Ghost stories from United States

The House With A Million Eyes 2

To be honest, I get the heebie jeebies all over thinking back on this. But anyway, here we go, back where I left off on the first part. After my...

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The Ceiling That Listened

The house on Marrow Lane was a mistake from the start. My parents had bought it sight unseen, desperate after my father’s transfer. But when we first pulled up, I...

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The Blue Hour Stand

The alarm clock read 4:47 AM when I peeled myself out of bed, the floorboards of my old farmhouse creaking in protest beneath my feet. I’d been hunting this stretch...

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The Candle at the Window

I had sworn off the whole ghost-hunting gig after the incident at the old mill, but when my old friend Rhea mentioned over cheap beers that her house had started...

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The Salt Line

We moved to the Maine coast in the late autumn, when the tourist towns were buttoned up tight as clams. My mother, a city woman all her life, had fallen...

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The Inkwell’s Appetite

I’ve always been drawn to old things, especially books and writing instruments. That’s how I ended up with the inkwell. It was a dusty, ornate thing I found at a...

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The Stationmaster’s Vigil

The night shift at the Meridian Junction had always been a solitary affair, but that night felt different. I was the only one on duty, and the radio had just...

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The Clockwork Mannequin

I was fourteen when the old Victorian on Maple Street became our new home. My parents, ever the pragmatists, saw a fixer-upper with good bones. I saw a cavern of...

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The Ember in the Ash

The old farmhouse had a smell of rust and dried weeds, and Lena had grown used to the way the floorboards groaned under her weight like a dog sighing in...

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The Breathing Wall

The janitor’s closet at St. Agnes High smelled of bleach and old copper, but it was the only place on campus where Cora could steal a moment of silence. It...

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The Grief That Stays

At eight, I knew the house on Thistle Lane was wrong. Not haunted, not in the way the stories said—there were no cold spots or rattling chains. It was the...

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The Boarded-Up Passage

The day we moved into the old farmhouse, I was thrilled to claim the largest bedroom at the end of the hall. It had a huge bay window overlooking the...

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The Clockmaker’s Gift

I’ve always had a knack for knowing things I shouldn’t. Not like reading minds, more like feeling the texture of a room, the weight of an unseen presence. It started...

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The Bleached Field

I was sixteen when my father decided to take the old County Line Road to my grandmother’s farm. It was a route we’d driven a hundred times, a ribbon of...

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The Static Between Heartbeats

At thirty-four, Mara had learned to dread the quiet hours. Her apartment in the city’s older district, with its peeling floral wallpaper and radiators that clanked like restless bones, offered...

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The Flickering Candle

As a child in the small town of Ravenswood, I grew up hearing tales of the Blight, a malevolent presence that plagued the old Hartmann house. Unlike a mere ghost,...

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The Lantern in the Loft

My father always said the hill was a good place to build. We left the dry heat of Bakersfield when I was nine, heading north to a plot of land...

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The Hummingbird Room

The summer before my senior year, my family moved from the humid sprawl of Charlotte, North Carolina, to a dry, dusty town in the high desert of New Mexico. The...

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The Lantern in the Crawlspace

I was maybe six when I first saw the thing under the house. We lived in a rusted farmhouse on the edge of a dead cornfield in eastern Nebraska, where...

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The Unfinished Portrait of Eleanor Voss

In the autumn of 1987, my brother Marcus moved into a cramped two-bedroom bungalow on the edge of Grey Hollow, a town so small it barely made the map. He...

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The Weight of Wings

My name is Elara Voss, and I’ve been seeing moths. Not the pretty, dusty kind that flutter around porch lights in summer. These are different—small, black, with wings that seem...

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The Locked Glass

It had been five years since I last saw the hooded thing in the mirror of that cramped one-bedroom on Vine Street. I’d convinced myself it was a trick of...

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The Static Visitor

The first time I saw the thing in the TV, I was twenty-one, sharing a cramped two-bedroom with a guy named Marcus. He was the kind of friend who left...

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The Pale Visitor from the Pines

My mother and I sat on the floor of her attic, surrounded by cardboard boxes that smelled of dust and mothballs. She handed me a worn crayon drawing, the paper...

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