Ghost stories from Czech Republic

The Last Ring

I never believed in ghosts, not really. My family’s weekend house in the Carpathian foothills of eastern Slovakia had been in our family for generations, built in the late 1800s...

The Clockmaker’s Gift

The old woman, Elara, was a clockmaker. That was what everyone in the village of Thornwick called her, though she had not repaired a single timepiece in years. She lived...

The Itinerant Dust

My name is Elias, and I’ve always prided myself on being a man of reason. Ghosts, gods, and the like were the province of the gullible. I needed proof, cold...

The Empty Shelf

I’d been living in that old farmhouse for about a year, ever since I inherited it from my great-aunt, Marta. It was a sprawling, drafty place with crooked floors and...

The Maw in the Wall

I have never been one to believe in the supernatural, at least not fully. I’ve always chalked up strange occurrences to faulty wiring, drafts, or an overactive imagination. But what...

The Door That Breathed

I’ve always been a heavy sleeper, the kind who could doze through a thunderstorm or a fire alarm. My dreams were usually pleasant—floating through sunlit meadows or gliding over oceans...

The Last Jar of Plums

I was seventeen when my mother and I flew to the Carpathian foothills to visit her aunt, a woman we called Tetka Mira, and her two sons, Pavel and Ondrej....

The Man in the Window

I remember the autumn of my fifteenth year with a clarity that borders on obsession. I was a devoted Pathfinder, our small-town troop meeting every Tuesday in the drafty hall...

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