Ghost stories from Philippines

The Unfinished Circuit

During my final semester at the Meridian Institute of Technology, I was drowning in a sea of deadlines. My capstone project, the Augmented Reality Navigation System for the visually impaired,...

The Fading Line

I’ve always been the type to devour horror stories, to sit up late reading about spirits and elementals, yet never once did I feel the cold breath of the unseen...

The Last Tenant

The packing boxes were stacked in the living room like cardboard tombstones, each one labeled with a marker that felt more like a eulogy than a logistics note. In two...

The Thirteenth Chime

I first learned of the old house’s reputation from the string of relatives and hired help who passed through its drafty halls before I took the back bedroom. Each of...

The Weight of Hollow Steps

After my husband left for a two-week job in the northern mining camps, I thought I’d enjoy the quiet. Our house, a two-story Victorian inherited from my grandmother, always had...

The Granary of August

My childhood home was a sprawling, two-story farmhouse perched on the edge of a dying apple orchard in rural Vermont, far from the bustling streets of my birth. We moved...

The Ashfall Visitors

That summer, the heat in our quiet province of Pampanga felt like a wet blanket smothering the whole town. I was sixteen, and my three cousins from Cebu City had...

The Second Door

The August heat clung to everything like a second skin, and the drive to the mineral baths had been a furnace of complaints and bickering. My mother, ever optimistic, had...

The Mimic’s Call

The day had started like any other—a sluggish descent into the mundane rhythm of schoolwork and the muted gray of a city afternoon. I stood before the bathroom mirror, combing...

The Third Floor Archive

I never believed the rumors about the third floor archive. People said the building used to be a sanatorium, and that the archive was the old morgue. But I worked...

The Marble Ledger

The old municipal hall had been converted into a dance studio, its high ceilings and cracked marble floors now echoing with the thump of sneakers and the tinny beat of...

The Salt Cure

I never believed in the old stories, not really. My grandmother would whisper about the salt line we kept at the threshold, about the iron nails in the doorframe, and...

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⚡ WILLOW LIVE
Listening for whispers in the dark...
Real-Time Whispers Stream
REAL-TIME

Listening to the woods...