Ghost stories from United States

The Lantern’s Last Flicker

The house on Maple Street had been in Elena’s family for generations, its walls soaked in memories both sweet and strange. Elena’s cousin, Mira, shared her obsession with the supernatural,...

The Coal-Dusted Crossing

My cousin Elena and I had heard the stories from our grandmother about the abandoned mining town of Black Hollow, tucked deep in the Appalachians. The tale went that a...

The Ceramic Tulips

After my grandfather passed, I inherited his old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, a place I hadn’t visited since I was a kid. My friend Leo, a skeptic with...

The Weeping Cistern

In the dusty attic of the old Brinewell County Home, now a museum of faded photographs and rusted tools, I found the recording equipment. I was cataloging the artifacts for...

The Port and the Pale

The fluorescent lights of St. Jude’s outpatient wing hummed a steady, sterile dirge. My sister Lena and I had been sitting in those hard plastic chairs for what felt like...

The Loom of Still Hours

At fourteen, I considered myself the stable one in my family. My parents were artists, which meant our house was a beautiful chaos of half-finished canvases, clay dust, and arguments...

The Still Water Pact

The summer of 2009 had been a scorcher, and the only relief was the community pool behind the old grain mill. I was there with my cousin Dax, his little...

The Painted Door

I was never a believer in the wandering dead. My faith was a fortress of absolutes—God above, the Devil below, and the living between. Spirits, ghosts, the restless echoes of...

The Rattling Pail

In the autumn of 2018, Dr. Lena Hartley, a historian specializing in indigenous Californian cultures, received a call from an old friend, Ruth Pendleton. Ruth lived in the small, fog-shrouded...

The Hollow Creek Invitation

I’ve always had the sight. Shadows at the edge of vision, whispers when the house is still, dreams that come true with unsettling accuracy. It’s been my burden since childhood,...

The Last Warmth

My grandmother, Elara, had always been a woman of logic and order. She scoffed at the stories I told her of the flickering lights in my childhood bedroom or the...

The Ninth Day of Rain

The rain had not stopped for nine days. It drummed against the tin roof of our cabin like a patient percussionist, each drop a note in a symphony of monotony....

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