Ghost stories from South Africa

The Chromatic Aftermath

I never believed in ghosts or gods or anything beyond the visible world. That was before the accident, before the colors came. My name is Evelyn Hart, and I grew...

The Dinner Guest

In the labyrinth of concrete blocks known as Soweto Heights, where the stairwells smelled of fried onions and desperation, we carved out lives under the shadow of the city’s skyline....

The Glowing Tank

Mara had always felt the weight of unseen eyes, a sensitivity she’d inherited from her grandmother, who used to swear by the cold spots in their old farmhouse. Now, in...

The Hollow Cartographer

I never believed in ghosts, not really. But I believed in the weight of empty rooms, the way some houses hold their breath. I was a cartographer, which sounds more...

The Persistent Fan

In the quiet suburb of Wynberg, nestled against the slopes of Table Mountain, stood a house that had been in my family for generations. I was twelve when the trouble...

The Cinder Room

The first time I noticed something wrong with the third-floor storage room, I was fourteen, helping my mother sort through boxes of old holiday decorations. We had moved into the...

The Pencil Scratch

When I was nine, my family moved into a rambling old farmhouse on the edge of a town that was more dirt road than pavement. The house had been empty...

The Keeper of the Garden

The first sign that something had gone terribly wrong was the soil in the back garden. It began to shift, as if something beneath the surface was breathing. I noticed...

The Morning Bell

My first semester at Ashworth College, in the fall of 2019, I was assigned to Draper Hall, a crumbling Victorian mansion that had once been a convent for a forgotten...

The Third Marking

I was born with a veil over my eyes, my grandmother used to say. Not the literal kind, but a thin, shimmering membrane that let me see what others couldn’t....

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