Ghost stories from Dominican Republic

The Stain That Breathes

My name is Diego, and I’m sixteen, living in a cramped apartment on the third floor of a four-story walk-up in the old colonial zone of Santo Domingo. The building...

The Perfume of Night

My name is Clara, and I have a peculiar affliction. It began in childhood, a strange sensitivity to the unseen. I can smell the dead. Not decay, not exactly, but...

The Caved Cushion

My name is Mara, and until last summer, I’d never believed in ghosts. Growing up in Brooklyn, the only spirits I knew came in bottles at my abuela’s apartment, and...

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