Ghost stories from United States

The Angle of the Wall

The house my father and I inherited from my grandmother was a Victorian relic that had seen better decades. It was perched on a hill overlooking the town of Ashford,...

The Lantern Keeper

I am a first-generation American, raised on the vivid, hair-raising tales my grandmother spun from the old country. But I never thought I’d have a story of my own until...

The Cushion’s Cold Side

The Saturday morning sun streamed through the kitchen windows, catching the dust motes floating over our bowls of oatmeal. My mother, Elena, was telling me about her garden when the...

The Purple Polka

The year I turned twelve, my mother lost a baby in the linen closet of our apartment. It was a small, windowless room that smelled of detergent and old cardboard,...

The Tin Music Box

The house on Maple Hollow Lane was a sturdy thing, built in 1923 with a gambrel roof and a porch that sagged like a tired hound. My stepfather, Arnold, called...

The Scent of Old Summer

The invitation had come out of nowhere, an email from a documentary crew that had heard about my childhood connection to the Cinder House. I hadn’t thought about that place...

The Flicker Between Films

I moved into the Beacon Theatre Apartments in October, a year after the dry cleaner on the ground floor shuttered and the space became a repair shop for vintage electronics....

The Hollow Signal

I never told anyone about the knocking at first. Not even Lena, and I told her almost everything. It started three years ago, right after we moved into that old...

The Last Broadcast

The last time I saw my father, he was standing in the doorway of our apartment, holding a small transistor radio that my mother had given him for his birthday....

The Linen Closet

Marla had always thought the smell of lavender was grandmotherly, but after what happened, she couldn’t stand it. It was the day before the anniversary of her mother’s death, and...

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Listening for whispers in the dark...
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REAL-TIME

Listening to the woods...