Ghost stories from Georgia

The Hollow Static

The first time I noticed the static, I was standing in the kitchen of our new apartment, three weeks after the movers had left. The radio in the living room,...

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The Lantern at Mile 14

It was a Tuesday night, close to midnight, when I hit the last stretch of County Road 7. My car’s headlights carved a weak tunnel through the black, and the...

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The Static Between Channels

It began on a Tuesday, unremarkable in every way. Lena lived in a cramped studio apartment above a laundromat that never seemed to close. The walls were thin, the plumbing...

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The Frequency of Ash

I never believed in ghosts. Not really. I was a man of science, a retired electrical engineer who found comfort in circuits and logic. So when my niece, Mira, brought...

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The Kettle’s Lament

The morning began like any other in the salt-worn cottage on the edge of the Mourne Peninsula. I had stumbled in from the night shift at the fish cannery, my...

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The Gaze from the Wardrobe

I never believed in ghosts until I moved into the old farmhouse on Willow Creek. The place had been in my family for generations, but I’d only visited as a...

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The Bone Gate

The day we moved into the old farmhouse on Marrow Lane, I knew something was off. The floorboards groaned like they were remembering a weight, and the windows seemed to...

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The Return of Old Friends

My name is Clara, and I have two children, Mia and Ethan. Mia is 6, and Ethan is 9. We once had two dogs, Bella and Max. Bella was a...

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A Friend’s Shadow

My name is Emma, and I want to share something that happened when I was eight. I grew up in a quiet little town where everyone felt like family. It...

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The Charred Visitor

I was nine the summer we moved to Cedar Hollow, a town so small the grocery store clerk knew your name by your second visit. Our house sat at the...

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The Static Between Rooms

In the pine woods of northern Mississippi, where the kudzu crept over abandoned cars and the humidity hung like a wet blanket, I lived in a house that had a...

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The Glass That Moved

I was eleven when the glass first moved, though I didn’t understand what it meant then. My name is Elara, and I lived in a creaky old house on the...

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The Hollow Companion

Mara had always believed the ranch was alive, but after losing Koda, the silence felt deafening. The mornings were the hardest, when the empty space beside her bed where he...

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The Long Gravel Path

Every afternoon, the school bus would groan to a halt at the end of Cedar Lane, and I’d step out into the quiet that swallowed the neighborhood. My house sat...

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The Porcelain Garden

My name is Elara, and I’ve just turned fifteen. I live in a small, fog-drenched town on the Oregon coast, where the ocean is a constant, grinding presence. I’ve always...

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The Blue Room on Cypress Street

The house on Cypress Street was a narrow, two-story Victorian with a bowed porch and a cellar that always smelled of wet earth. Elena had moved there with her mother,...

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The Loom of the Lake

Three weeks ago, I started writing about the unsettling atmosphere in our cabin by the lake, following the death of my old fishing partner, Elias. If you need context, my...

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The Amber Lens

I never believed in ghosts. Not really. Even after the funeral, even after I stood in Ethan’s apartment and stared at the boxes of his things, I thought, ‘He’s just...

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The Ceiling’s Palm

I was eleven when my parents decided to repaint my bedroom. The fumes were too strong to sleep in, so they set me up in the den on an inflatable...

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The Man in the Old Uniform

In 1972, I lost my brother, Daniel, to a sudden heart condition that the doctors said was a freak occurrence. He was only twenty-eight, a gentle soul who had spent...

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The Second Set of Footsteps

The evening had settled into that comfortable hum of domesticity—the clatter of dishes, the murmur of adult conversation, and the distant chime of a video game from the family room....

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The Persistent Tenant

When my old college roommate, Delia, invited me to stay at her grandmother’s farmhouse for a week, I imagined cozy afternoons and apple pie. The house was a sprawling Victorian...

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The Static at the Stove

It started, as these things often do, in the grey hours between sleep and waking. I was renting a small, drafty apartment above a 24-hour laundromat, and the constant hum...

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The Weight of the Bell

The town of Mirehaven sat in the crook of the Appalachian foothills like a half-forgotten secret. It had a single main street, a diner with a cracked neon sign, and...

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