Ghost stories from Colorado

The Uninvited Guest

At sixteen, Elara was used to her grandmother’s strange warnings. ‘Don’t stare into mirrors after midnight, child. The ones that look back at you might not be your reflection.’ She’d...

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The Weight of the Hollow

When Leo and I bought the old farmstead, we thought we were getting a fresh start. The land stretched for acres, bordered by a crooked line of pines that seemed...

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The Ceiling’s Hungry Mouth

The house we moved into that summer sat at the end of a gravel road, its paint peeling like sunburned skin. My room was the smallest, tucked under the eaves,...

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The Long Fence on Holloway Road

I’ve always been a skeptic. Ghosts, spirits, the afterlife—all of it seemed like campfire fodder for people who needed something to believe in. But I was also a journalist, and...

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The Blue Couch Incident

The summer I turned twelve, the heat was a physical presence. It slumped over our small town like a tired old dog, and the only refuge was the converted garage...

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The Hollow Below the Oak

My roommate, Derek, had a dog named Moose, a chocolate lab-pit mix that was less a creature of grace and more a living earthquake of slobber and affection. Moose weighed...

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The Carousel at Lot 13

It was the summer of 1997 when my family moved into the Pine Hollow Trailer Park, a cluster of rusted trailers huddled at the base of the Cascade Mountains in...

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The Lantern Man’s Ledger

The first time I saw the lantern, I thought it was a trick of the light, a fragment of a dream I hadn’t quite shaken off. My name is Elara,...

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The Heat Distortion

I’ve always believed in the unseen. Growing up in a house where my grandmother would sprinkle salt in the corners and whisper prayers before bed, I learned that the world...

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The Ragged Man in the Wardrobe

When I was nine, my family moved into a creaky old farmhouse on the edge of a forest that seemed to swallow all sound. My room was at the end...

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The Cedar Grove Signal

I never put much stock in the supernatural. Ghosts, spirits, all of it—it seemed like stories for people who needed to believe in something beyond the ordinary. My life was...

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The Fading Room

We moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of Greywood because the price was right and the solitude was a balm after years of city noise. The house itself...

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The Last Ferry of Hollow Creek

Nestled in the folds of the Appalachian Mountains, the town of Raven’s Hollow clung to the mountainside like a barnacle to a rotting hull. At its heart stood the three-story...

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The Static in the Ferns

Mira had spent the summer convincing herself that the new house was a blessing. After years of renting cramped apartments and battling the gray fog that had settled over her...

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The Lantern in the Pines

The summer air was thick with the smell of pine and woodsmoke when my sister, Renee, first told me about the nights on the Moss Creek reservation. She was twenty...

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The Corner by the Radiator

When I was twelve, my cousin Mira was four, and we lived in a cramped two-bedroom apartment above my uncle’s garage in the outskirts of Harlow, a town overshadowed by...

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The Glasswright’s Fall

I never believed in ghosts until the winter I spent at my uncle’s estate in the hills of Vermont. The house was a crumbling Victorian that had been in the...

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The Tallyman’s Ledger

In the autumn of 1987, my twin sister and I moved into a cramped duplex in Duluth, Minnesota. The walls were thin, the radiators clanked, and the previous tenant had...

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The Censer in the Attic

It had been three years since I last logged onto this site. My old account, under the handle ‘mothlight77’, was a graveyard of half-finished ghost stories and paranoid diary entries...

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The Hollow Hearth

In the autumn of 1963, in the quiet town of Ashford, Connecticut, nine-year-old Elara lived with her mother, Margaret, in a sprawling Victorian house that always smelled of dust and...

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The Door That Led to the Cellar

When I was eight, my family moved into a sprawling farmhouse on the edge of a town that had more cornfields than people. The house was over a hundred years...

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The Kitchen Reflection

I was the first one to see it, three weeks before the harvest moon. It was late October, and the cold had already begun to gnaw at the edges of...

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The Weeping Rafters

I’ve spent decades in this world, and I’ve come to realize that some places hold onto their history like a sponge holds water. My story begins in a small town...

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The Marrow of the Archive

I used to think, in my early twenties, that I had seen the full spectrum of the unseen. My first apartment, the one with the peeling wallpaper that smelled of...

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