The Salt-Crusted Window

The salt air clung to everything at Cedar Point, a rented cottage on the blustery coast of Maine. My cousin Paige and I had claimed the sunroom, a glass-walled nook...

The Lantern Man

It was the last night of October, and the air smelled of wet leaves and cold metal. I was seventeen, spending the night helping my father toss folded newspapers onto...

The Silent Playground

Ten years ago, when I was fourteen, I worked the night shift with my mother, delivering newspapers across the dusty outskirts of Redmond, a town that had seen better days....

The Looming Orchard

The events I am about to share took place at my grandmother’s farmhouse in the rolling hills of Vermont, near a town called Barre. Some of the experiences I will...

The Cartographer’s Loom

Nina had always found comfort in the meticulous art of mapmaking. Her studio, nestled in the attic of an old Victorian house on Bramblewick Lane, was filled with drafting tables,...

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