Ghost stories from California

The Feathered Touch

My name is Elias Thorne, and I’ve lived in the old Beacon Hill lighthouse for three years now. It’s a solitary post, but I’ve never minded the isolation—I’ve always been...

The Glow in the Darkroom

Maya had always found comfort in the predictable rhythm of her art class. The smell of turpentine, the scratch of charcoal on paper, the low hum of the ventilation system....

The Vanishing Lacquer

I was at my friend Paige’s house, along with our friend Rachel, just hanging out on a rainy Saturday afternoon. We’d decided to watch a horror movie, something about a...

The Cold Shoulder Taps

I’ve always been the type to need proof. Ghost stories, urban legends, even the occasional weird news article—I’d wave them off with a roll of my eyes. That was before...

The Wisp in the Stacks

Since the semester began, I’d noticed a thin, grey tendril of something drifting through the air around me. It looked like the ghost of a cigarette, a wisp of smoke...

The Last Invoice

I’d never been one to believe in ghosts, but that changed the night I stayed at the Cloverton Grand, a crumbling Victorian hotel perched on the edge of a fog-drenched...

The Railing’s Reach

The house on Maple Hollow Lane had a peculiar smell, like old paper and wet ash, that clung to the walls no matter how many candles Piper lit. She’d lived...

The Bleached Orchard

The orchard behind our cottage in the Welsh hills was my favorite place, especially in the autumn. The trees, gnarled and ancient, bore fruit that never seemed to ripen, their...

The Gilded Stateroom

The SS Aurelia had been our playground for years, a floating monument to a bygone era. My friends and I, a gaggle of vintage enthusiasts, would spend weekends aboard, decked...

The Bench at 4 AM

The first thing that pulled me from sleep was a laugh. Not a full-bodied adult laugh, but a child’s giggle, high and sweet, the kind that usually makes you smile....

The Cradle in the Walls

I never trusted the old farmhouse, not from the moment we moved in. The previous owners had left a child’s rocking horse in the attic, its paint peeling, and a...

The Rotting Feast

Five years ago, when I was nine, my family moved into a cramped flat above a derelict fishmonger’s shop in the port town of Greyhaven. The flat was cheap, and...

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