Ghost stories from Canada

The Container Behind the Fridge

In the old farmhouse we rented, the kitchen was a long, narrow room with a lone window above the sink that faced the eastern field. The appliances were lined up...

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The Stitch in the Hollow

I never told Marcus about the house on Meridian Lane. Not the way the wallpaper peeled in long, damp tongues, or how the hallway runner always smelled of a wet...

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The Static Visitor

The summer I turned eleven, my family swapped our usual beach vacation for a week at a rented cabin on the shores of Lost Pine Lake, a remote spot two...

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The Clockmaker’s Due

My name is Elias, and I’m 22. I’ve always had a peculiar sensitivity to the unseen, a trait I inherited from my grandmother on my mother’s side. She used to...

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The Laminate Flooring Incident

The laminate flooring arrived on a Tuesday. I remember because the delivery guy helped Wayne haul the boxes into the War Room, and Wayne spent the rest of the day...

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The Wicker Chair

I was raised in the tight weave of a rural congregation, where every Sunday the pews groaned under the weight of fervent prayer and the air smelled of beeswax and...

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The Crate in the Attic

It started the summer we had the attic insulation replaced. Old blown-in cellulose, decades of dust and rodent droppings, had to be vacuumed out before the new spray foam could...

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The Crying in the Wall

The first time I noticed something wrong in the old farmhouse was on a rain-slicked evening in late autumn. I was fourteen, curled up on the window seat in my...

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The Lantern in the Drowned Orchard

My name is Evelyn, and for most of my life, I believed the word ‘haunted’ belonged in books and movies. I grew up in the dry, flat plains of Saskatchewan,...

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The Static Bloom

The weekend had been a gamble, a chance to bridge the two-hour drive between our towns and give my grandson, Leo, his first taste of a night away from home....

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The Cistern’s Pulse

I moved into the old Vancleave building on the corner of Ash and Third, not because I was drawn to its peeling paint or the way the fire escape groaned...

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The Closet Light

After we moved to the old farmhouse on Cedar Lane, I thought the shadows would finally leave us alone. But the night I saw him standing in the upstairs hallway,...

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The Blue Door at the Back of the Antique Shop

After Julian’s accident in the autumn of 2018, I began to collect things. Not just photographs or shirts, but the strange, abandoned objects he would have loved—a cracked globe, a...

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The Bell Ringer’s Noose

My great-aunt Clara was the sort of woman who noticed things others missed—a chipped teacup’s story, the weight of a room’s silence. Folks said she had the sight, though she’d...

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The Hollow Under the Stairs

The Forrester house had a particular smell, a mix of old wood, dust, and the faint, sweet rot of the apples that had fallen from the tree in the back...

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The Clockmaker’s Debt

In the quiet town of Millbrook, nestled between fog-shrouded hills, I, Arthur Pendelton, kept a small clock repair shop. My wife, Clara, had a frail heart, a condition we’d managed...

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The Harmless Game

I never believed in ghosts. Not really. I was twelve, and my world was small and safe: our two-bedroom ranch on Maple Street, my mom’s endless supply of canned soup,...

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The Cold Ceremony of Rust and Snow

February 1996, a Tuesday that smelled of frost and diesel. I was nineteen, a freshman at the local tech college, still living at home in the outskirts of a tired...

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The Static Between Stations

Two months after the silences in my old apartment, I thought I had escaped. I moved to a new city, took a ground-floor unit in a building that smelled of...

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The Basement Tenant

I’ve lived in the basement of the old Harrow House on Maple Street for the better part of a decade. It’s a drafty, cramped space with exposed pipes and a...

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The Red Glow of 3:07

It was the summer I turned thirteen, and my family had just moved into a creaking old house on the edge of a dying town called Ashford. My room was...

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The Hollow Bell

My grandmother, Fiona, called it the ‘second sight,’ but that always felt too grand for what I experienced. It was more like a constant low hum of the world just...

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The Horned Visitor in the Hall

I was six when I learned that some doors don’t need to open to let things through. My mother had taken me to a costume party at the community center,...

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The Clockwork Hum

The house on Maple Street had always hummed. Not the kind of hum you hear from appliances or the furnace, but something deeper, almost like the earth itself was vibrating...

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