Ghost stories from United States

The Lingering Stop

Milo had always been a man of signs. When the fortune cookie at the Golden Dragon unfurled its cryptic message — ‘A long road lies ahead, yet you will arrive...

The Silver Door

I had spent years chasing ghosts with a skeptic’s heart, visiting every famed haunted house from the whaling inns of New England to the moss-draped mansions of the Deep South....

The Cold Trap

I was eleven, maybe twelve, the summer we moved to my grandmother’s old house in the dusty outskirts of Marfa. The place was a relic, all creaking floorboards and peeling...

The Mothman’s Tailor

I’ve always prided myself on being a rational man. Ghosts, demons, cryptids—all of it was fodder for campfire tales and late-night talk radio. But life has a way of sewing...

The Lantern in the Rain

I used to think the old lighthouse was just a landmark, a rusted skeleton on the cliff that tourists photographed and locals ignored. But after the storm season began, I...

The Floor Above

At fifty-one, I’d finally found a place I could call my own—a modest bungalow on the outskirts of Ashford, Maine, where the pines pressed close and the roads turned to...

The Sunken Orchard

When I was nine, my mother’s new husband, Gerald, bought a decaying estate on the outskirts of Blackwood, a town known for its dying apple orchards and a history steeped...

The Gilded Swan

The first time I noticed the lamp, I was six. It stood in the corner of our parlor in the old Creighton house, a monstrosity of tarnished brass and a...

The Hollow Stones

On the last Saturday of August, through the heat-buckled back roads of rural Vermont, my family and I finally arrived at the site of the old Meridian Asylum. I’d begged...

The Ledger of the Last Hour

My name is Lila, and I’m part of a small paranormal team called SERAPH (Supernatural Explorers and Researchers of Anomalous Phenomena). Our latest case brought us to the Aldermere Benevolent...

The Pale Corridor

I was born in the flat, sun-scorched lands of eastern New Mexico, in a town so small it didn’t appear on most maps. The name I won’t give, because the...

The Empty Seat

The whir of the fluorescent light was the only sound in the sterile white room. I sat at a metal table, two chairs, no windows, just a door. I knew...

The Static in the Walls

My grandmother’s farmhouse in rural Iowa had always creaked and groaned, but that night, every sound felt deliberate. I was there after my great-uncle Earl’s funeral, helping my mother sort...

The Lantern in Her Palm

I never believed in the quiet sort of haunting until I stayed at my great-aunt Miriam’s farmhouse that autumn. The house was a relic of another century, with wide plank...

The Linen Closet

The house on Maple Street was always just a house. A modest ranch with pale yellow siding and a porch that sagged slightly on the left, it was the kind...

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