Ghost stories from Guyana

The Antenna Man

In the late autumn of 1994, I was nineteen and working the night shift for ‘Swift Cabs’, a small taxi dispatch office that sat opposite the old fairgrounds. The fairgrounds...

The Taped Digits

My sister Elena was seventeen that year, I was nineteen. We shared a cramped attic bedroom in our family’s old farmhouse, a place where the wind gnawed at the eaves...

The Empty Gaze

In the autumn of 2021, I moved into my grandmother’s old farmhouse after she passed. It was a sprawling Victorian with creaking floors and a dusty attic I never dared...

The Porcelain Key

The new house on Hemlock Lane was a Victorian relic, all peeling wallpaper and creaking floors, but to nine-year-old Maya, it was a castle of endless rooms. Her parents, exhausted...

The Mulberry Vigil

In the rural outskirts of Kisumu, where the Lake Victoria breeze carried the scent of fish and damp earth, there was a season the locals called the ‘Silent Hours.’ During...

The Mud of February

I never thought I’d have an experience in Polderbrook. It’s a damp, out-of-the-way farming village I visit whenever I can. My aunt and her family live there, along with my...

The Rag-and-Bone Arrangement

I was twenty-two when my mother and I crossed the Atlantic to visit her old schoolmate, Margaret, who had recently inherited a sprawling, drafty boarding house on the Yorkshire moors....

The Elevator’s Last Stop

My office occupies the entire fourteenth floor of the Meridian Tower, a glass-and-steel monolith that looms over the industrial district. The building is notoriously quiet after hours, and as the...

The Pale Surveyors

The old Forestry Commission building crouched behind a line of crumbling concrete bollards, sixty meters from the Atlantic’s gray, chewing tide. Its windows were dark, salt-scoured, like blind eyes. I...

The Salt in the Silt

When I was nine, my father and I made our monthly pilgrimage to the old irrigation sluice—a concrete-lined channel that spider-webbed through the salt flats, carrying runoff from the distant...

The Bell at the Window

I never believed in the stories my grandmother used to tell about the old places in the desert. She’d speak of things that moved in the corners of your vision,...

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